Princess in the Spotlight (5 page)

Now that I think about it, almost all of the most embarrassing moments of my life have something to do with Grandmère.

I wonder what Lilly’s parents, who are both psychoanalysts, would have to say about this.

TEMPERATURE CHART

5:20 p.m.—99.3

6:45 p.m.—99.2

7:52 p.m.—99.1

Is it possible I am getting better
already
? This is horrible. If I get better, I’ll have to go on that stupid interview. . . .

This calls for drastic measures: Tonight I fully intend to take a shower and stick my head out the window with my hair wet.

That will show them.

Oh, my God. Something so exciting just happened, I can hardly write.

This morning as I was lying in my sickbed, my mom handed me a letter that she said had come in the mail yesterday, only she forgot to give it to me.

This wasn’t like the electricity or cable bills my mom usually forgets about after they have arrived. This was a personal letter to me.

Still, since the address on the front of it was typed, I didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary. I thought it was a letter from school, or something. Like maybe I’d made honor roll (HA HA). Except that there was no return address, and usually mail from Albert Einstein High School has Albert’s thoughtful face in the left-hand corner, along with the school’s address.

So you can imagine my surprise when I opened the letter and found not a flier asking me to show my school spirit by making rice krispy Treats to help raise money for the crew team but the following . . . which, for want of a better word, I can only call a love letter:

Dear Mia
(the letter went)

I know you will think it’s strange, receiving a letter like this. I feel strange writing it. And yet I am too shy to tell you face-to-face what I’m about to tell you now: And that’s that I think you are the Josiest girl I’ve ever met.

I just want to make sure you know that there’s one person, anyway, who liked you long before he found out you were a princess . . .

And will keep on liking you, no matter what.

Sincerely,
A Friend

Oh, my God!

I couldn’t believe it! I’d never gotten a letter like this before. Who could it be from? I seriously couldn’t figure it out. The letter was typed, like the address on the envelope. Not by a typewriter, either, but obviously on a computer.

So even if I wanted to compare keystrokes, say, on a suspect’s typewriter (like Jan did on
The Brady Bunch
when she suspected Alice of sending her that locket), I couldn’t. You can’t compare the type on laser printers, for God’s sake. It’s always the same.

But who could have sent me such a thing?

Of course, I know who I
want
to have sent it.

But the chances of a guy like Michael Moscovitz ever actually liking me as more than just a friend are like zero. I mean, if he liked me, he had a perfect opportunity to say something about it the night of the Cultural Diversity dance, when he was so nice to step in and ask me to dance, after Josh Richter dogged me so hard. And we didn’t just dance once, either. We danced a few times. Slow dances, too. And after the dance, we hung out in his room at the Moscovitzes’ apartment. He could have said something then, if he’d wanted to.

But he didn’t. He didn’t say a thing about liking me.

And why would he? I mean, I am a complete freak, what with my noticeable lack of mammary glands, my gigantism, and my utter inability ever to mold my hair into something remotely resembling a style.

We just got through studying people like me in Bio, as a matter of fact. Biological sports, we are called. A biological sport occurs when an organism shows a marked change from the normal type or parent stock, typically as a result of mutation.

That is me. That is so totally me. I mean, if you looked at me, and then you looked at my parents, who are both very attractive people, you would be all, What
happened
?

Seriously. I should go live with the X-men, I am such a mutant.

Besides, is Michael Moscovitz really the type of guy who’d say I was the
Josiest
girl in school? I mean, I am assuming the author is referring to Josie, the lead singer of Josie and the Pussycats, played by Rachael Leigh Cook in the movie. Except that in no way do I resemble Rachael Leigh Cook. I wish.
Josie and the Pussycats
started out as a cartoon about a girl band that solves crimes, like on
Scooby Doo
, and Michael doesn’t even watch the Cartoon Network, as far as I know.

Michael generally only watches PBS, the Sci Fi Channel, and
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. Maybe if the letter had said
I think you are the
Buffiest
girl I’ve ever met
. . . .

But if it isn’t from Michael, who could it be from?

This is all so exciting, I want to call someone and tell them. Only who? Everyone I know is in school.

WHY DID I HAVE TO GET SICK????

Forget sticking my wet head out the window. I have to get better right away so I can go back to school and figure out who my secret admirer is!

TEMPERATURE CHART:

10:45 a.m.—99.2

11:15 a.m.—99.1

12:27 p.m.—98.6

Yes! YES! I am getting better! Thank you, Selman Waksman, inventor of the antibiotic.

2:05 p.m.—99.0

No. Oh, no.

3:35 p.m.—99.1

Why is this happening to me?

This afternoon while I was lying around with icepacks under the covers, trying to bring my fever down so I can go to school tomorrow and find out who my secret admirer is, I happened to see the best episode of
Baywatch
ever.

