Princess on the Brink (3 page)

Differentiation—finding the derivative

Derivative = slope

Derivative also rate

Integration

Infinite series

Divergent series

Convergent series

Wait.

Okay.

What?

They have GOT to be kidding.

Only five hours until I see Michael.

Okay, well, THAT was lame. Only one person was nominated for student council president:

Me.

I am apparently running unopposed.

Principal Gupta is way disappointed in us. You can tell.

I guess I am, too. I mean, I knew our school was apathetic, and all. Look how everyone rushed out and bought Diddy’s new album when they KNOW he is withholding information about Biggie Smalls’s murder from the Los Angeles police.

But this is ridiculous.

Lilly practically cried. I guess it’s not really a victory if there’s no one to beat. I tried to tell her it was because we did such a great job last year, people figured there was no point in running against us, because we would just win anyway.

But then Lilly pointed out that everyone was just text messaging one another about what they’re doing after school during the entire Assembly, not even paying attention, so it was likely they didn’t even know WHAT was going on. They probably thought it was just another convocation on daring to keep off drugs.

HOMEWORK

Homeroom: n/a

Intro to Creative Writing: Describe a scene out your window

English:
Franny and Zooey

French: Finish
décrire un soir amusant avec les amis

G & T: Prepare a summary for Mrs. Hill of what you hope to accomplish in G&T this semester

PE: Wash gym shorts

Chemistry: Ask Kenny/J.P.

Precalculus: Seriously. This class HAS to be a joke.

ME, A PRINCESS???? YEAH, RIGHT.

A Screenplay by Mia Thermopolis

(first draft)

Scene 13

INT/DAY—The Palm Court at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Close-up of MIA’s face as she tries to digest what her father, PRINCE PHILLIPE, has just told her.

MIA

 

(fighting tears, and hiccups)

I am NOT moving to Genovia.

 

PRINCE PHILLIPE

 

(using his now-let’s-be-reasonable voice)

But, Mia. I thought you understood—

 

MIA

 

All I understand is that you
lied
to me my whole life.

Why should I come live with
you
?

 

MIA leaps up from the table, tipping over her chair, then rushes from the restaurant, nearly knocking over the snobby doorman on her way out.

So they’re converting the Plaza into condominiums and luxury time-shares. And Grandmère’s already bought the penthouse.

But they’re still renovating it. And Grandmère can’t live there with all the dust because of her sinuses. Not to mention the banging, which starts promptly at 7:30 a.m.

So she’s taken up residence at the W Hotel.

And she doesn’t seem to be liking it very much.

“This,” Grandmère was saying, as I walked into her suite—which, can I just say, is pretty freaking nice? I mean, it’s not exactly her style (it’s more modern than frou-frou—stripes and leather as opposed to floral and lace), but it’s got views all up and down the island of Manhattan, and a lot of shiny wood—“is completely unacceptable.”

She was saying this to a guy in a suit with a little gold nametag that said Robert on it.

Robert looked like he wanted to kill himself.

I sympathized. I know what Grandmère’s like when she’s on a tear.

And this one appeared to be a doozy.

“Daisies?” Grandmère’s voice had dipped to icy registers. “Does your staff really believe
daisies
are the appropriate flower with which to adorn the rooms of the dowager princess of Genovia?”

“I’m so sorry, madam,” Robert said. I saw him flick a glance over at me, all sprawled out across the kick-ass white couch in front of the flat-panel TV that—yes—appears as if
from nowhere when you push a button, just like Joey always wanted on
Friends
.

You could tell Robert was totally looking for a hand with the Big G.

But there was no way I was letting myself get sucked into this one. I bent over my screenplay, scribbling away very busily. J.P. says when I finish it, he knows a producer who would be very interested in seeing it. Very interested! That practically means it’s sold.

“We put Gerbera daisies in all our rooms,” Robert went on, seeing he was getting no help from me. “No one has ever complained about them before.”

Grandmère looked at him as if he had just said that no one had ever pulled out a knife and committed hari-kari right in front of him before either.

