Princess In Training (16 page)

“Um,” I said.

Then I thought fast.

“How about after the prom,” I said, “on a king-sized bed with white satin sheets in a deluxe suite with Central Park views at the Four Seasons, with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries upon arrival, and an aromatherapy bath for after, then waffles for two in bed the next morning?”

To which Michael replied, very calmly, “One, I’m never going to the prom again and you know it, and two, I can’t afford the Four Seasons—which you also know. So, why don’t you give that answer another try?”

Damn! Tina is so LUCKY to have a boyfriend she can push around. WHY isn’t Michael as malleable as BORIS?

“Look,” I said, desperately trying to think of some way to get out of the whole situation. Because it wasn’t going AT ALL the way I’d planned it in my head. In my head, I told Michael I wasn’t ready to Do It and he said okay and we played some Boggle and that was the end of it.

Too bad things never work out the way they do inside my head.

“Do I have to decide this right NOW?” I asked, deciding DELAY was the best strategy at this point. “I have a lot on my mind. I mean, it’s possible that at this very moment, my mom could be exposing Rocky to some very harmful stimuli, such as clog dancing, or even funnel cakes. And I have this debate thing on Monday…Did I mention that Grandmère and Lilly are working on it together? I mean, it’s like Darth Vader joining forces with Ann Coulter, only leftist. I’m telling you, I’m a wreck. Can I take a rain check on this whole thing?”

“Absolutely,” Michael said, with a smile that was so sweet, it made me want to lean over to kiss him….

Until he added, “But just so you know, Mia, I’m not going to wait around forever.”

This caused me to pause just as my lips were on the way to his.

Because he didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to wait around forever for my answer. Oh, no. He meant he wasn’t going to wait around forever to Do It.

He didn’t say it like it was a threat, or anything. He said it kind of lightly, even jokingly.

But I could tell it wasn’t really a joke. Because boys really do expect you to Do It. Someday.

I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I don’t think I could have spoken after that if I’d tried. Fortunately, I didn’t have to, because there was a knock on the door, and Lars’s voice called, “The game is over. It’s after midnight. Time to go, Princess,” which of course caused Michael and me to spring to separate sides of the room.

(I just asked Lars how he has such an uncanny knack for picking the wrong—or right, as the case may be—moment to interrupt me when I’m alone with Michael, and he went, “As long as I hear voices, I’m not worried. It’s when things get quiet I start to wonder what’s going on. Because—no offense, Your Highness—but you talk a lot.”)

Anyway. So that’s it.

Lana was right.

All boys want to Do It.

Including Michael.

My life is over.

The end.

Note to self: Call Mom and remind her that she is still breast-feeding and that even though she might FEEL like drinking a lot of gin and tonics, seeing as how she’s around her mother, this could be very dangerous to Rocky’s cognitive development at this point.

Sunday, September 13, noon, my room, the Plaza

Why can’t my life be like the lives of the kids on The N? None of them are princesses. None of them created eco-disasters in their native lands by pouring ten thousand snails into the local bay. None of them have boyfriends who expect them to Do It someday. Well, actually, some of them do.

But still. It’s different when you’re on TV.

Sunday, September 13, 1 p.m., my room, the Plaza

Why won’t everyone leave me alone? If I want to wallow in my own grief, that should be my prerogative. After all, I AM a princess.

Sunday, September 13, 2 p.m., my room, the Plaza

I so wish I could talk to Michael right now. He called earlier, but I didn’t pick up. He left a message with the hotel operator that said, “Hey, it’s me. Are you still there, or have you gone home yet? I’ll try you there, too. Anyway, if you get this message, call me.”

Yeah. Call him. So he can break up with me for my reluctance to Do It with him. So not giving him the satisfaction.

I tried calling Lilly, but she’s not home. Dr. Moscovitz said she has no idea where her daughter is, but that if I hear from her, I should let her know that Pavlov needs walking.

I hope Lilly isn’t trying to secretly film through the windows of the Sacred Heart Convent again. I know she’s convinced those nuns are running an illegal methamphetamine lab in there, but it was kind of embarrassing the last time, when she sent the video footage to the Sixth Precinct and all it turned out to have on it was shots of the nuns playing bingo.

Oooooh, a Sailor Moon marathon…

Sailor Moon is so lucky to be a cartoon character. If I were a cartoon character, I’m sure I would have none of the problems I am having right now.

And even if I did, they would all be solved by the end of the episode.

