Royal Wedding (4 page)

Worse, in the video for it (which is also played everywhere constantly), Boris is singing to a girl who is
dying in a hospital bed,
and Boris is telling her (lyrically) that he'll give her a million stars (plus his love) if she'll just find the strength within herself to not die, and love him forever.

Of course the girl is so moved by this hot rocker dude's amazing song that she doesn't die. Because it is a medical fact that people with fatal diseases only need a hot rocker dude to sit on the edge of their hospital bed and sing them a rock ballad in order to give them the strength to go on living.

People actually believe this stuff! At least the Borettes do.

Both the song and the video have made me hate Boris Pelkowski so much more than I already did (for breaking Tina's heart) that now whenever I hear or see either of them, I begin grinding my teeth. I've even started doing it in my sleep, and have to wear a night guard, which is so not sexy when Michael stays over.

Although he says he'd rather have me wear a big rubber mouth guard in bed with him than for me to have tiny little nubs for teeth someday.

•   
Note to self:
Which, if you ask me, is actually way more romantic than some rocker dude singing to a girl on her deathbed. But no one asked me.

“So what did you say when Boris told you he wants to get back together?” I asked Tina cautiously.

“I said I'd have to think about it. Just because he has over five million Borettes following him on Twitter doesn't mean
I'm
ready to follow him.”

Thank God,
I thought.

But aloud I only said, “That was very wise.”

“And maybe it's better we break up now anyway to spare ourselves future heartbreak. What's going to happen when I graduate and have to move away from New York to do my residency. Or when I'm with Doctors Without Borders. I'm not going to be able to follow him around on tour like some little Borette. I have my own career to think about.”

“Totally,” I said, thrilled.

“So I told him that right now I really need to concentrate on acing my exams, but that maybe we could talk later.”

“Well, I think you did the right thing.” This was lie number two. I do think Tina should concentrate on her exams, but I'm not so sure she should talk to Boris later.

“Thanks, Mia,” she said. “It's just so hard, you know, because every time I go online or turn on the TV, there he is, being interviewed about this forty-city tour, looking all buff from working with that new trainer of his.”

“I know.” Lie number three. Boris doesn't look
that
good, but then, he's never exactly been my type. “Honestly, Tina, I have no idea what I'd do if I were in your shoes.”

Lie number four. I think about what I'd do if I were in Tina's shoes
all the time,
which is ridiculous, since Michael's the best boyfriend ever (or the best boyfriend he can be, considering what he has to put up with, dating a royal).

But Tina thought Boris was the best boyfriend ever until number one Boris Fan, Brooklyn Borette Blogger, came along.

What if that shadow I keep seeing in Michael's eyes isn't a kidney stone he's too manly to mention, but guilt because he's seeing some little “Michael-ette” behind my back? I don't know if I'd be able to handle it with as much class as Tina has with Boris, keeping her mouth shut about it (except to me, of course). I think I might go full-on Mrs. ex–Tiger Woods Elin Nordegren on him (even though violence is never the answer and Michael doesn't play golf or even own an SUV like Tiger Woods).

The problem, of course, is that I come from a long line of warrior princesses. Sometimes when I can't sleep—like now—I mentally rehearse how I'd get back at Michael if I found out he'd cheated on me, even though I'm self-actualized enough to know he'd never do such a thing, and that if he did, losing me would be his loss, not mine.

Still, occasionally these thoughts creep in unbidden (I probably should have mentioned this to Dr. Delgado. I bet he'd have given me some medication if he knew) and then I recall how my royal ancestresses handled their business when betrayed by a man:

Princess Rosagunde

The first princess of Genovia, Rosagunde, strangled her husband—the chief of an invading tribe of marauders—to death in his sleep with her braid, an act of heroism for which she was then unanimously named ruler of her village.

I'd never do something like that to Michael, of course, since violence is never the answer (my hair's not long enough anyway), and I do not want to spend the rest of my life in jail like the ladies in
Orange Is the New Black
.

But since I'm descended from Rosagunde, the capacity for this kind of brutality runs through my veins—even though sadly I can never seem to summon it when I need to, like when teenagers behind me in the movie theater won't stop texting, especially during the dramatic moments. Then I merely get Lars, my bodyguard, to get up and glare at them threateningly.

Princess Mathilde

Upon discovering reports of her intended's multiple affairs, my ancestress Princess Mathilde donned full body armor, rode to his home, then proceeded to smash every piece of furniture in it with a battle-ax.

Then she rode away, taking with her his favorite hunting dogs, servants, and horses, claiming them as compensation for her broken heart.

He was much too frightened of her to protest.

Michael doesn't have any servants, much less any horses, and his beloved dog Pavlov died not too long ago of old age (dogs don't live as long as cats). Michael does, however, have a lot of furniture, plus tons of
Star Wars
memorabilia that he values greatly. He has every single Princess Leia action figure, some still in the box!

Still, I'd feel weird about smashing up his house with an ax, then stealing his stuff. Maybe I'd just light all the boxer briefs he's left over here on fire (in the sink, for safety).

Dowager Princess Clarisse Renaldo

It's a not-very-well-kept secret that my grandmother had a string of suitors before my grandfather, the wealthy Prince of Genovia, fell for her. One of them was a Texas oil baron she met in Monte Carlo while she was vacationing with friends. This gentleman was so smitten that he proposed on the spot (according to Grandmère's version of events).

Unfortunately, it was soon discovered that the oil baron had, in romance-novel parlance, “a wife yet living”—but not before Grandmère had already spent a hefty amount of money on her trousseau.

So she did what any shrewd Genovian girl would do, and sued him for the cost of her new wardrobe (to the tune of a hundred thousand Genovian francs).

