Princess in Waiting (2 page)

No. I mean, even now I am supposed to be taking notes on Grandmere's lecture about the importance of

sticking to the prepared script during televised public addresses. Like I didn't get it the first time she said

it, or the nine-hundredth time, or however many times it has been since Christmas Eve, when I

supposedly ruined everything with my treatise on plastic

six-pack holders.

But let's say I even did get a moment to myself, and I wanted to, you know, send an email to one of my

friends, or perhaps even my BOYFRIEND. Well, not so simple, because guess what, castles built in the

1600s simply aren't wired for the World Wide Web. And yeah, the Palais de Genovia audio-visual

squad is trying, but you still have, like, three feet of sandstone, or whatever the palace is made out of, to

bore through before you can even start installing any cable. It is like trying to wire the Alamo.

Oh, yeah, and the toilets? Let me just tell you that back in the 1600s, they didn't know so much about

sewerage. So now, four hundred years later, if you put one square too much toilet paper in the bowl and

try to flush, you create a mini indoor tsunami.

Plus, the only person living here in the castle who is remotely close to my age is my cousin, Prince Rene,

who spends

inordinate amounts of time gazing at his own reflection in the back of his ceremonial sword. And

technically he isn't even

really my cousin anyway. Some ancestor of his was awarded a principality by the king of Italy way back

in like 600AD,

same as great-great-and-so-on Grandma Rosagunde. Except that Rene's principality no longer exists, as

it was absorbed

into Italy three hundred years ago.

Rene doesn't seem to mind, though, because everyone still calls him His Highness Prince Rene, and he is

extended every privilege of a member of the royal household — even though his palace now belongs to a

famous shoe designer, who has turned it into a resort for wealthy Americans to come for the weekend

and make their own pasta and drink two-hundred-year-old balsamic vinegar.

Still, just because Rene is four years older than me, and a freshman at some French business school,

doesn't mean he has the right to patronize me. I mean, I believe gambling is morally wrong, and the fact

that Prince Rene spends so many hours at the roulette wheel instead of utilizing his time in a more

productive fashion - such as helping to promote the protection of the

nesting grounds of the giant sea turtles who lay their eggs on Genovian beaches — irks me.

So yes, I did mention this to him. It just seems to me that Prince Rene needs to realize there is more to

life than racing around

in his Alfa Romeo, or swimming in the palace pool wearing nothing but one of those little black Speedos

(which are very stylish here in Europe). I also asked my dad to please, for the love of all that is holy, stick

to swimming trunks, which, thankfully, he has.

And, OK, Rene just laughed at me.

But at least I can rest easy knowing I have done everything I could to show one extremely self-absorbed

prince the error

of his profligate ways.

So that's it. That is my life in Genovia. Basically, all I wantis to go home. I would not even mind having to

start school early

if it meant I could forgo this evening's dinner with the Prince and Princess of Liechtenstein. Who are

totally nice people, but hello, it's Tuesday, I could be watching
Buffy
instead.

With my new boyfriend.

My new boyfriend with whom I have not even been able to have a date yet, because the very day after

we finally confessed

our secret passion to one another, we were cruelly torn apart and cast to opposite sides of the earth - I

to my castle in Genovia, and he to his grandmother's condo in Boca Raton.

You know, it has been exactly eighteen days since we last spoke to one another. It is entirely possible

that Michael has forgotten all about me by now. I know Michael is vastly superior to all the other

members of his species - boys, I mean. But everyone knows that boys are like dogs - their short-term

memory is completely nil. You tell them your favourite fictional character is Xena, Warrior Princess, and

next thing you know, they are going on about how your favourite fictional character

is Xica of Telemundo. Boys just don't know any better, on account of how their brains are too filled up

with stuff about modems and
Star Trek Voyager
and Limp Bizkit and all.

Michael is no exception to this rule. Oh, I know he is co-valedictorian of his class, and got a perfect

score on his SATs and was accepted early-decision to one of the most prestigious universities in the

country. But, you know, it took him about five million years even to admit he liked me. And that was only

after I'd sent him all these anonymous love letters. Which turned

out not to be so anonymous because he fully knew it was me the whole time thanks to all of my friends,

including his little

sister, having such exceptionally large mouths.

But, whatever. I am just saying, eighteen days is a long time. How do I know Michael hasn't met some

other girl? Some Floridian girl, with long, sun-streaked hair, and a tan, and breasts? Who has access to

the Internet and isn't cooped up in

a palace with her crazy grandma, a homeless, Speedo-wearing prince and a freakish, hairless miniature

poodle?

'Amelia!' Grandmere just shrieked at me. Are you paying attention?'

Yeah, sure, Grandmere. I'm paying attention. You are only squandering what are supposed to be the

best days of my life.

And probably, because of you, right now my boyfriend is strolling down the beach with some girl named

Tiffany who can

do long division in her head and knows how to ride a boogie board.

But yes, I am paying attention to your very boring lecture about maintaining regal poise at all times.

'I swear I do not know what is wrong with you,' Grandmere said. 'Your head has been in the clouds ever

since we left New York. Even more so than usual.' Then she narrowed her eyes at me - always a very

scary thing, because Grandmere has had black kohl tattooed all around her lids so that she can spend her

mornings shaving off her eyebrows and drawing on new

ones rather than messing around with mascara and eyeliner. 'You are not thinking about
that boy,
are

you?'

That boy
is what Grandmere has started calling Michael, ever since I announced that he was my reason

for living. Well,

except for my cat, Fat Louie, of course.

