God! Assume the worst, why don’t you, Dad.

Josh can’t dump me. He’s never even been out with me yet.

And if he doesn’t show up soon, well, all I can say is HIS LOSS. I look better than I have ever looked in my whole entire life. Old Coco Chanel really outdid herself; my dress is HOT, pale, pale blue silk, all scrunched up on top like an accordion, so my being flat-chested doesn’t even show, then straight and skinny the rest of the way down, all the way to my matching pale, pale blue silk high heels. I think I kind of resemble an icicle, but according to the ladies at Chanel, this is the look of the new millennium. Icicles arein.

The only problem is I can’t pet Fat Louie or I’ll get orange cat hair on myself. I should have got one of those masking tape roller thingies last time I was at Rite Aid, but I forgot. Anyway, he’s sitting beside me on the futon, looking all sad because I won’t pet him. I picked up all my socks, just in case he got it into his head to punish me or something by eating one.

My dad just looked at his watch and went, "Hmm. Seven-fifteen. I can’t say much for this boy’s promptness."

I tried to remain calm. "I’m sure there’s a lot of traffic," I said, in as princessy a voice as I could.

"I’m sure," my dad. He didn’t sound very sad, though. "Well, Mia, we can still make it toBeauty and the Beast, if you want to go. I’m sure I can get—"

"Dad!" I was horrified. "I am NOT going toBeauty and the Beast with you tonight."

Now he sounded sad. "But you used to loveBeauty and the Beast.  . . . "

THANK GOD the intercom just rang. It’s him. My mom just buzzed him up. The other stipulation, before my dad would let me go, is that besides Lars going, Josh has to meet both my parents—and probably submit proof of ID, though I’m not sure Dad’s thought of that yet.

I’m going to have to leave this book here, because there’s no room for it in my "clutch," which is what my skinny, flat purse is called.

Oh my God, my hands are sweating so hard! I should have listened when Grandmère suggested those elbow-length gloves—

 

 

 

Saturday Night, Ladies’ Room,

Tavern on the Green

Okay, so I lied. I brought this book anyway. I made Lars carry it. Well, it’s not like he doesn’t have room in that briefcase he carries around. I know it’s filled with silencers and grenades and stuff, but I knew he could fit one measly journal into it.

And I was right.

So I’m in the bathroom at the Tavern on the Green. The ladies’ room here isn’t as nice as the one at the Plaza. There isn’t a little stool to sit on in my stall, so I’m sitting on the toilet with the lid down. I can see a lot of fat ladies’ feet moving around outside my stall door. There are a whole lot of fat ladies here, mostly for this wedding between a very Italian-looking dark-haired girl who needs a good eyebrow waxing and a skinny redheaded boy named Fergus. Fergus gave me the old eyeball when I walked into the dining room. I am not kidding. My first married man, even if he has only been married about an hour and looks my age. This dress is the BOMB!

Dinner’s not so great as I thought it would be, though. I mean, I know from Grandmère which fork to use and all that, and to tilt my soup bowl away from me, but that’s not it.

It’s Josh.

Don’t get me wrong. He looks totally hot in his tux. He told me he owns it. Last year, he escorted his girlfriend before Lana to all the debutante events in the city, his girlfriend before Lana having been related to the guy who invented those plastic bags you put vegetables in when you go to the grocery store. Only his were the first to sayOPEN HERE so you knew which end was the one you were supposed to try to open. Those two little words earned the guy half a billion dollars, Josh says.

I don’t know why he told me this. Am I supposed to be impressed by something his ex-girlfriend’s dad did? He isn’t acting very sensitive, to tell you the truth.

Still, he was really good with my parents. He came in, gave me a corsage (tiny white roses tied together with pink ribbon, totally gorgeous; it must have cost him ten dollarsat least —I couldn’t help thinking, though, that he’d originally picked it out for another girl, with a different color dress), and shook my dad’s hand. He said, "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness," which made my mom start laughing really loud. She can be so embarrassing sometimes.

Then he turned to my mom and said, "You’re Mia’s mother? Oh my gosh, I thought you must be her college-age sister," which is a totally toolish thing to say, but my mom actually fell for it, I think. She BLUSHED as he was shaking her hand. I guess I am not the only Thermopolis woman to fall under the spell of Josh Richter’s blue eyes.

Then my dad cleared his throat and started asking Josh a whole lot of questions about what kind of car he was driving (his dad’s BMW), where we’re going (duh), and what time we would be back (in time for breakfast, Josh said). My dad didn’t like that, though, and Josh said, "What time would you like her back, sir?"

SIR! Josh Richter called my dad SIR!