“Those gowns were handmade by Monsieur Dior! They cost two thousand dollars each,” she still says whenever the subject comes up. “What else was I to do?”

The guy paid up. It was apparently cheaper than getting a divorce.

Oh, ugh. All the insomnia websites say that to ensure a good night's rest, you're supposed to engage in soothing rituals right before you fall asleep, like taking a hot bath or sniffing lavender or drinking warm milk.

Few advise making lists of ways your royal ancestors got revenge on their boyfriends for cheating on them, and
none
mentions discussing your father's recent run-in with the law—or the fact that he did it because he was trying to get back together with your mother.

But that's exactly what Tina brought up later on during our conversation, and probably why I'm wider awake now than ever.

“Things have actually gotten a bit better since this news about your dad broke,” Tina said, just before we were about to quit FaceTiming. “Now there's a lot less stuff on all the gossip sites about Boris, and more about how people think your dad wants a second chance with your mom.”

“Wait . . .” I was shocked.
“What?”

“It's true,” Tina insisted. “People think your dad took up race-car driving to get your mom's attention now that your stepdad has died and she's available again.”

I've seen a lot of wrongheaded and offensive things written about myself and my family, but that one really takes the cake. I'm not going to say it doesn't hurt when people say bad stuff about me, particularly when it's untrue, but I'm young and strong: I can take it.

But to say it about my
mom,
who isn't really a public figure, and can't defend herself, and my
dad,
who's getting on in age, and is clearly becoming a tragic figure like Mickey Rourke, only without the boxing or tiny dogs?

“Well, if that's what Dad's up to, it's a really bad strategy,” I spluttered. “My mom's so not the type to care about trophies, unless it's a Pulitzer, or maybe a Nobel.”

“I know, right? Your mom would never drop everything and come rushing to be at your dad's bedside after half his face was burned off in a tragic race-car accident, because she'd be like, ‘He deserved it for being involved in such a dangerous sport in the first place.' ”

“It's true,” I said, then added, “Although that would have made an excellent scene in a movie that I would have paid full price to see in theaters, not even waited to watch at home on pay-per-view or HBO.”

“Oh my God, me, too.”

No wonder I can't sleep.

Except that if this turns out to be true, Dad pretty much brought it on himself. Well, at least the part where he's allegedly still in love with my mother, after more than twenty-six years (that's how long ago he impregnated her while they were both college students back in the eighties, when drinking too much and being “in the moment” was an acceptable excuse for not using birth control, although not really, if you ask me. Well, twenty-five years and nine months ago. My birthday is tomorrow).

“Of course I don't blame your dad for thinking such a crazy stunt might work,” Tina went on. “Your mother rushed to be at your stepfather's side after he had that heart attack while taking the M14 crosstown bus to band practice last year.”

“Right,” I said. “But Mr. G. and my mom were
married
. And also, not knowing you have heart disease because you keep putting off going to the doctor is completely different from purposely pursuing high-risk sports.”

At least Mr. G. had plenty of life insurance and a surprisingly healthy 401(k), so he left my mom and my half brother, Rocky, financially secure (and Mom's paintings are still selling really well, considering the market for contemporary realism).

Of course, now that I think about it, Tina—and apparently the media—aren't the only ones with this crazy theory about my dad. Michael's parents kind of brought it up when I was last at their house (for Passover dinner).

This was before the arrest, of course. But somehow the conversation turned toward Dad and how weird he's been acting lately and one of the Drs. Moscovitz—I can't remember which—said my dad'll never be happy because he desperately wants to be with my mother, but she's never been the kind of woman who—like Grandmère—is attracted to men in positions of power.

“So are you saying my dad wants to marry his mother?” I'd asked in horror.

“Well,” Dr. Moscovitz had replied, “according to Freud, deep down, all men want to marry their mothers, and all women, their fathers.”

I knew there was a reason I don't like Freud. Michael is
nothing
like my dad, and I really can't see how I resemble his mother. She looks like a brunette Dr. Ruth Westheimer, only slightly shorter and with more moles on her face.

Oh, well.

Tina and I hung up after promising each other we weren't going to think about the men in our lives who were bothering us—in her case, her ex, and in mine, my current boyfriend and my father—anymore.

But that's pretty much all I've done since.

I must have gotten a little sleep, though, because I did have a dream earlier that I was asked by Kate, Duchess of Cambridge, to have lunch, so she could give me tips on how to handle the stress of being a modern-day princess (something I am obviously still not handling well, even after a decade of practice).

But when Kate greeted me at the door, she told me she had no time to talk to me about princess stuff, because she had a date with Bruce Willis. So she left me alone in Buckingham Palace with Prince George!

So I baked a cake for him, then helped him eat it.

Three things for which I feel grateful:

1.   Tina Hakim Baba.

2.   My noble ancestresses.

3.   Cake.

CHAPTER 5

9:15 a.m., Thursday, April 30

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

New York City

I can't believe this.

I looked out the window this morning because the paps seemed a bit louder than usual. I expected to see them playing some kind of drinking game (per usual) but instead I saw
protesters
!

Not many, but enough. They're holding signs protesting my dad (and me, too).

I called Dominique right away and she said (in her adorable French accent), “I know, I know, your 'ighness. Don't worry, we are on it.”

(Dominique has a hard time pronouncing the letter
H,
which is silent in French, so asking her things like the name of “that boy wizard” is one of my favorite pastimes whenever I happen to be stuck in traffic with her. “You mean 'airy Pottair, Princess?” she always asks, excitedly. “'airy Pottair, 'oo went to 'ogwarts?” Juvenile, but always entertaining.)

“On it?” I asked. “How are you ‘on it'?”

“Oh, we 'ave a few ideas . . .”

“Like what? Should we hold a press conference? Do you want me to issue a public statement? What?”