“Have you ever had a PRINCESS stay in this hotel before?” she demanded.

“Actually, the princess of Thailand was here just last week before settling into her dorm room at NYU,” Robert began.

I winced. Wrong answer, Robert! Too bad. Thanks for playing.

“THAILAND?” Grandmère just glared at him. “Have you any idea HOW MANY PRINCESSES OF THAILAND THERE ARE?”

Robert looked panicky. He knew he’d messed up. He just didn’t know how. Poor guy. “Um…no?”

“Dozens. You could even say hundreds. Do you know how many dowager princesses of Genovia there are, young man?”

“Um.” Robert looked like he wanted to jump out the
window. I didn’t blame him, really. “One?”

“One. That is correct,” Grandmère said. “Don’t you think that if the ONE DOWAGER PRINCESS OF GENOVIA demands roses in her room—pink and white roses, NOT orange Gerbera daisies, which might be the trendy flower of the moment, but ROSES never go out of style—you ought to SUPPLY THEM FOR HER? Especially considering the fact that her dog happens to be allergic to
grassland plants
?”

Everyone’s gaze went to Rommel, who, far from looking as if he were suffering from any sort of allergic reaction to anything, was snoring away in his gilt-framed dog bed, twitching a little as he dreamed of whatever it is dogs dream about—in Rommel’s case, no doubt, of running away from his owner.

“As if,” Grandmère added, “it isn’t bad enough you have actual grass GROWING in your lobby.”

Ouch. I’d noticed that as I’d come in. It’s a bit
modern
, having grass growing in your lobby. I mean, for Grandmère’s taste, anyway. She prefers mints in little crystal bowls.

“I understand, madam,” Robert said, actually giving a little bow. “I’ll—I’ll have pink and white roses sent for immediately. I can’t apologize enough for the oversight—”

“No,” Grandmère said, raising one drawn-on eyebrow. “You cannot. Good-bye.”

Robert, gulping, turned and hurried from the room. Grandmère waited until he was gone before collapsing into one of the black-leather-and-chrome chairs across from my couch.

But, of course, those aren’t the kind of chairs you can actually collapse into all that easily. Because the leather is kind of slippery.

“Amelia!” Grandmère cried, as she slithered around on the seat. “This is unconscionable!”

“I like it,” I said. I do. I think the W is cool. Everything in it is very shiny.

“You’re mad,” Grandmère said. “Do you know I ordered a Sidecar, and they delivered it in a TUMBLER?”

“So? More to enjoy.”

“Sidecars are never served in a TUMBLER, Amelia. WATER is served in a tumbler. A Sidecar is ALWAYS served in a stemmed cocktail glass. MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR???”

Grandmère was suddenly sitting up very straight in her slippery black leather chair.

“Calm down,” I said. “I just got a little trim—”

“A LITTLE TRIM??? You look like a cotton swab.”

“It’ll grow back,” I said lamely. Because the truth is, I’m not planning on growing it back. I really like having short hair. You don’t have to do ANYTHING to it. And when you look in the mirror, your head always looks the same. There’s something comforting about that. I mean, it’s TIRING seeing some new disaster erupting on your scalp every time you happen to glance at your reflection.

“How do you intend to keep your tiaras on with nothing for the combs to dig into?” Grandmère wanted to know.

Which is actually a good point. And certainly not one
anyone had thought to bring up at Astor Place Hairstylists, least of all my mom, who’d said my new short hair reminded her of Demi Moore’s in
G.I. Jane
which, at the time, I’d taken to be a compliment.

“Velcro?” I asked carefully.

But Grandmère didn’t think my joke was all that funny.

“There’s not even any point in summoning Paolo,” she said, “because it’s not as if there’s even anything left for him to work with.”

“It’s not THAT short,” I said, lifting a hand to my head and feeling spikes. Well, on second thought, maybe it is. Oh, well. “Whatever. It’s just HAIR. It will grow back. Don’t we have more important things to worry about, Grandmère? I mean, in Iran, fundamentalist religious courts still routinely sentence women to death by being buried up to their necks in sand and then stoned, for crimes like adultery. Now! Things like this are happening RIGHT NOW!!!! And you’re worried about my HAIR???”

