Bridge is WAY higher than the Pont des Vierges.

Of course you know what this means - this whole thing with Tina and Dave, I mean. It means that I can't cancel my date

with Michael. No way, no how. I don't care if Monaco starts lobbing SCUD missiles at the Genovian House of Parliament:

I am not going to that black-and-white ball. Grandmere and the Contessa Trevanni are just going to have to learn how to

live with disappointment.

Because when it comes to our men, we Renaldo women don't mess around. We play for keeps. And we have the battle

scars to prove it.

Homework:

Algebra: probs at beginning of Ch 11, PLUS ??? Don't know, thanks to Grandmere

English: update journal (How I Spent My Winter Break -500 words) PLUS ??? Don't know, thanks to Grandmere

Biology: Read Chapter 13, PLUS ??? Don't know, thanks to Grandmere

Health and Safety: Chapter 1: You and Your Environment PLUS ??? Don't know, thanks to Grandmere

G & T: Figure out secret talent

French: Chapitre Dix PLUS Don't know, due to skipping!!!!

World Civ.: Chapter 13: Brave New World; bring in current event illustrating how technology can cost society











Wednesday, January 20,

limo on the Way Home from Grandmere's





I don't believe this.

Apparently it is not enough that Grandmere has to disrupt my entire school day with her spur-of-the-moment illicit

shopping trips. Oh, no. Apparently she won't be satisfied until she has destroyed my love life, too.

That's right, DESTROYED my love life.

It is clear to me now that this has been her goal all along. The simple fact of the matter is, Grandmere can't stand Michael.

Not, of course, because he's ever done anything to her. Never done anything to her except make her granddaughter

superbly, sublimely happy.

No, Grandmere doesn't like Michael because Michael is not royal.

How do I know this? Well, it became pretty obvious when I walked into her suite for my princess lesson today, and who should just be coming in from his tennis lesson at the New York Health and Racquet Club, swinging his racquet and looking

all Andre Agassi-ish? Oh, only Prince Rene.

'What are YOU doing here?' I demanded, in a manner that Grandmere later reproved me for (she said my question was unladylike in its accusatory tone, as if I suspected Rene of something underhanded, which, of course, I did, as he has

never shown any marked interest in the plight of Genovia's sea turtles and dolphins, which will soon be endangered, if

we don't stop jet-setters like Rene from recklessly polluting their habitat).

'Enjoying your beautiful city,' was how Rene replied. And then he excused himself to go shower, as he was smelling a

bit ripe from the court.

'Really, Amelia,' Grandmere said, disapprovingly. 'Is that any way to greet your cousin?'

'Why isn't he back in school?' I wanted to know.

'For your information,' Grandmere said, 'he happens to be on a break.'

'Still?' This sounds pretty suspicious to me. I mean, what kind of business college - even a French one - has a Christmas

break that goes on practically into February?

'European schools,' was Grandmere's explanation for this, 'traditionally have a longer winter holiday than American ones,

so that their pupils can make full use of the ski season.'

'I didn't see any skis on him,' I pointed out, craftily.

'Pfuit!' was all Grandmere had to say about it, however. 'Rene has never been to Manhattan. Of course I invited him along.

He wants to experience the city that never sleeps.'

Well, I guess I can see that. I mean, New York is the greatest city in the world, after all. Why, just the other day, a construction worker down on Forty-Second Street found a twenty-pound rat! That's a rat that's only five pounds lighter

than my cat! You won't be finding any twenty-pound rats in Paris or Hong Kong, that's for darn sure.

So, anyway, we were going along, doing the princess lesson thing - you know, Grandmere was instructing me about all the personages I was going to meet at this black-and-white ball, including this year's crop of debutantes, the daughters of

socialites and other so-called American royalty, who were 'coming out' to Society with a capital S, and looking for husbands (even though what they should be looking for, if you ask me, is a good undergraduate programme, and maybe a part-time job teaching illiterate homeless people to read - but that's just me) when all of a sudden it occurred to me - the solution to my problem:

Why couldn't Michael be my escort to the Contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball?

OK, granted, it was no Star Wars. And yeah, he'd have to get his hands on a tux and all. But at least we would be together.

At least I could still give him his birthday present somewhere outside of the cinderblock walls of Albert Einstein High. At least

I wouldn't have to cancel altogether. At least the state of diplomatic affairs between Genovia and Monaco would remain at DEFCON 5.

But how, I wondered, was I ever going to get Grandmere to go along with it? I mean, she hadn't said anything about the contessa letting me bring a date.

Still, what about all those debutantes? Weren't they bringing dates? Wasn't that what West Point Military Academy was for? Providing dates for debutante balls? And if those girls could bring dates, and they weren't even princesses, why couldn't I?

How I was going to get Grandmere to let me bring Michael to the black-and-white ball, after all of our long discussions about how you mustn't let the object of your affection even know that you like him, was going to be a major obstacle. I decided I would have to exercise some of the diplomatic tact Grandmere had taken so much trouble to teach me.