Sunday, September 13, 3 p.m., my room, the Plaza

Okay, this is just a violation of my personal rights. I mean, if I want to wallow in bed all day, I should be allowed to. If that’s what SHE felt like doing, and I went barreling into HER private room and told her to stop feeling sorry for herself and sat down and started yammering away at her, you can bet SHE never would have gone along with it. She’d just have thrown a Sidecar at me, or whatever.

But somehow it’s all right for HER to do that to me. Come barreling into my room, I mean, and tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself.

Now she’s dangling this gold necklace in front of me. It’s got a pendant almost as big as Fat Louie’s head swinging from it. There are jewels all over the pendant. It looks like something 50 Cent might wear on his night off, while he’s working out or just hanging with his homies, or something.

“Do you know what you are looking at here, Amelia?” Grandmère is asking me.

“If you’re trying to hypnotize me into not biting my nails anymore, Grandmère,” I said, “it won’t work. Dr. Moscovitz already tried.”

Grandmère ignored that.

“What you are looking at here, Amelia, is a priceless artifact of Genovian history. It belonged to your namesake, St. Amelie, the beloved patron saint of Genovia.”

“Um, sorry, Grandmère,” I said. “But I was named after Amelia Earhart, the brave aviatrix.”

Grandmère snorted. “You most certainly were not,” she said. “You were named after St. Amelie, and no one else.”

“Um, excuse me, Grandmère,” I said. “But my mom very definitely told me—”

“I don’t care what that mother of yours told you,” Grandmère said. “You were named after the patron saint of Genovia, pure and simple. St. Amelie was born in the year 1070, a simple peasant girl whose greatest love was tending to her family’s flock of Genovian goats. As she tended her father’s herd, she often sang traditional Genovian folk songs to herself, in a voice that was rumored to be one of the loveliest, most melodic of all time, much nicer than that horrible Christina Aguilera person you seem to like so much.”

Um, hello. How does Grandmère even know this? Was she alive in the year 1070? Besides, Christina has, like, a seven-octave range. Or something like that.

“One fine day when Amelie was fourteen years old,” Grandmère went on, “she was guarding the herd near the Italian/Genovian border, when she happened to spy, billeted in a copse, an Italian count and the army of hired mercenaries he’d brought with him from his nearby castle. Fleet of foot as the goats she so loved, Amelie stole near enough to the miscreants to discover their dire purpose in her beloved land. The count planned to wait until nightfall, then seize control of the Genovian palace and its populace, and add them to his own already sizeable holdings.

“A quick-thinking girl, Amelie hurried back to her flock. The sun was already low in its zenith, and Amelie knew she would not be able to return to her village and inform the villagers of the count’s dastardly plan until it was far too late, and he would already be on the move. And so instead, she began to sing one of her plaintive folk tunes, pretending to be oblivious of the scores of hardened soldiers just a few hillocks over….

“It was then that a miracle occurred,” Grandmère went on. “One by one, the loathsome mercenaries dropped off, lulled to sleep by Amelie’s lilting voice. And when finally the count, too, sunk into the deepest of slumbers, Amelie scurried back to his side, and—taking the little axe she kept with her for cutting away the brambles that often clung to the coats of her beloved goats—she whacked off the head of the Italian count, and held it high for his suddenly wakeful army to see.

“‘Let this be a warning to anyone who dares to dream of defiling my beloved Genovia,’ Amelie cried, waving the count’s lifeless skull.

“And with that, the mercenaries—terrified that this small, seemingly defenseless girl was an example of the kind of fighters they would encounter if they set foot on Genovian soil—gathered their things and rode quickly back whence they came. And Amelie, returning to her family with the count’s head as proof of her astonishing tale, was quickly hailed the country’s savior, and lived long and well in her native land for the rest of her days.”

Then Grandmère reached out and undid a latch on the pendant, causing the thing to spring open and reveal what was nestled inside….

“And this,” she said, all dramatically, “is all that remains of St. Amelie today.”

I looked at the thing inside the locket.

“Um,” I said.

“It’s all right, Amelia,” Grandmère said, encouragingly. “You may touch it. It’s a right reserved only for the Renaldo royal family. You may as well take advantage of it.”

I reached out and touched whatever was inside the locket. It looked—and felt—like a rock.

“Um,” I said again. “Thanks, Grandmère. But I don’t know how my touching some saint’s rock is supposed to make me feel better.”

