Princess In Training (5 page)

Thank God the phone rang again. This is pretty awesome. I’d have dumped ten thousand snails into the Bay of Genovia a long time ago if I’d had any idea doing so would get me out of having princess lessons.

Although it kind of sucks that everyone is so mad.

Geez. I knew all about the French, of course. But who knew marine biologists were so TOUCHY?

But seriously, what was I supposed to do, sit around and LET killer algae destroy the livelihoods of families who for centuries made their living off the sea? Not to mention innocent creatures such as seals and porpoises whose very survival depends on ready access to the kelp beds the Caulerpa taxifolia are totally strangling? Could anyone really imagine that I would allow an environmental disaster of those proportions to occur under my very nose, in my own bay—me, Mia Thermopolis?—when I knew of a way (albeit only theoretical) to stop it?

“That was your father,” Grandmère said after slamming down the phone. “He is extremely distraught. He just heard from the Oceanographic Museum & Aquarium in Monaco. Apparently, some of your snails have drifted over to their bay.”

“Good.” I kind of like this environmentalist rebel thing. It keeps my mind off other stuff. Like that my boyfriend is going to dump me if I don’t put out. And that I am currently running against the most popular girl in school for student council president.

“Good?” Grandmère jumped up out of her seat so fast, she totally dumped Rommel, her toy poodle, off her lap. Fortunately Rommel is used to this kind of treatment and has trained himself to land on his feet, like a cat. “Good? Amelia, I don’t pretend to understand any of this—all of this fuss over a little plant and some snails. But I would think you of all people would know that”—she picked up one of the faxes and read aloud from it—“‘When you introduce a new species into a foreign environment, total devastation can occur.’”

“Tell that to Monaco,” I said. “They’re the ones who dumped South American algae into the Mediterranean in the first place. All I did was dump South American snails in after it to clean up THEIR mess.”

“Have you learned NOTHING from what I’ve tried to teach you this past year, Amelia?” Grandmère wants to know. “Nothing of tact, or diplomacy, or even SIMPLE COMMON SENSE?”

“I GUESS NOT!!!!”

Okay, I probably shouldn’t have screamed that quite as loudly as I did. But seriously, WHEN is she going to GET OFF MY BACK????? Can’t she see I have WAY BIGGER THINGS to worry about than what a bunch of stupid FRENCH MARINE BIOLOGISTS have to say????

Now she’s giving me the evil eye. “Well?”

That’s what she said. Just “Well?”

And even though I know I’m going to regret it—how can I not?—I go, “Well…what?”

“Well, are you going to tell me what’s got you so frazzled?” she wants to know. “Don’t try denying it, Amelia. You are as bad at hiding your true feelings as your father. What happened at school today that’s got you so upset?”

Yeah. Like I’m really going to discuss my love life with Grandmère.

Although I have to say that the last time I did this—with the whole prom thing—Grandmère gave me some pretty kick-ass advice. I mean, it got me to the prom, didn’t it?

Still, how can I tell my GRANDMOTHER that I’m afraid if I don’t have sex with my boyfriend, he’s going to dump me?

“Lilly nominated me to be student council president,” I said, because I had to say SOMETHING, or she’d hound me into an early grave. She’s done it before.

“But that’s wonderful news!”

For a minute, I thought Grandmère was actually going to kiss me or something. But I totally ducked and she pretended like instead she was going to lean down and pat Rommel on the head. Which is maybe what she meant to do all along. Grandmère is not a very kissy person. At least with me. Rocky, she kisses all the time. And she is not even technically related to him.

I keep antibacterial wipes around for this very reason. To wipe Grandmère’s kisses off Rocky, I mean. There is no telling where Grandmère’s lips have been on any given day.

Anyway.

“It’s not wonderful!” I yelled at her. Why am I the only person who sees this? “I’m going to be running against Lana Weinberger! She’s the most popular girl in the whole school!”

Grandmère swirled the swizzle stick in her Sidecar.

“Really,” she said, thoughtfully. “Interesting turn of events. There’s no reason, however, that you shouldn’t be able to defeat this Shana person. You’re a princess, remember! What is she?”

“A cheerleader,” I said. “And it’s Lana, not Shana. And believe me, Grandmère, in the real world—such as high school—being a princess is NOT an advantage.”

“Nonsense,” Grandmère said. “Being a royal is ALWAYS beneficial.”