Grandmère just shook her head. You never can distract her with current events. If it doesn’t have to do with royalty, she just doesn’t care.

“This could not have come at a worse time,” she went on, like I hadn’t said anything. “
Vogue
just contacted the royal publicist, wanting an interview and photo shoot for their winter getaway issue. The article would bring Genovia to the attention of hundreds of women looking to schedule their winter vacations somewhere warm. Not to mention the fact that your father is in town for the general
assembly meeting at the UN.”

“Good!” I yelled. “Maybe he can bring up the Iran thing at it! Do you know they’ve outlawed western music there, too? And, while claiming their only interest in nuclear development is for civilian energy, and not military use, actually hid atomic research that proves otherwise from the International Atomic Energy Agency for twenty years? Who cares about winter getaways when we could all be blown up at any moment?”

“I suppose we could have you fitted for a wig,” Grandmère said. “Though how we’ll ever find one identical to your old haircut, I don’t know. They don’t make wigs shaped like sailboats. Perhaps we could find a longer wig, and then have Paolo cut it….”

“Are you even listening to me?”
I wanted to know. “There are more important things to worry about right now than my hair. Do you know how much trouble we’ll all be in if Iran gets a nuclear weapon? They BURY WOMEN UP TO THEIR NECKS AND STONE THEM FOR SLEEPING WITH GUYS THEY AREN’T MARRIED TO. How discriminating do you think they’re going to be about who deserves to have a bomb dropped on them?”

“Maybe,” Grandmère said thoughtfully, “we should turn you into a redhead. Oh, no, that will never work. With that haircut, you look exactly like that boy from the cover of those
Mad
comic books your father used to read all the time when he was your age.”

Seriously. It’s useless even to talk to her. Did I really
think a woman with so unreasonable a prejudice against Gerbera daisies was going to listen to me?

Sometimes I feel like burying HER up to her neck in sand and throwing rocks at her head.

Michael is here!!!!! To take me to Number One Noodle Son for dinner. Right now he’s chatting with Mom and Mr. G while I’m “getting ready.” He hasn’t seen me yet.

Or my haircut.

I know I’m being a complete baby about it. I know it looks fine. Mom keeps telling me it looks fine. Even Mr. G, when I asked him, said he doesn’t think I look like Peter Pan OR Anakin Skywalker.

Still. What if Michael hates it? In
Sixteen
magazine they’re always going on about how boys like girls with long hair. At least, whenever they do those “guy on the street” interviews. They show pictures of Keira Knightley with short hair and Keira Knightley with long hair to random high school boys standing around outside of convenience marts or whatever, and ask them which they prefer.

And nine times out of ten they pick Keira with the long hair.

Of course, none of those boys is ever Michael. But still.

Well, whatever. Michael is just going to have to deal.

Okay, maybe a little more mousse—

I can hear him talking to Rocky now. Not that anyone can understand a word Rocky says, except “truck” and “kitty” and “cookie” and “more” and “no” and “MINE,” the total extent of his vocabulary. Apparently this is normal for a child his age, and Rocky is not suffering from any sort of developmental retardation.

Still, it’s not easy having a conversation with him. I find it endlessly fascinating, of course. But he’s MY brother.
Listen to how patient Michael is being! Rocky is just saying “truck,” over and over again, and Michael is going, “Yes. That’s a very nice truck,” in the sweetest way. He’d make such a good dad! Not that I have any intention of having children until I’ve finished college and joined the Peace Corps and put an end to global warming, of course.

Still, it’s good to know that when I’m ready, Michael will be up to the task.

Oh! I just snuck a peek at him! He looks sooo great, so tall and handsome and dark and broad-shouldered and oh! I think he just shaved and I can’t believe it’s been a whole MONTH since I saw him and…

Oh my God. My hair is shorter than his.

MY HAIR IS SHORTER THAN MY BOYFRIEND’S.

What have I done?