'If you are speaking of Michael Moscovitz,' I said to her, in my most regal voice, 'I most certainly am. He

is never far from

my thoughts, because he is my heart's breath.'

Grandmere gave a very rude snort in response to this. 'Puppy love,' she said. 'You'll get over it soon

enough.' Um, I beg

your pardon, Grandmere, but I so fully will not. I have loved Michael for approximately eight years. That

is more than half

my life. A deep and abiding passion such as this cannot be dismissed as easily as that, nor can it be

defined by your

pedestrian grasp of human emotion.

I didn't say any of that out loud, though, on account of how Grandmere has those really long nails that she

tends to

'accidentally' stab people with.

Except that even though Michael really is my reason for living and my heart's breath, I don't think I'll be

decorating my

Algebra notebook with hearts and flowers and curlicue Mrs. Michael Moscovitzes, the way Lana

Weinberger decorated

hers (only with Mrs. Josh Richters, of course). Not only because doing stuff like that is completely lame

and because I do

not care to have my identity subjugated by taking my husband's name, but also because as consort to the

ruler of Genovia, Michael will of course have to take my name. Not Thermopolis. Renaldo. Michael

Renaldo. That looks kind of nice, now

that I think about it.

Thirteen more days until I see the lights of New York and Michael's dark brown eyes again. Please God,

let me live that long.

HRH Michael Renaldo

M. Renaldo, Prince Consort

Michael Moscovitz Renaldo of Genovia

Friday, January 8, 2a.m.,

Royal Genovian Bedchamber

This just occurred to me:

When Michael said he loved me that night during the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, he might have

meant love in the platonic sense. Not love in the tides of flaming passion sense. You know, like maybe he

loves me like a friend.

Only you don't generally stick your tongue in your friend's mouth, do you?

Well, maybe here in Europe you might. But not in America, for God's sake.

Except Josh Richter used tongue that time he kissed me in front of the school, and he was certainly never

in love with

me!!!!!

This is very upsetting. Seriously. I realize it is the middle of the night and I should be at least trying to

sleep since tomorrow

I have to go cut the ribbon at the new children's wing of the Prince Philippe Memorial Hospital.

But how can I sleep when my boyfriend - the first real boyfriend I have ever had, since my last boyfriend,

Kenny, doesn't count, seeing as how I didn't actually like him as more than just a friend — could be in

Florida, loving me as a friend, and,

at this very minute, actually falling in love with some girl named Tiffany?

Why am I so stupid? Why didn't I demand that Michael specify when he said he loved me? Why didn't I

go,

'Love me how? Like a friend? Or like a life partner?'

I am so retarded.

And even if he managed to find the phone number of the palace somehow (and if anyone could, it would

be Michael,

since he once figured out a way to program his computer to autodial the
700 Club's
toll-free donation

hotline every two seconds, thus costing Pat Robertson a quarter of a million dollars in a single weekend

and causing him to yank the toll-free number off the air, which, in the world of computer hacking, is

practically like winning a Nobel Prize) I am sure the palace operator wouldn't even put the call through.

Apparently, I get something like seven hundred calls a day, none of which are

from people I actually know. No, they're all from creepy paedophiles who would like to receive an

autographed photo of

me, or from girls who want to know what it was like when I met Prince William (he is a very cute guy

and everything, but

my heart fully belongs to another). I am never going to be able to sleep now. I mean, how can I, knowing

that the man I

love could conceivably think of me only as a friend he likes to French kiss?

There is just one thing I can do: I have to call the only person I know who might be able to help me. And

it is OK to call

her because:

1. it is only six o'clock where she is, and

2. she got her own mobile phone for Christmas, so even though right now she is skiing in Aspen, I can

still reach her,

even if she is on a ski lift or whatever.

Thank God I have my own phone in my room. Even if I do have to dial nine to get a line outside of the

palace.

Friday, January 8, 3 a.m

Royal Genovian Bedchamber

Tina answered on the very first ring! She totally wasn't on a ski lift. She sprained her ankle on a slope

yesterday. Oh,

thank you, God, for causing Tina to sprain her ankle, so that she could be there for me in my hour of

need.

And it is OK because she says it only hurts when she moves.

Tina was in her room at the ski lodge, watching the Lifetime Movie Channel when I called
(Co-Ed Call

Girl,
in which

Tori Spelling portrays a young woman struggling to pay for her college education with money earned

working as an escort - based on a true story).

At first it was very difficult to get Tina to focus on the situation at hand. All she wanted to know about

was what Prince

William was like. I tried to explain to her that, beyond commenting that it was hot on the Cote d'Azur for

December, Prince William and I hardly spoke to one another; I because my heart, of course, belongs to

another, and he because apparently

he found my treatise on the plight of the giant sea turtle less than scintillating.

This was extremely disappointing to Tina.

'The least you could have done,' she said, 'was get his email address. I mean, even Britney Spears has

that, and she's not

even royalty.'

Ever since she started going out with him, Tina's boyfriend, Dave Farouq El-Abar, has shied away from

commitment, saying that a man can't let himself get tied down before the age of sixteen. So, even though

Tina claims Dave is her Romeo in cargo pants, she has been keeping her eyes open for a nice boy willing

to make a commitment.

Although I think Prince William is too old for her. I suggested she try for Will's little brother Harry, who is

actually very cute

as well, but Tina said then she'd never get to be queen, a sentiment I guess I can understand, although

believe me, being

royal loses a lot of its glamour once it actually happens to you.

'Look,' I said. "I'm sorry, OK? But I had other things on my mind. Like for instance that there is a distinct

possibility