Princess on the Brink (8 page)

Michael wants to do a whole bunch of New Yorky things before he leaves on Friday. Tonight we’re eating at his favorite burger place, Corner Bistro, in the West Village. He swears they make the best hamburgers in the city—outside of Johnny Rockets.

Except that Michael won’t go to Johnny Rockets because he doesn’t believe in food chains, as he says they are contributing to the homogenization of America, and that as chain stores force out locally owned restaurants and businesses, communities will lose everything that once made them unique, and America will become just one big strip mall, with every single community consisting of nothing but Wal-Marts, McDonald’s, a Jiffy Lube, and an Applebee’s. Instead of being a melting pot, America will be mayonnaise.

Still, I happen to know Michael’s not above sneaking out for a St. Louis and a black-and-white from time to time.

Of course, being a vegetarian, I can’t actually join him in his quest for One Last Perfect Burger before leaving for the Far East. I’ll just have a salad. And some fries.

Mom is cool with me going out on a school night because she knows it’s Michael’s last week being in the same hemisphere as me. Mr. G tried to say something about my Precalc homework—I guess he and Ms. Hong must talk in the teachers’ lounge, or whatever—but Mom just gave him A Look, and he shut up. I’m lucky I have such cool parents.

Well, except for Dad. I can’t believe he said no to my brilliant Build Your Own Robotics Lab idea. It’s his loss, I
guess. I’m not going to tell Michael about it. I mean, that I actually asked. I’m not sure, even if my dad HAD agreed to build his own robotics lab, that Michael would have wanted to work there, on account of the whole Wanting-to-Get-Away-from-Me-on-Account-of-the-No-Sex thing.

And I’m DEFINITELY not telling him about the hotel key Grandmère gave me. If Michael found out I had a hotel suite all to myself, he’d totally want to—

OH.

MY.

GOD.

I have to write fast. Michael just went up to the counter for more napkins. I don’t know where our waitress disappeared to. This place is a zoo. Someone must have spilled the beans about the burgers in some guidebook. A Big Apple double-decker tour bus just pulled up and puked about a hundred tourists into the restaurant.

Anyway, right as Michael arrived to pick me up, it hit me. What Grandmère was REALLY doing, giving me that key:
Use the rooms to stage a very private and very romantic good-bye?
Grandmère HAD to be implying what I think she was implying.

Grandmère has given me her suite at the Ritz for

SEX!!!!

Seriously! Grandmère’s giving me her suite at the Ritz so I can use it to “say good-bye” to Michael. In the kind of privacy we could never find anywhere else, what with neither of us having our own place.

In other words, my grandmother has given me her own version of the Precious Gift: THE most precious gift any teenager could ask for:

MY GRANDMOTHER HAS GIVEN ME MY OWN SEX PLACE!!!!!

I know it seems unbelievable. But it’s true. There’s no other explanation for it. Grandmère wants me to have sex with my boyfriend the night before he leaves for Japan.

Only why would my own grandmother be
encouraging
me to give away my Precious Gift when I am still just a teen?
Grandmothers are supposed to be old-fashioned and want their grandchildren to wait until marriage before consummating their relationships. Grandmothers don’t believe in trying the pants on before you buy them. Grandmothers all say the same thing: “He isn’t going to buy the cow if he can get the milk for free.” Grandmothers are supposed to want what’s best for their offspring’s offspring.

And could Grandmère really think having good-bye sex with my boyfriend in her abandoned suite at the Ritz is what’s BEST for me?

Unless…

OH MY GOD. This just hit me:
What if Grandmère is trying to help me keep Michael from going to Japan????

Seriously. Because what guy, given the choice between sex and no sex, would choose no sex? I mean, Michael is basically moving to Japan because of the whole no-sex thing.

Well, aside from the whole saving-thousands-of-livesand-making-millions-and-proving-his-worth-to-my-familyand-
Us-Weekly
thing.

But if he knew he had a chance at sex, wouldn’t he…stay?

I know. It’s CRAZY.

So crazy, in fact, it just might work.

No. NO!!!! I can’t believe I wrote that!!!! It’s wrong!!!!
I mean, to use sex as a means to manipulate someone. It goes against my feminist principles. God, what could Grandmère be THINKING?

Except, of course, Grandmère doesn’t HAVE any feminist principles. Well, I mean, she does, she just doesn’t think of them that way.

And then, of course, there’s the whole Waiting Until Prom Night thing. I mean, I promised Tina. We PROMISED each other we’d hold on to our Precious Gifts until prom night.

But that was before. Before Michael decided he had to go on this crazy robot arm quest.

Surely Tina would understand—

Wait. Am I really considering this? No! No, it’s wrong! It’s horrible! I could never do something like that! I would be robbing the world of Michael’s robotic arm thingie! I can’t do something like that. I’m a PRINCESS, for crying out loud.

But what if—just what if—Michael and I had sex in Grandmère’s abandoned suite at the Ritz, and he liked it so much, he decided not to go after all? Wouldn’t that be WORTH compromising my feminist principles? Wouldn’t it, actually, be MORE feminist, because by keeping Michael around, I will be able to smell his neck, and therefore release serotonin into my brain on a regular basis, making me a calmer and more well-rounded individual, and a better student leader and role model to young girls everywhere?

AHHHHHH Michael’s back with the napkins. More later.

