Meg Cabot - Princess in the Spotlight

     “A princess,” Grandmère said, closing the door to her suite behind her, “never leaves her guests unattended.”

     “Okay,” I said.

     “So what are you two doing here?” Grandmère glared at my dad and me.

     “We were, um, just checking on you,” I explained.

     “I see.” Then Grandmère did a surprising thing. She slipped her hand through the crook of my elbow. Then, without looking at my dad, she said, “Come along.”

     I saw my dad roll his eyes at this blatant dis.

     But he didn’t look scared, the wayI would have been.

     “Hold on, Grandmère,” I said.

     Then I slipped my hand through the crook of my dad’s elbow, so the three of us were standing in the hallway, linked by . . .well, by me.

     Grandmère just sniffed and didn’t say anything. But my dad smiled.

     And you know what? I’m not sure, but I think it might have been a profound moment for all of us.

     Well, all right. At least forme, anyway.

Saturday, November 1, 2 p.m.

     The evening wasn’t a total bust.

     Quite a few people seemed to have a very good time. Hank, for one. He actually showed up just in time for dinner—he’d always been good at that—looking totally gorgeous in an Armani tux.

     Mamaw and Papaw were delighted to see him. Mrs. Gianini, Mr. Gianini’s mom, took quite a shine to him, too. It must have been his clean-cut good manners. He hadn’t forgotten any of Lilly’s elocution lessons, and only mentioned his affection for ‘muddin’ on the weekends once. And later, when the dancing started, he asked Grandmère for the second waltz—Dad got the first—forever cementing him in her mind as the ideal royal consort for me.

     Thank God first-cousin marriages were made illegal in Genovia in 1907.

     But the happiest people I talked to all evening weren’t actually at the party. No, at around ten o’clock, Lars handed me his cell phone, and when I said, “Hello?” wondering who it could be, my mom’s voice, sounding very far away and crackly, went, “Mia?”

     I didn’t want to say the word ‘Mom’ too loudly, since I knew Grandmère was hovering nearby. And I don’t think it likely that Grandmère is going to forgive my parents anytime soon for the fast one they pulled. I ducked behind a pillar and whispered, “Hey, Mom! Mr. Gianini make an honest woman out of you yet?”

     Well, he had. The deed was done (a little late, if you ask me, but hey, at least the kid won’t be born harboring the stigma of illegitimacy like I’ve had to all my life). It was only like six o’clock where they were, and they were on a beach somewhere sipping (virgin) piña coladas. I made my mom promise not to have any more, because you can’t trust the ice at those places.

     “Parasites can exist in ice, Mom,” I informed her. “There are these worms that live in the glaciers in Antarctica, you know. We studied them in Bio. They’ve been around for thousands of years. So even if the water’s frozen, you can still get sick from it. You definitely only want to get ice made from bottled water. Here, why don’t you put Mr. Gianini on the phone, and I’ll tell him exactly what he has to do—“

     My mom interrupted me.

     “Mia,” she said. “How are—“ She cleared her throat. “How’s my mother taking it?”

     “Mamaw?” I looked in Mamaw’s direction. The truth was, Mamaw was having the time of her life. She was thoroughly enjoying her gig as mother of the bride. So far, she’d gotten to dance with Prince Albert, who was there representing the royal family of Monaco, and Prince Andrew, who didn’t seem to be missing Fergie one bit, if you asked me.

     “Um,” I said. “Mamaw’s . . .really mad at you.”

     It was a lie, of course, but it was a lie I knew would make my mother happy. One of her favorite things to do is make her parents mad.

     “Really, Mia?” she asked, breathlessly.

     “Uh-huh,” I said, watching as Papaw twirled Mamaw around practically into the champagne fountain. “They’ll probably never speak to you again.”

     “Oh,” Mom said happily. “Isn’t that too bad?”

     Sometimes my natural ability to lie actually comes in handy.

     But unfortunately, right then our connection broke up. Well, at least Mom had heard my warning about the ice worms before we lost contact.

      As for me, well, I can’t say I had the time of my life—I mean, the only person even close to my age was Hank, and he was way too busy dancing with Gisele to talk to me.

     Thankfully, around eleven, my dad was like, “Uh, Mia, isn’t it Halloween?”

     I said, “Yeah, Dad.”

     “Don’t you have someplace you’d rather be?”

     You know, I hadn’t forgotten the wholeRocky Horror thing, but I figured Grandmère needed me. Sometimes family things are more important than friend things—even romance things.

     But as soon as I heard that, I was like, “Um, yes.”

     The movie started at midnight down at the Village Cinema—about fifty blocks away. If I hurried, I could make it. Well, Lars and I could make it.