“Ha!” I said. “Tell that to Anastasia!” Who, you know, got shot for being royal.

But Grandmère was totally not paying attention to me anymore.

“A student election,” she was muttering to herself, looking far away. “Yes, that might be just the thing….”

“I’m glad you’re happy about it,” I said, not very graciously. “Because, you know, it’s not like I don’t have other things to worry about. Like I’m pretty sure I’m going to flunk Geometry. And then there’s the whole thing with dating a college boy…”

But Grandmère was totally off in her own little world.

“What day are votes cast?” Grandmère wanted to know.

“Monday.” I narrowed my eyes at her. I’d wanted to throw her off the Michael scent, but now I wasn’t so sure this had been such a good idea. She seemed WAY too into the election thing. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” Grandmère leaned over, scooped up all the snail faxes, and dropped them into the ornate gilt trash can by her desk. “Shall we proceed with your lesson for the day, Amelia? I believe a little brushing up on our public speaking techniques might be in order, given the circumstances.”

Seriously. Is it not enough I am burdened with a psychotic best friend? Must my grandmother be losing her mind AT THE EXACT SAME TIME????

Tuesday, September 8, the loft

So as if this day hasn’t been long enough, when I got home just now, it was to find utter chaos reigning. Mom was bouncing a screaming Rocky in her arms, tearfully singing “My Sharona” to him, while Mr. G sat at the kitchen table, yelling into the phone.

I could tell right away something was wrong. Rocky hates “My Sharona.” Not that I would expect a woman who took her three-month-old to a protest rally where someone ended up throwing a trash can through a Starbucks window would remember which songs he likes and doesn’t like. But the “M-m-m-my” part actually makes him spit up, if you accompany it with jiggling, as my mom was doing, and she seemed oblivious to the white stuff all over her shoulder.

“What’s going on, Mom?” I asked.

Boy, did I get an earful.

“My mother,” Mom shouted, above Rocky’s screams. “She’s threatening to come here, with Papaw. Because she hasn’t seen the baby.”

“Um,” I said. “Okay. And that’s bad because…”

My mom just looked at me with her eyes all wide and crazy.

“Because she’s my MOTHER,” she shouted. “I do not want her coming here.”

“I see,” I said, as if this made sense. “So you’re—”

“Going there,” my mom finished, as Rocky’s screaming hit new decibels.

“No,” Mr. G was saying into the phone. “Two seats. Just two seats. The third person is an infant.”

“Mom,” I said, reaching out and taking Rocky from her, careful to avoid the spit-up still spewing from his mouth like lava from freaking Krakatoa. “Do you really think that’s such a good idea? Rocky’s a bit young for his first plane ride. I mean, all that recycled air. Someone with Ebola or something could sneeze and next thing you know, the whole plane could come down with it. And what about the farm? Didn’t you hear about all those school kids who got E. coli from that petting zoo in Jersey?”

“If it will keep my parents from coming here,” Mom said, “I’m willing to risk it. Do you have any idea what kind of minibar bill they racked up the time your father put them up at the SoHo Grand?”

“Okay,” I said, between verses of “Independent Woman,” which always has a soothing effect on Rocky. He is much more into R & B than rock. “So when are we going?”

“Not you,” Mom said. “Just Frank and me. And Rocky, of course. You can’t go. You have school. Frank’s taking a vacation day.”

I knew it had sounded too good to be true. Not the potential risks to my little brother’s health but, you know, that I might get to escape to Indiana, instead of facing election hell back at school and the potential breakup with my boyfriend.

Which reminded me.

“Um, Mom,” I said, as I followed her into Rocky’s room, where she’d apparently been engaged in putting away his clean laundry before Mamaw’s blow fell. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure.” Although my mom didn’t exactly sound like she was much in the mood to talk. “What?”

“Uh…” Well, she HAD told me once that I could talk to her about ANYTHING. “How old were you the first time you had sex?”

I fully expected her to say “I was in college,” but I guess she was so busy trying to cram all of Rocky’s MY MOMMY IS MAD AS HELL AND SHE VOTES onesies into his tiny dresser, that she didn’t think about what she was saying beforehand. She just went, “Oh, God, Mia, I don’t know. I must have been, what, about fifteen?”

And then it was like she realized what she’d just said and she sucked in her breath really fast and looked at me all wide-eyed and went, “NOT THAT I’M PROUD OF IT!!!”

Because she must have remembered at the same time I did that I am fifteen.