'And please, whatever else you do, Amelia,' Grandmere was saying, as she sat there running a metal comb through Rommel's sparse - and getting sparser - fur, as the royal Genovian vet had instructed, 'do not stare too long at the contessa's facelift. I know it will be difficult - it looks as if the surgeon botched it horribly. But actually, it's exactly the way Elena wanted it to look. Apparently she has always fancied resembling an anteater—'

'Listen, about this dance, Grandmere,' I started in, all subtly. 'Do you think the contessa would mind if I, you know, brought someone?'

Grandmere looked at me confusedly over Rommel's pink, trembling body. 'What do you mean? Amelia, I highly doubt your mother would have a very nice time at the contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball. For one thing, there won't be any other hippy radicals there . . .'

'Not my mom,' I said, realizing that perhaps I had been a little too subtle. 'I was thinking more, you know, of an escort.'

'But you already have an escort.' Grandmere adjusted Rommel's diamond-chip-encrusted collar.

'I do?' I did not recall asking anyone to scrounge up a West Pointer for me.

'Of course you do,' Grandmere said, still not, I noticed, meeting my gaze. 'Prince Rene has very generously offered to serve as your escort to the ball. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. About the contessa's taste in clothes. I think you've learned enough by now to know that you aren't to comment - at least to her face - on what your hostess happens to be wearing. But I think it necessary to warn you that the contessa has a tendency to wear clothes that are somewhat young on her, and that reveal—'

'Rene is going to be my escort?' I stood up, nearly knocking Grandmere's maid, who'd come to refresh her mistress's

Sidecar, off her feet as I did so. 'Rene is taking me to the black-and-white ball?'

'Well, yes,' Grandmere said, looking blandly innocent — a little too blandly innocent, if you asked me. 'He is, after all, a stranger to the city — to this country, as a matter of fact. I would think that you, Amelia, would be only too happy to make

him feel welcome and wanted . . .'

I narrowed my eyes at her. 'What is going on here?' I demanded. 'Grandmere, are you trying to fix up Prince Rene and me?'

'Certainly not,' Grandmere said, looking genuinely appalled by the suggestion. But then, I'd been fooled by Grandmere's expressions before. Especially the one she puts on when she wants you to think that she is just a helpless old lady. 'Your imagination most definitely conies from your mother's side of the family. Your father was never as fanciful as you are, Amelia, for which I can only thank God. He'd have driven me to an early grave, I'm convinced of it, if he'd been half as capricious as you tend to be, young lady.'

'Well, what else am I supposed to think?' I asked, feeling a little sheepish over my outburst. After all, the idea that Grandmere might, even though I am only fourteen, be trying to fix me up with some prince that she wants me to marry is a little outlandish.

I mean, even for Grandmere. Still, if it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck ... 'I mean, first that thing with making us dance together

'For a magazine pictorial,' Grandmere sniffed.

'. . . and then your not liking Michael. . .'

'I never said I didn't like him. I think he is a perfectly charming boy. I just want you to be realistic about the fact that you, Amelia, are not like other girls. You are a princess, and have the good of your country to think of.'

'... and then Rene showing up like this, and your announcing that he's taking me to the black-and-white ball...'

'Is it wrong of me to want to see the poor boy have a nice time while he is here? He has suffered so many hardships, losing

his ancestral home, not to mention his own principality.'

'Grandmere,' I said. 'Rene's principality got absorbed into Italy, like, three hundred years ago. He wasn't even alive when it happened.'

'A man without a country,' Grandmere said, 'is like a man without a soul.'

Great. And this is my date for the Contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball. A man without a soul. What next, I ask you? Brunch with Count Dracula?

And what am I supposed to do now? About Michael, I mean? I can't bring both him and Prince Rene to the ball. I mean,

I look weird enough, with my half-grown-out hair and my androgyny (although judging by Grandmere's description of her,

the contessa might look even weirder than I do) without hauling two dates and a bodyguard around with me.

This new year is not turning out to be very propitious for any of us. I mean, first Tina sprains her ankle, then loses her one

true love; then I get saddled with Prince Rene, a black-and-white ball, and the realization that I am one hundred percent not talented at anything . . . well, except for maybe one thing, only I don't know what it is, and the person who does know won't tell me because I am supposed to figure it out on my own.

But I can't even figure out how to explain to my boyfriend that I can't make our very first date with one another. How am I supposed to figure out what my secret talent is?????








Wednesday, January 20,

The Loft




Well, my mom getting hold of my dad was a washout. Apparently the whole parking fees debate has gotten way out of

control. The Minister of Tourism is conducting a filibuster, and there can't be a vote until he stops talking and sits down. So

far he's been talking for twelve hours, forty-eight minutes. I don't know why my dad doesn't just have him arrested and put

in the dungeon. According to my mom, that would be a violation of the minister's right to free speech. But what about my

dad's right to take phone calls from the mother of his only child? Who is safeguarding that right, I would like to know?

I am really starting to be afraid that I am not going to be able to get out of this ball thingy.

'You better let Michael know,' my mom just poked her head in to say, helpfully, 'that you won't be able to make it Friday.

Hey, are you writing in your journal again? Aren't you supposed to be doing your homework?'

Trying to change the subject from my homework (hello, I am totally doing it, I am just taking a break right now), I went,

'Mom, I am not saying anything to Michael until we've heard from Dad. Because there's no point in my running the risk of Michael breaking up with me if Dad's just going to turn around and say I don't have to go to the stupid ball.'