And my dad looked at Lars and said, "One o’clock at the latest," which I thought was pretty decent of him, since my normal curfew is eleven on weekends. Of course, considering that Lars was going to be there, and there wasn’t anything that could actually happen to me, it was kind of bogus that I couldn’t stay out as late as I wanted, but Grandmère told me a princess should always be prepared to compromise, so I didn’t say anything.

Then my dad asked Josh some more questions, like where was he going to college in the fall (he hasn’t decided yet, but he’s applying to all the Ivy Leagues) and what does he plan on studying (business), and then my mom asked him what was wrong with a liberal arts education, and Josh said he was really looking for a degree that would guarantee him a minimum salary of eighty thousand a year, to which my mom replied that there are more important things than money, and then I said, "Gosh, look at the time," and grabbed Josh and headed out the door.

Josh and Lars and I went down to Josh’s dad’s car, and Josh held the door to the front seat open for me, and then Lars said why didn’t he drive so Josh and I could sit in the back and get to know each other. I thought this was way nice of Lars, but when Josh and I got in the back, we didn’t have a whole lot to say to each other. I mean, Josh was like, "You look really nice in that dress," and I said I liked his tux and thanked him for my corsage. And then we didn’t say anything for like twenty blocks.

I am not even kidding. I was so embarrassed! I mean, I don’t hang around with boys that much, but I’ve never had that problem with the ones I HAVE hung around with. I mean, Michael Moscovitz practically never shuts up. I couldn’t understand why Josh wasn’t SAYING anything. I thought about asking him who he’d rather spend eternity with if it was the end of the world and he had to choose, Winona Ryder or Nicole Kidman, but I didn’t feel like I knew him well enough. . . . 

But finally Josh broke the silence by asking if it was true my mom was dating Mr. Gianini. Well, I should have expectedthat to get around. Maybe not as fast as my being a princess, but it had gotten around, all right.

So I said, yes, it was true, and then Josh wanted to know what that was like.

But then for some reason I couldn’t tell him about seeing Mr. G in his underwear at my kitchen table. It just didn’t seem . . .  I don’t know. I just couldn’t tell him. Isn’t that funny? I had told Michael Moscovitz without even having been asked. But I couldn’t tell Josh, even though he had looked into my soul and everything. Weird, huh?

Then after like a zillion more blocks of silence we pulled up in front of the restaurant, and Lars surrendered the car to the valet and Josh and I went in (Lars promised he wouldn’t eat with us; he said he’d just stand by the door and look at everybody who arrived in a mean way, like Arnold Schwarzenegger), and it turned out all of Josh’s entourage was meeting us here, which I didn’t know but was kind of relieved to see. I mean, I’d sort of been dreading sitting there for another hour or so with nothing to say. . . . 

But thank God, all the guys on the crew team were at this big long table with their cheerleader girlfriends, and at the head of this table were these two empty places, one for Josh and one for me.

I have to say, everyone has been pretty nice. The girls all complimented me on my dress and asked me questions about being a princess, like how weird was it to wake up and see your picture on the front of thePost, and do you ever wear a crown, and stuff like that. They’re all much older than me—some of them are seniors—so they’re pretty mature. None of them have made any comments about how I have no chest or anything, like Lana would have if she’d been here.

But then, if Lana were here I wouldn’t be.

The thing that most surprised me is that Josh ordered champagne, and nobody even questioned his ID, which, of course, was totally fake. The table’s been through three bottles already, and Josh just keeps ordering more, since his dad gave him his platinum American Express card for the occasion. I just don’t get it. Can’t the waiters tell he’s only eighteen and that most of his guests are even younger than that?

And how can Josh sit there and drink so much? What if Lars hadn’t been here to drive? Josh would be driving his dad’s BMW half sloshed. How irresponsible can you get? And Josh is class valedictorian!

And then, without even asking me, Josh ordered dinner for the whole table: filet mignon for everyone. I guess that’s very nice and all, but I won’t eat meat, not even for the most sensitive boy in the world.

And he hasn’t even noticed I haven’t touched my food! I totally had to fill up on salad and bread rolls to keep from starving to death.

Maybe I could sneak out of here and get Lars to pick up a veggie wrap for me from Emerald Planet.

And the funny thing is, the more champagne Josh has to drink, the more he keeps on touching me. Like he keeps on putting his hand on my leg under the table. At first I thought it was a mistake, but he’s done it four times now. The last time, he squeezed!

I don’t think he’s drunk, exactly, but he’s certainly friendlier than he was in the car on the way up. Maybe he’s just feeling less inhibited, with Lars not hovering around, two feet away.

Well, I guess I should go back out there. I just wish Josh had told me we were meeting his friends. Then maybe I could have invited Tina Hakim Baba and her date—or even Lilly and Boris. Then at least I’d have someone fun to talk to.

Oh, well. Here goes nothing.

 

 

 

Later Saturday Night, Girls’ Room,

Albert Einstein High School

Why?