The next thing I knew, she was blathering a mile a minute.

“It was Indiana, Mia,” she cried. “It’s not like there was so much else to do. And it was, like, twenty years ago. It was the eighties! Things were different back then!”

“Hello,” I said, because I’ve fully seen every episode of I Love the 80s, including I Love the 80s Strikes Back. “Just because people wore leg warmers all the time—”

“I don’t mean that!” Mom cried. “I mean, people actually thought George Michael was straight. And that Madonna would be a one-hit wonder. Things were DIFFERENT then.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. Except, moronically, “I can’t believe you and Dad Did It for the first time when you were FIFTEEN.”

And then, noticing my mother’s expression, I was like, “Oh, my God. That’s right!” Because she didn’t even meet Dad until she was in college. “MOM!!! Who WAS it?”

“His name was Wendell,” my mom said, her eyes going all dreamy, either because Wendell had been a total hottie, or because Rocky had finally quit crying, and was instead drooling all over the lion patch on my uniform blazer, so that for once, the loft was filled with blissful silence. “Wendell Jenkins.”

WENDELL???? The man my mom gave the precious flower of her virginity to was named WENDELL????

I seriously would NOT have sex with someone named Wendell.

But then, I am having grave reservations about having sex with anyone, so my opinion probably isn’t worth much.

“Wow,” my mom said, still looking dreamy. “I haven’t thought of Wendell in ages. I wonder whatever happened to him.”

“You don’t KNOW?” I cried, loudly enough that Rocky kind of gave a little start in my arms. But he calmed down after a quick verse of Pink’s “Trouble.”

“Well, I mean, I know he graduated,” my mom said, quickly. “And I’m pretty sure he married April Pollack, but—”

“Oh, my GOD!” This was shocking. No wonder Mom is the way she is! “He was two-timing you????”

“No, no,” my mom said. “He started going out with April after he and I broke up.”

I nodded knowingly. “You mean he loved you and left you?” Just like Dave Farouq El-Abar and Tina Hakim Baba!

“No, Mia,” my mom said, with a laugh. “Good grief, you have an uncanny ability to turn everything into a country western song. I mean he and I went out, and it was great, but I eventually realized…well, I wanted out of Versailles, and he didn’t, so I left, and he stayed. And married April Pollack.”

Just like Dean married that other girl on Gilmore Girls!

“But…” I stared at my mom. “You loved him?”

“Of course I loved him,” my mom said. “Gosh, Wendell Jenkins. I haven’t thought of him in ages.”

GEEZ! I can’t believe my mother is not still in contact with the boy who relieved her of her virginity! What kind of school did she GO to back then, anyway?

“Why are you asking me all these questions, Mia?” my mom finally wanted to know. “Are you and Michael—”

“No,” I said, hastily shoving Rocky back into her arms.

“Mia, it’s perfectly all right if you want to talk to me about—”

“I don’t,” I said, fast. Real fast.

“Because if you—”

“I don’t,” I said again. “I have homework. Bye.”

And I went into my room and locked the door.

There must be something wrong with me. I’m serious. Because you could totally tell when Mom was remembering having sex with Wendell Jenkins, that she’d had a good time. Doing It. Everyone seems to have a good time Doing It. Like in movies and on TV and everything. Everyone seems to think Doing It is just, like, the pinnacle of experiences.

Everyone except for me. Why am I the only person who, when she thinks about Doing It, feels nothing but…sweaty? And not in a good way. This can’t be a normal reaction. This has to be yet another genetic anomaly in my makeup, like absence of mammary glands and size-ten feet. I am totally lacking in the Do It gene.

I mean, I WANT to Do It. I mean, I guess that’s what I want, you know, when Michael and I are kissing, and I smell his neck, and I get that feeling like I want to jump on him. Surely this is an indication that I want to Do It.

Except that to Do It you actually have to take your CLOTHES OFF. In FRONT OF THE OTHER PERSON. I mean, unless you’re one of those Orthodox Jews who do it through a hole in the sheet like Barbra Streisand in Yentl.

And I do not think I am ready to TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF in front of Michael. It is bad enough taking them off in front of Lana Weinberger in the locker room first thing in the morning. I don’t think I could ever take them off in front of a BOY. Especially not a boy I am actually in love with and hope to marry someday, if he ever asks me and if I ever get over this whole spastic not-wanting-to-take-my-clothes-off-in-front-of-him thing.