Well. That was very nice. We had a lovely dinner, followed by cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery (yes, the one from “Lazy Sunday” on
Saturday Night Live
).

Then we made out all emotionally for half an hour in the vestibule of my apartment building, while Lars pretended to be putting money in the parking meter, even though the limo has diplomatic plates and we never get ticketed.

I really don’t think it’s the extremely high levels of serotonin batting around in my brain right now due to smelling Michael’s neck for so long (not to mention oxytocin, a hormone that rushes to the brain in moments of intense sexual pleasure, and which is why in Health and Safety they advised us not to have sex with anyone we hadn’t known for a while, due to the fact that oxytocin can cloud your judgment and make you feel like you’re in love with someone, when in fact it’s really just the oxytocin and you really have nothing in common at all, or even actually like each other. Which actually explains why Grandpère married Grandmère).

No. I really think this is it. I am ready. Ready to give away my Precious Gift. Ready for the Big S.

Which is why I said to Michael, as he was getting ready to leave, “Don’t make any plans for tomorrow night. I have a surprise for you.”

And Michael was all, “Really? What is it?”

But I said, “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

And Michael just smiled and said, “Okay,” and kissed
me again and said good night.

And left.

Oh, he’s going to be surprised, all right.

And I
know
that technically Michael and I making love is illegal, since at sixteen I am still one year away from the age of consent in the state of New York.

I also realize that deciding to make love to my boyfriend two years before I actually planned to just because I don’t want him to move to Japan and I think there is a very strong possibility that he won’t go if he knows he has access to free sex whenever he wants is manipulative and anti-feminist.

But
I DON’T CARE.

I CAN’T let him move to Japan. I just CAN’T. I am very sorry for all the open-heart surgery patients who may suffer because of this very selfish decision on my part.

But sometimes, a girl has to do what a girl has to do just to stay sane in a topsy-turvy world where one minute, you’re eating cold sesame noodles, and the next minute, your boyfriend is leaving for Japan.

That’s just how it’s going to have to be.

Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Should I do this? SHOULD I DO THIS????

As usual, asking questions of my journal is no help whatsoever. I don’t even know why I bother.

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

A Screenplay by Mia Thermopolis

(first draft)

Scene 16

INT/DAY—The penthouse suite at the Plaza Hotel. A scary-looking old woman with tattooed eyeliner (DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE) is glaring at MIA, who cowers across from her in a chair. A hairless toy poodle (ROMMEL) shivers nearby.

DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE

 

Now, let’s see if I’ve got this straight. Your father tells you that you are the princess of Genovia, and you burst into tears. Why is this?

 

MIA

 

I don’t want to be a princess. I just want to be me, Mia.

 

DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE

 

Sit up straight in that chair. Do not drape your legs over the arm. And you are not Mia. You are Amelia. Are you telling me you have no desire to assume your rightful place upon the throne?

 

MIA

 

Grandmère, you know as well as I do that I’m not princess material. So why are we even wasting our time?

 

DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE

 

You are the heir to the crown of Genovia. And you will take my son’s place on the throne when he dies. This is how it is. There is no other way.

 

MIA

 

Yeah, whatever, Grandmère. Look, I got a lot of homework. Is this princess thing going to take long?

 

I’m going to do it. I mean, Do It. Tonight. I was up all night thinking about it, and I know now—this is the only way.

I know it’s selfish. I know I will be keeping a shining beacon of hope from all of the many heart patients Michael could be helping with his invention.

But that is just too bad for them. Plenty of people have had open-heart surgery and were just fine. Look at David Letterman. And Bill Clinton. People are just going to have to suck it up. Maybe if they ate less meat, they wouldn’t NEED open-heart surgery. Did anyone think of that?

Oh, God. Did I really just write that? I can’t believe I just wrote that. WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME? I’m becoming one of those militant vegetarians, the ones who think the Heifer Project, an organization that gives cows and goats to poor widows so they will have an income from selling the milk, and be able to buy food for their children, is bad because it enslaves animals.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s like I’ve gone mental. I even checked to make sure I still had my condoms left over from when we were forced to go buy them during Health and Safety as part of our Safer Sex project. Of course, I made my selections on the basis of color. I mean, there were just SO MANY to choose from. I knew I should have gone to Duane Reade and not Condomania. I have strawberry and piña colada in my backpack right now (I didn’t realize the ones I bought were FLAVORED until I checked their expiration dates this morning. Thank
heaven they’re still good).

I am willing to sacrifice my virginity for the sake of keeping my love in the same hemisphere as me.

But I just realized, that during the course of this, I may actually have to Touch It.

For the first time, however, this prospect is not making me say, or even think, the word
Ew.

I must be maturing.

Describe a person you know:

His hair, at first glance, appears merely dark, but upon closer inspection is actually many strands of chestnut brown, gold, and black. He wears it long, for a guy, not because doing so is “in,” but because he’s too busy with his many interests to remember to get it cut regularly. His eyes seem dark at first glance, as well, but are actually a kaleidoscope of russets and mahoganies, flecked here and there with ruby and gold, like twin lakes during an Indian summer, into which you feel as if you could dive and swim forever. Nose: aquiline. Mouth: imminently kissable. Neck: aromatic—an intoxicating blend of Tide from his shirt collar, Gillette shaving foam, and Ivory soap, which together spell: my boyfriend.

B–

Better. I would have liked more description on what exactly about his mouth you find so imminently kissable.

—C. Martinez