I rolled my eyes. My dad always wants the scoop on what’s going on with Mom and Mr. Gianini. Which is sort of hilarious, because there’s never actually anything going on with them. Unless you mean their fights over what to watch at breakfast, CNN (Mr. G) or MTV (Mom). Mom can’t stand politics first thing in the morning. She prefers Panic! At the Disco.

“It isn’t just the sheets, Phillipe,” Grandmère was going on. “Do you realize the televisions in the rooms of this hotel are onlytwenty-seven inches wide?”

“You say there’s nothing on American television but filth and violence,” my dad said, staring at his mother in astonishment.

“Well, yes,” Grandmère said. “There is. Except forJudge Judy .”

“It’s just…everything,” I said, ignoring Grandmère. Because Dad was now ignoring her, too. “It’s only two days into the semester, and it’s already my worst one ever. Ms. Martinez stuck me in Intro to Creative Writing. Intro stands for INTRODUCTION. I don’t need to be introduced to creative writing. I eat, sleep, and breathe creative writing. And don’t even get me started on Chemistry and Precalculus. But the worst is…well, it’s Michael.”

Dad didn’t look surprised to hear this. In fact, he looked pleased.

“Well, now, Mia, I hate to tell you this but…I suspected this might be coming. Michael’s in college now, and you’re still in high school, and you have to spend a lot of time on your royal duties and in Genovia, and you can’t expect a young man in his prime to simply wait around for you. It’s natural that Michael might find a young lady closer to his own age who actually has the time to spend doing the kinds of things college-age kids do—things that are simply not appropriate for a high-school aged princess to take part in.”

“Dad.” I blinked at him. “Michael didn’t break up with me. At least if that’s what you meant by that speech you just gave me.”

“He didn’t?” Dad stopped looking so pleased. “Oh. Well, whatdid he do then?”

“He—well, remember when you flew back to Genovia with me and we watchedThe Lord of the Rings during the flight?”

“Yes.” Dad raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me Michael’s come into possession of the One Ring?”

“No,” I said. I couldn’t believe he was trying to make a joke out of it. “But he’s trying to prove himself to the elf king, like Aragorn.”

“Who’s the elf king?” Dad wanted to know, like he genuinely didn’t know.

“Dad. YOU’RE the elf king.”

“Really?” Dad adjusted his tie, looking pleased again. Then he stopped. “Wait…my ears aren’t pointy. Are they?”

“I meant FIGURATIVELY, Dad,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Michael feels like he has to prove himself in order to be with your daughter. Just like Aragorn felt he had to prove himself to win the elf king’s approval to be with Arwen.”

“Well,” Dad said. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Only how exactly does he plan on doing it? Winning my approval, I mean? Because, I’m sorry, but leading an army of the dead to defeat the Orcs isn’t really going to cut the mustard with me.”

“Michael isn’t leading an army of the dead anywhere. He’s invented a robotic surgical arm that will allow surgeons to do heart surgery without opening up the chest,” I said.

That wiped the smirk clean off Dad’s face.

“Really?” he asked in a totally different tone. “Michael did that?”

“Well, he has a prototype for it,” I explained. “And some Japanese company is flying him out there so he can help them to build a working model. Or something. The thing is, it’s going to take a YEAR! Michael is going to be in Tsukuba for a YEAR! Or more!”

“A year,” Dad repeated. “Or more. Well. That’s a very long time.”

“Yes, it’s a very long time,” I said dramatically. “And while he’s thousands of miles away, inventing cool stuff, I’m going to be stuck in stupid Intro to Creative Writing and eleventh-grade Chem, which I’m already flunking, not to mention Precalc, which, once again, I don’t even know why I have to learn, since we’ve got all those accountants….”

“Now, now,” Dad said. “Everyone has to learn calculus in order to be a well-rounded individual.”

“You know what would make me a well-rounded individual, and you a celebrated philanthropist and possibly even be namedTime magazine’s Person of the Year?” I asked. “Well, I’ll tell you: if you founded your own robotics lab right here in New York City that Michael could build his robotic arm thingie in!”

My dad got a good laugh out of that one.

Which was nice. Except that I wasn’t joking.

“I’m serious, Dad,” I said. “I mean, why not? It’s not like you don’t have the money.”

“Mia,” my dad said, sobering. “I don’t know anything about robotics labs.”

“But Michael does,” I said. “He could tell you what he’d need. And then you could just, you know. Pay for it. And you’d totally get credit when Michael successfully completes his robotic arm thingie. They’d put you onLarry King , I’ll bet. Who cares aboutVogue …think of how much Genovia would be in the pressthen. It would do WONDERS for tourism. Which you must admit has been on the wane since the dollar tanked.”

