Princess In Training (11 page)

I had one thing I wanted to say to one constituent. And that was, “LILLY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

That was when Grandmère sprang into action. She hurried up and draped an arm around my shoulder and went, “Your dear friend Lilly and I were just chatting with these nice reporters about your campaign for student council president, Amelia. But what they’d really like is a statement from you. Why don’t you be a darling and give them one?”

The minute Grandmère calls you darling, you know something is up. But, of course, I already knew something was up, because Lilly was there. How had she even gotten to the Plaza so fast? She must have taken the subway, while I’d been tied up in traffic in the limo.

“Yes, Princess,” Lilly said, reaching out to take my hand, then pulling me—none too gently—down onto the settee beside her. “Tell the nice reporters about all the reforms you’re planning to make at AEHS.”

I leaned over, pretending I was reaching for a watercress sandwich from the tray Grandmère’s maid had set out for the reporters, who are always hungry, and not just for a story. But then, as I grabbed one of the dainty little sandwiches, I hissed in Lilly’s ear, “Now you’ve gone too far.”

But Lilly just smiled blandly at me and said, “I think the princess would like some tea, Your Highness,” to which Grandmère replied, “But, of course. Antoine! Tea for the princess!”

The press conference went on for an hour, with reporters from all over the country peppering me with questions about my campaign platform. I was just thinking that it must be a REALLY slow news day if my running for student council president qualified as a decent story, when one of the reporters asked me a question that shed a little light on just why Grandmère was so keen on my making an ass of myself in front of Middle America, and not just my fellow AEHS students.

“Princess Mia,” a journalist from the Indianapolis Star asked. “Isn’t it true that the only reason you’re running for student council president—and the only reason we were invited here today—is that your family is trying to distract the news media from the real story currently hitting headlines in Europe—your act of ecoterrorism, concerning the dumping of ten thousand snails into the Bay of Genovia?”

Suddenly, two dozen microphones were shoved into my face. I blinked a few times, then went, “But that wasn’t an act of ecoterrorism. I did that to save the—”

Then Grandmère was clapping her hands and going, “Who wants a nice glass of grappa? Come now, real Genovian grappa. No one can resist that!”

But none of the reporters were falling for it.

“Princess Mia, would you like to comment on the fact that Genovia is currently being considered for expulsion from the EU, thanks to your selfish act?”

Another one cried, “How does it feel, Your Highness, to know that you’re single-handedly responsible for destroying your own nation’s economy?”

“Wh…What?” I couldn’t believe it. What were these reporters talking about?

For once, Lilly came to my rescue.

“People!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “If you don’t have any more questions about Mia’s campaign for school president, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave!”

“Cover-up!” someone yelled. “That’s all this is! A cover-up to keep us from the real story!”

“Princess Mia, Princess Mia,” someone else called, as Lars began herding—or, to put it more accurately, bodily removing—all of the reporters from the suite. “Are you a member of ELF, the Earth Liberation Front? Do you want to make a statement on behalf of other ecoterrorists like yourself?”

“Well,” Grandmère said, downing half a Sidecar in one gulp as Lars finally closed the doors on the last of the reporters. “That went well, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t believe it. I just sat there in total shock. Ecoterrorism? ELF? All because of some SNAILS????

Lilly picked up her Palm Pilot (when did she get one of those???) and strolled over to where Grandmère was standing.

“Right. So we’ve got Time magazine at six, and Newsweek at six thirty,” Lilly said. “I heard from NPR, and I definitely think we should squeeze them in this evening—drive time, you know. It can’t hurt. And we got a request from New York One for Mia to go on tonight’s broadcast of Inside Politics. I’ve gotten them to swear there won’t be any questions about the E word. What do you think?”

“Marvelous,” Grandmère said, taking another swig from her Sidecar. “What about Larry King?”

Lilly tapped the headset she’d slipped on and said, “Antoine? Have you gotten hold of Larry K yet? No? Well, get on it.”

Larry K? The E word? What was HAPPENING?

Which is exactly what I wailed.

Grandmère and Lilly looked at me as if only just realizing I was there at all.

“Oh,” Lilly said, taking off the headset. “Mia. Right. The ELF thing? Don’t worry about it. Par for the course.”