     There was only one problem. We had no costumes: On Halloween, they don’t let you into the theater if you come in street clothes.

     “What do you mean, you don’t have a costume?” Martha Stewart had overheard our conversation.

     I held out the skirt of my dress. “Well,” I said, dubiously. “I guess I could pass for Glinda the Good Witch. Only I don’t have a wand. No crown, either.”

     I don’t know if Martha had too many champagne cocktails, or if she’s just like this, but next thing I knew, she was whipping me up a wand from a bunch of crystal drink stirrers that she tied together with some ivy from the centerpiece. Then she fashioned this big crown for me out of some menus and a glue gun she had in her purse.

     And you know what? It looked good, just like the one inThe Wizard of Oz! (She turned the writing so it was on the inside of the crown.)

     “There,” Martha said, when she was through. “Glinda the Good Witch.” She looked at Lars. “And you’re easy. You’re James Bond.”

     Lars seemed pleased. You could tell he’d always fantasized about being a secret agent.

     No one was more pleased than me, however. My fantasy of Michael seeing me in this gorgeous dress was about to be realized. What’s more, the outfit was going to give me the confidence I needed to confront him about Jo-C-rox.

     So, with my father’s blessings—I would have stopped to say good-bye to Grandmère, only she and Gerald Ford were doing the tango out on the dance floor (no, I am not kidding)—I was out of there like a shot—

     And stumbled right into a thorny patch of reporters.

     “Princess Mia!” they yelled. “Princess Mia, what are your feelings about your mother’s elopement?”

     I was about to let Lars hustle me into the limo without saying anything to the reporters. But then I had an idea. I grabbed the nearest microphone and said, “I just want to say to anyone who is watching that Albert Einstein High School is the best school in Manhattan, maybe even North America, and that we have the most excellent faculty and the best student population in the world, and anyone who doesn’t recognize that is just kidding himself, Mr. Taylor.”

     (Mr. Taylor is Shameeka’s dad.)

     Then I shoved the microphone back at its owner, and hopped into the limo.

     We almost didn’t make it. First of all, because of the parade, the traffic downtown was criminal. Secondly, there was a line to get into the Village Cinema that wound all the way around the block! I had the limo driver cruise the length of it, while Lars and I scanned the assorted hordes. It was pretty hard to recognize my friends, because everyone was in costume.

     But then I saw this group of really weird-looking people dressed in WWII Army fatigues. They were all covered in fake blood, and some of them had phony stumps in place of limbs. They were holding a big sign that saidLooking for Private Ryan. Standing next to them was a girl wearing a black lacy slip and a fake beard. And standing next to her was a boy dressed as a Mafioso type, holding a violin case.

     The violin case was what did it.

     “Stop the car!” I shrieked.

     The limo pulled over, and Lars and I got out. The girl in the nightie went, “Oh, my God! You came! You came!”

     It was Lilly. And standing next to her, a big pile of bloody intestines coming out of his Army jacket, was her brother, Michael.

     “Quick,” he said, to Lars and me. “Get in line. I got two extra tickets just in case you ended up making it after all.”

     There was some grumbling from the people behind us as Lars and I cut in, but all he had to do was turn so that his shoulder holster showed, and they got quiet pretty quick. Lars’s Glock, being real and all, was pretty scary-looking.

     “Where’s Hank?” Lilly wanted to know.

     “He couldn’t make it,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her why. You know, that last time I’d seen him, he’d been dancing with Gisele. I didn’t want Lilly to think Hank preferred supermodels to, you know, us.

     “He cannot come. Good,” Boris said, firmly.

     Lilly shot him a warning look, then, pointing at me, demanded, “What are you supposed to be?”

     “Duh,” I said. “I’m Glinda the Good Witch.”

     “I knew that,” Michael said. “You look really . . .You look really . . .”

     He seemed unable to go on. I must, I realized, with a sinking heart, look really stupid.

     “You are way too glam for Halloween,” Lilly declared.

     Glam? Well, glam was better than stupid, I guess. But why couldn’t Michael have said so?

     I eyed her. “Um,” I said. “What, exactly, are you?”

     She fingered the straps to her slip, then fluffed out her fake beard.

     “Hello,” she said, in a very sarcastic voice. “I’m a Freudian slip.”

     Boris indicated his violin case. “And I am Al Capone,” he said. “Chicago gangster.”

     “Good for you, Boris,” I said, noticing he was wearing a sweater, and yes, it was tucked into his pants. He can’t help being totally foreign, I guess.

     Someone tugged on my skirt. I looked around, and there was Kenny, my Bio partner. He was in Army fatigues, too, and missing an arm.

     “You made it!” he cried.