Princess in Pink (The Princess Diaries 5)

Thursday, May 1, 12:01 a.m.

Well. That’s it. I’m fifteen now. Not a girl. Not yet a woman. Just like Britney.

HA HA HA.

I don’t actually feel any different than I did a minute ago, when I was fourteen. I certainly don’t LOOK any different. I’m the same five-foot-nine, thirty-two-A-bra-size freak I was when I turned fourteen. Maybe my hair looks a little better, since Grandmère made me get highlights and Paolo’s been trimming it as it grows out. It is almost to my chin now, and not so triangular-shaped as before.

Other than that, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing. Nada. No difference. Zilch.

I guess all of my fifteen-ness is going to have to be on the inside, since it sure isn’t showing on the outside.

I just checked my e-mail to see if anybody remembered, and I already have five birthday messages: one from Lilly, one from Tina, one from my cousin Hank (I can’t believe HE remembered; he’s a famous model now and I almost never see him anymore—no big loss—except half-naked on billboards or the sides of telephone booths, which is especially embarrassing if he’s wearing tighty-whities), one from my cousin Prince René, and one from Michael.

The one from Michael is the best. It was a cartoon he’d made himself, of a girl in a tiara with a big orange cat opening a giant present. When she gets all the wrapping off, these words burst out of the box, with all these fireworks: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MIA, and in smaller letters, Love, Michael.

Love. LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!

Even though we have been going out for more than four months, I still get a thrill when he says—or writes—that word. In reference to me, I mean. Love. LOVE!!!!! He LOVES me!!!!!

So what’s taking him so long about the prom thing, I’d like to know?

Now that I am fifteen, it is time that I put away childish things, like the guy in the Bible, and begin to live my life as the adult that I am striving to become. According to Carl Jung, the famous psychoanalyst, in order to achieve self-actualization—acceptance, peace, contentment, purposefulness, fulfillment, health, happiness, and joy—one must practice compassion, love, charity, warmth, forgiveness, friendship, kindness, gratitude, and trust. Therefore, from now on, I pledge to

Stop biting my nails. I really mean it this time.

Make decent grades.

Be nicer to people, even Lana Weinberger.

Write in my journal every day, faithfully.

Start—and finish—a novel. Write one, I mean, not read one.

Get it published before I turn 20.

Be more understanding of Mom and what she is going through now that she is in the last trimester of her pregnancy.

Stop using Mr. G’s face-razor on my legs. Buy my own razors.

Try to be more sympathetic to Dad’s abandonment issues, while also getting out of having to spend July and August in Genovia.

Figure out way to get Michael Moscovitz to take me to the prom without stooping to trickery and/or groveling.

Once I’ve done all this, I should become fully self-actualized, and ready to experience some well-deserved joy. And really, everything on that list is fairly doable. I mean, yes, it took Margaret Mitchell ten years to write Gone with the Wind, but I am only fifteen, so even if it takes me ten years to finish my own novel, I will still be only twenty-five when I get it published, which is just five years behind schedule.

The only problem is, I don’t really know what I’m going to write a novel about. But I’m sure I’ll think of something soon. Maybe I should start practicing with some short stories or haikus or something.

The prom thing, though. THAT is going to be hard. Because I truly do not want Michael to feel pressured about this. But I have GOT TO GO TO THE PROM WITH MICHAEL!!! IT IS MY LAST CHANCE!!!!!!!

I hope Tina is right, and that Michael intends to ask me tonight at dinner.

OH PLEASE GOD, LET TINA BE RIGHT!!!!!!!!!

Thursday, May 1, My Birthday, Algebra

Josh asked Lana to the prom.

He asked her last night, after the varsity lacrosse game. The Lions won. According to Shameeka, who hung around after the junior varsity game, at which she’d cheered, Josh scored the winning goal. Then, as all the Albert Einstein fans poured out onto the field, Josh whipped off his shirt and swung it around in the air a few times, à la Brandi Chastain, only of course Josh wasn’t wearing a sports bra underneath. Shameeka says she was astounded by the lack of hair on Josh’s chest. She said he was in no way Hugh-Jackman-like in the goody trail department.