PAR FOR THE COURSE???? Since when has Lilly known anything about golf?

“We didn’t want to trouble you, Amelia,” Grandmère said coolly, as she lit a cigarette. “It’s nothing, really. Tell me, is that really how you’re wearing your hair these days? Wouldn’t you like it better if it were a little…shorter?”

“What is going on?” I demanded, ignoring her hair question. “Is Genovia REALLY going to get expelled from the EU for what I did with the snails?”

Grandmère exhaled a long plume of blue smoke.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she informed me, casually.

My heart seemed to twist inside my chest. It’s true!

“Can they do that?” I demanded. “Can the European Union really kick us out because of a few snails?”

“Of course not.” This came from my dad, who’d wandered into the room, a cell phone clutched to his ear. I felt a momentary relief, until I realized he wasn’t speaking to me. He was talking into his cell phone.

“No,” he yelled at whoever was on the end of the line, as he bent to scoop up a handful of leftover sandwiches from the tray, then head back to his own suite. “She was acting entirely on her accord, not in the name of any global organization. Oh, really? Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. Maybe when you have a teenaged daughter of your own, you’ll understand.”

He slammed the door on his way out.

“Well,” Grandmère said, stubbing out her cigarette and reaching for the rest of her Sidecar. “Shall we talk about Amelia’s platform, then?”

“Excellent idea,” Lilly said, and pressed some buttons on her Palm Pilot.

So, now at least I know why GRANDMÈRE is so behind this presidency thing. It’s the only thing she can think of to keep reporters distracted from the whole Genovia being kicked out of the EU for ecoterrorism thing.

But what’s LILLY’s excuse? I mean, she’s the LAST person I ever thought Grandmère could turn to the dark side.

Et tu, Lilly?

My dad came back into the room between my Time and Newsweek interviews. He looked way stressed. I felt really bad, and apologized to him about the whole snail-dumping thing.

He seemed to take it in stride.

“Don’t worry too much about it, Mia,” he said. “We’ll probably get through this, if I can manage to impress upon everyone the fact that you were acting on your own accord as a private citizen, and not as regent.”

“And maybe,” I added, hopefully, “when people see that the snails are only doing good and not anything bad, they’ll change their minds.”

“That’s just it,” my dad said. “Your snails aren’t doing anything at all. According to the latest reports I’ve had from the Royal Genovian Naval Scuba Squad, they’re all just sitting down there. They are not, as you so passionately assured me they would, eating that damned seaweed.”

This was very disheartening to hear.

“Maybe they’re still in shock,” I said. “I mean, they were flown in from South America. They’ve probably never been that far from home before. It might take a while before they get acclimated to the new environment.”

“Mia, they’ve been down there for almost two weeks. In two weeks, you’d think they’d get a little hungry, and eat something.”

“Yeah, but maybe they had a big meal on the plane,” I said, feeling desperate. “I mean, I requested that they be kept as comfortable as possible during transport—”

My dad just looked at me.

“Mia,” he says.
“Do me a favor.
From now on, if you come up with any more grand schemes to save the bay from killer algae, run them by me first.”

Ouch.

Poor Dad. It’s really hard, being a prince.

I left right after that. But Lilly stayed. LILLY STAYED WITH MY GRANDMA. Because she still hadn’t managed to get through to Larry. Lilly told me if she could get me on Larry King, I’d be a shoo-in to beat Lana on Monday.

But I disagree. If it were TRL, maybe. But no one at AEHS watches CNN. Except Lilly, of course.

Anyway. I get why Grandmère is so into the idea of my running for student council president.

But what’s LILLY getting out of it? I mean, you would think, mad as she is about the security camera thing, SHE’D be the one running for president. What’s up with that, anyway?

Thursday, September 10, the loft

So, guess where I’m staying while my mom and Mr. G are out of town? Yeah. That’d be at the Plaza.

WITH GRANDMÈRE.

Oh, they’re getting me my own room. BELIEVE ME. No WAY am I sleeping in the same suite as Grandmère. Not after that time she stayed over at the loft. I barely slept a wink the whole time she was there, she snored so loud. I could hear her all the way out in the living room.

Not to mention that she’s a total bathroom hog.