“That is no rock, Amelia,” Grandmère said, scornfully. “That’s St. Amelie’s petrified heart!”

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THIS is what Grandmère busted in here to show me? THIS is how she tries to cheer me up? By having me pick up some dead saint’s petrified HEART????

WHY CAN’T I HAVE A NORMAL GRANDMA WHO TAKES ME TO SERENDIPITY FOR FROZEN HOT CHOCOLATE WHEN I’M DOWN, instead of making me fondle petrified body parts??????

And, okay, I GET it. I GET that I’m named after a woman who performed an incredible act of bravery and saved her country. I GET what Grandmère was trying to do: instill some of St. Amelie’s chutzpah into me in time for my big debate against Lana tomorrow.

But I’m afraid her plan totally backfired, because the truth is, except for a fondness for goats, Amelie and I have NOTHING in common. I mean, sure, Rocky stops crying when I sing to him. But it’s not like anybody’s rushing out to make me a saint.

Also, I highly doubt St. Amelie’s boyfriend was all “I’m not going to wait around forever.” Not if she still had that axe on her.

It’s all just so depressing. I mean, even my own grandmother thinks I can’t beat Lana Weinberger without divine intervention. That is just so nice.

Oh, great. Time to go home.

Sunday, September 13, 9 p.m., the loft

I’m sooooooooo glad to be back. It feels like I’ve been gone for SO MUCH LONGER than just two days. Seriously. It feels like a YEAR since I last lay on this bed, with Fat Louie curled around my feet, purring his head off, and the dulcet tones of Lash in my ears, since I don’t have to listen for Rocky’s mournful cry, because my mom cured him of the crying-to-get-attention thing. Apparently, she did it by leaving him with Mamaw and Papaw to babysit while she and Mr. G went to a classic car show in the parking lot of the Kroger Sav-On, because that was the closest thing to a cultural event that was actually going on in Versailles this past weekend.

By the time they got home—four hours later—Mamaw and Papaw were still sitting exactly where they’d been when Mom and Mr. G left (in front of the TV, watching reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos) and Rocky was sound asleep. All Mamaw said was, “Well, he’s got a set of lungs on him, I’ll say that fer’im.”

Anyway, Mom says Mr. G was a real trooper, and that if she hadn’t been sure he loved her before, she definitely knows it now, because no other man would willingly have put up with as many indignities as he endured on her behalf, one of which included riding on Papaw’s tractor (Mr. G says the closest to a tractor he’s ever been before is the Zamboni at a Rangers game). Mr. G says he was particularly impressed by the road signs he saw along the highway from the Indianapolis International Airport, urging him to repent his sins and be saved. Although, he reports that sadly, the Versailles County Bank appears to have taken down the IF BANK IS CLOSED, PLEASE SLIDE MONEY UNDER THE DOOR sign I loved so much.

I was very pleased to hear that they followed all of my advice and kept Rocky far away from hay threshers, copperhead snakes, and Hazel, Mamaw’s goat. Mom did say something about how it wasn’t actually necessary for me to have called every three hours to let them know that there was no cyclone activity on Doppler radar in their area, but that she appreciated my sisterly vigilance on Rocky’s behalf.

Later, while Mr. G was struggling to fit their suitcases back into the crawl space, I asked Mom if she’d happened to look up Wendell Jenkins, and she was all, “Why would I?”

“Because,” I said. “I mean, you loved him.”

“Sure,” Mom said. “Twenty years ago.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you loved Dad fifteen years ago, and you see still see him.”

“Because I have a child with him,” my mom said, looking at me sort of strangely. “Believe me, Mia, if it weren’t for you, your dad and I probably wouldn’t have anything to do with each other. We’ve both moved on, just like Wendell and I moved on.”

Then my mom went on, “If I hadn’t met Frank, maybe I’d regret breaking up with Wendell or your dad. But I’m married to the man of my dreams. So, in answer to your question, Mia, no, I didn’t look up Wendell Jenkins this weekend.”

Wow. That is just…I don’t know. So nice. About Mr. G being the man of my mom’s dreams. I mean, I hope he realizes it. How lucky he is. Because whereas I strongly suspect there are a lot of women out there who might consider my dad, being a rich prince and all, the man of their dreams, I don’t think there are a whole lot of ladies who are going, “Hmmm, I wish I could meet a poor, flannel-shirt wearing, drum-playing Algebra teacher named Frank Gianini,” like my mom evidently did.