Really.

See, Mitch met this girl with this very fake French accent during a boat race, and they totally fell in love and ran around in the waves to this excellent soundtrack, and then it turned out the girl was engaged to Mitch’s opponent in the boat race—and not only that—she was actually the
princess of this small European country Mitch had never heard of
. Her fiancé was this prince her father had betrothed her to at birth!

While I was watching this, Lilly came over with my new homework assignments, and she started watching with me, and she totally missed the deep philosophical importance of the episode. All she said was, “Boy, does that royal chick need an eyebrow waxing.”

I was appalled.

“Lilly,” I croaked. “Can’t you see that this episode of
Baywatch
is prophetic? It is entirely possible that I have been betrothed since birth to some prince I’ve never even met, and my dad just hasn’t told me yet. And I could very likely meet some lifeguard on a beach and fall madly in love with him, but it won’t matter, because I will have to do my duty and marry the man my people have picked out for me.”

Lilly said, “Hello, exactly how much of that cough medicine have you had today? It says one
tea
spoon every four hours, not
table
spoon, dorkus.”

I was annoyed at Lilly for failing to see the bigger picture. I couldn’t, of course, tell her about the letter I’d gotten. Because what if her brother was the one who wrote it? I wouldn’t want him thinking I’d gone blabbing about it to everyone I knew. A love letter is a very private thing.

But still, you would think she’d be able to see it from my perspective.

“Don’t you understand?” I rasped. “What is the point of me liking anybody, when it’s entirely possible that my dad has arranged a marriage for me with some prince I’ve never met? Some guy who lives in, like, Dubai, or somewhere, and who gazes daily at my picture and longs for the day when he can finally make me his own?”

Lilly said she thought I’d been reading too many of my friend Tina Hakim Baba’s teen romances. I will admit, that is sort of where I got the idea. But that is not the point.

“Seriously, Lilly,” I said. “I have to guard diligently against falling in love with somebody like David Hasselhoff or your brother, because in the end I might have to marry Prince William.” Not that that would be such a great sacrifice, and all.

Lilly got up off my bed and stomped out into the loft’s living room. My dad was the only one around, because when he’d come over to check on me, my mom had suddenly remembered an errand she had to get done and dashed off.

Only of course there was no errand. My mom still hasn’t told my dad about Mr. G and her pregnancy, and how they’re getting married, and all. I think she’s afraid that he might start yelling at her for being so irresponsible (which I could totally see him doing).

So instead she flees from Dad in guilt every time she sees him. It would almost be funny, if it wasn’t such a pathetic way for a thirty-six-year-old woman to behave. When I am thirty-six, I fully intend to be self-actualized, so you will not catch me doing any of the things my mother is always doing.

“Mr. Renaldo,” I heard Lilly say, as she went out into the living room. She calls my dad Mr. Renaldo even though she knows perfectly well he is the prince of Genovia. She doesn’t care though, because she says this is America and she isn’t calling anybody “Your Highness.” She is fundamentally opposed to monarchies—and principalities, like Genovia, fall under that heading. Lilly believes that sovereignty rests with the people. In colonial times, she’d probably have been branded a Whig.

“Mr. Renaldo,” I heard her ask my dad. “Is Mia secretly betrothed to some prince somewhere?”

My dad lowered his newspaper. I could hear it crinkling all the way from my bedroom. “Good God, no,” he said.

“Moron,” she said to me, when she came stomping back into my room. “And while I can see why you might want to guard diligently against falling in love with David Hasselhoff, who is, by the way, old enough to be your father, and hardly a hottie, what does my
brother
have to do with any of this?”

Too late, I realized what I’d said. Lilly has no idea how I feel about her brother Michael. Actually,
I
don’t really have any idea about how I feel about him either. Except that he looks extremely Casper Van Dien with his shirt off.

I
so
want him to be the one who’d written that letter. I really, really do.

But I’m not about to mention this to his sister.

Instead, I told her I think it unfair of her to demand explanations for stuff I said under the influence of codeine cough syrup.

Lilly just got that expression she gets sometimes when teachers ask a question and she knows the answer, only she wants to give someone else in the class a chance to answer for a change.

It really can be exhausting sometimes, having a best friend with an IQ of 170.

HOMEWORK

Algebra: problems 1–20, pg. 115

English: Chapter 4 of Strunk and White

World Civ: two-hundred–word essay on the conflict between India and Pakistan

G&T: Yeah, right

French: Chaptre huit

Biology: pituitary gland (ask Kenny!)

LILLY MOSCOVITZ AND MIA THERMOPOLIS’S LIST OF CELEBRITIES AND THEIR BREASTS