I guess I kind of expected it. I mean, no way would Mom and Mr. G let me stay alone at the loft. Even if, like, the entire Royal Genovian Guard was positioned on the roof of our building, ready to take out any potential international princess hostage-takers. Not after what happened during my birthday party.

Not that I even care. Not now that I am responsible for making the country over which I will one day rule the most hated land in Europe. Which is pretty hard to do, considering, you know, France.

I didn’t actually think it was possible for me to get more stressed than I already was, considering that:

I think I might be flunking Geometry after only three days of it.
My best friend is making me run for student council president against the most popular girl in school, who is going to crush me like a bug in a humiliating defeat in front of the entire student body on Monday.
My English teacher—the one I was so excited about and who I was sure was going to help mold me into the kind of writer I know in my heart I have the potential to be—seems to think my prose is so bad it should never be unleashed upon the unsuspecting public. Well, more or less.
My boyfriend apparently expects me to Do It.
I’m a baby-licker.

Thank God to all of that I get to add that I had ten thousand snails flown from South America and dumped into the Bay of Genovia in the hopes that they would consume the killer algae currently destroying our delicate ecosystem, only to discover that South American snails apparently don’t like European food and that Genovia’s neighbors now want nothing to do with us. Yay!

Why can’t I do ANYTHING right?

Maybe Becca is right. Maybe I should take up yoga. Except that I tried it that one time with Lilly and her mom at the 92nd Street Y, and they made you stick your butt up in the air the whole time. How is sticking your butt up into the air supposed to make you feel less stressed? It just made me feel MORE stressed, because I kept wondering what everyone was thinking about my butt.

Ordinarily, to soothe my frazzled nerves, I might write a poem or something.

However, it is impossible for me to write poetry, knowing, as I do, that at this very moment, Karen Martinez is poring over the piece of my soul that I handed to her. I hope she is aware that she is currently holding all of my dreams of ever succeeding as a novelist—or at least a hard-hitting international journalist—in her black-nail-polished fingers. I sincerely hope she won’t squash them like a bug under Fat Louie’s massive paw.

I know, you know, that it’s pretty unlikely I’ll ever actually get to DO any writing once I take over the throne, since I’ll be too busy begging the EU to let us back into it, and all.

But I think I would have liked to see a book or even just a newspaper article with the words “by Mia Thermopolis” on it.

Now I have to go make sure my mom is up on all the plane safety regulations. I mean, it is not like they are buying a seat for Rocky. She is going to have to hold him the whole time. I hope, in the event that their plane goes down, she is prepared to use her body as a human shield to keep Rocky from being consumed in a fiery conflagration.

Also, that Mr. G knows he has to count the number of rows between his seat and the nearest emergency exit, so that in the event of a water landing and the plane sinks and the lights go out, he will still be able to lead my mom and Rocky to safety.

Thursday, September 10, the loft, later

Geesh! Talk about touchy! I don’t know why they got so mad. It’s important to know plane safety. I mean, that’s why the airline companies print those cards they stick in the back of the seats. Hello. Good thing I have been collecting them for years, so I was able to use them as illustrations for my baby-safety talk just now.

You would think people would be a little more appreciative of my proactiveness.

Someone’s IMing me…

Ooooooooooooooo, it’s Michael!

SKINNERBX: Hey! You’re home! Saw you on New York 1.

FTLOUIE: You SAW that??? OMG, how embarrassing.

SKINNERBX: No, you were good. Is that really true about the EU, though?

FTLOUIE: Apparently. My dad says it will be all right, though. He thinks. He hopes.

SKINNERBX: They should all be ashamed of themselves. Don’t they know you were just trying to correct THEIR mistake?

FTLOUIE: Totally. How was your day?

SKINNERBX: Great. Today in my Policymaking Under

Uncertainty seminar we talked about how satellite imaging has revealed that Yellowstone National Park is actually a massive caldera, or supervolcano, which is basically an underground reservoir for magma that has blown every 600,000 years, and is now about 40,000 years late for eruption. Also, that when it does blow, volcanic ash from the explosion would travel as far away as Iowa and the explosion would be 2,500 times more forceful than that of Mount St. Helens, killing tens of thousands immediately, and then millions more in the resulting nuclear winter. Unless, of course, we can figure out a way to relieve some of the pressure now and prevent what could be a global disaster.