“Mia,” Dad said, shaking his head. “It’s out of the question. I’m very pleased for Michael—I always thought he had potential. But I am not going to spend millions of dollars building some robotics laboratory so you can fritter away eleventh grade necking with your boyfriend instead of passing Precalculus.”

I glared at him. “Nobody calls it necking anymore, Dad.”

Well, I had to say SOMETHING. Also…fritter?

“Excuse me.” Grandmère stomped over until she stood in the middle of the room and could glare at both of us at the same time. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your very important discussion of THAT BOY. But I’m wondering if the two of you have noticed something about this room. Something that is very obviously MISSING.”

Dad and I looked around. Grandmère’s 1,530-square-foot penthouse suite came complete with two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms—each of which contained a marble soaking tub with separate stall shower—two 12-inch flat-screen televisions (and those were just the TVs in thebathrooms ), exclusive Frédéric Fekkai and Côté Bastide bath amenities, Floris shaving kit and Frette candles, living room, dining room with seating for eight, separate pantry, library of books, DVD player, stereo, in-room selection of compact discs and DVDs, multiline cordless telephone with voice mail and data line capabilities, high-speed Internet access, and a floor-model telescope so she could look out at the stars or across the park into Woody Allen’s apartment.

There was nothing Grandmère’s suite didn’t have. NOTHING.

“AN ASHTRAY!” Grandmère shouted. “THIS IS A NONSMOKING SUITE!!!”

Dad looked up at the ceiling. Then he sighed. Then he said, “Mia. If Michael, as you say, is intent on proving himself worthy of you to me, then he wouldn’t want my help anyway. I’m sorry you’re going to have to be separated from him for a year, but I think buckling down and concentrating exclusively on your studies might not be such a bad thing. Mother.” He looked at Grandmère. “You are impossible. But I will get you a suite at another hotel. Let me make a few phone calls,” he said and walked into the dining room to do so.

Grandmère, looking very self-satisfied, opened her purse, plucked out the key card to her suite, and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.

“Well,” she said. “What a shame. Looks like I’ll be moving. Again.”

“Grandmère,” I said. She was making me SO MAD. “Do you know there are people who are still living in TENTS and FEMA TRAILERS because of all the hurricanes and tsunamis and earthquakes there’ve been in various parts of the world? And you’re complaining that you can’t SMOKE in your room? There is nothing wrong with this suite. It’s totally beautiful. It’s every bit as nice as your suite back at the Plaza. You’re just being ridiculous, because you don’t like change.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Grandmère said with a sigh, as she sat down in one of the brocade-covered armchairs across from the couch I was sitting on. “But I believe my folly might be to your advantage.”

“Oh?” I was barely listening to her. I couldn’t believe how quickly my dad had shot down my Build Your Own Lab idea. I really thought it had been a good one. I mean, I know I only came up with it on the spur of the moment. But it seemed like something he might go for. He’s always building hospital wings over in Genovia, and then naming them after himself. I think the Prince Phillipe Renaldo Surgical Robotic Systems Lab has a nice ring to it.

“The suite is paid for through the end of the week,” Grandmère said, leaning over to tap on the key card she’d left on the table. “I won’t be staying here, of course. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t feel free to use it, if you like.”

“What am I going to do with a suite at the Ritz, Grandmère?” I demanded. “It might have escaped your notice, because you’re so preoccupied with your own quote suffering unquote. But I am hardly going to be hosting any slumber parties this week. I am in a full-on life crisis.”

Grandmère’s gaze hardened on me. “Sometimes,” she said, “I cannot believe that you and I are related by blood.”

“Welcome to my world,” I said.

“Well, the rooms are yours,” Grandmère said, sliding the key card closer to me. “To do with whatever it is you wish. Personally, if I still lived with my parents, and my paramour was leaving on a yearlong quest to prove himself to MY father, I’d use the rooms to stage a very private and very romantic good-bye. But that’s just me. I’ve always been a very passionate woman, very in touch with my emotions. I’ve often noticed that I—”

Blah, blah, blah. Grandmère’s voice went on and on. And on. Dad came back into the room and told her he’d gotten her a suite at the Four Seasons, so then she rang for her maid and made her start packing for the third time this week alone.

And that was my princess lesson for the day.

Good thing I’m not paying for them, because the quality has really started going downhill.

I think I’m hallucinating from being dehydrated, or something. I have all the symptoms:

Extreme thirst

Dry mouth with no saliva

Dry eyes; no tears

Decreased urination, or urinating 3 or fewer times in 24 hours

Arms and legs that may feel cool to the touch

Feeling very tired, restless, or irritable

Light-headedness that is relieved by lying down

Of course, I generally experience all of these symptoms after spending any amount of time with Grandmère.

Still, I’m drinking all the bottled water in the limo, just to be on the safe side.

Wednesday, September 8, the loft

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—