Forever Princess (The Princess Diaries 10)

Not that she doesn’t mean well.

Of course J.P. just smiled at us tolerantly and went, “Well, have fun, girls, Lars.” Then he kept walking toward the auditorium, where he was holding play rehearsal.

They were all totally flabbergasted—Lana and those guys, I mean. That he didn’t smack himself in the forehead and go, “D’oh! Prom! Of course!” Then drop to one knee and take my hands tenderly in his and ask me to forgive him for being a churlish lout and beg me to go with him.

But I told them they shouldn’t be so shocked. I don’t take it personally. J.P. can’t think about anything but his play, A Prince Among Men.

Which I totally understand, because when I was writing my book, I felt the same way. I couldn’t think about anything else. Every chance I got, I just curled up in bed with my laptop and with Fat Louie at my side (he proved to be such an excellent writing cat) and wrote.

I mean, that’s why I didn’t keep up with my journal, or anything, not for almost two whole years. It’s hard, when you’re really concentrating on a creative project, to keep your mind on anything else.

Or at least it was for me.

Which, in a way, I guess, was why Dr. K suggested it. That I write a book. To get my mind off…well, other things.

Or other people.

And it wasn’t like I had anythin

g else to do, since my parents took away my TV, and it was really hard to watch my shows out in the living room. It’s kind of embarrassing to veg out in front of Too Young to Be So Fat: The Shocking Truth when people know you’re watching it.

Anyway, writing my book was great therapy, because it really worked. I didn’t feel like writing in my journal once while I was writing and researching it. Everything just went into Ransom My Heart.

Now that the book’s done, of course (and getting rejected everywhere), I suddenly find myself wanting to write in my journal again.

Is that a good thing? I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe I should write another book instead.

So I’m just saying I understand J.P.’s preoccupation with his play.

The thing is, unlike me, J.P. has a solid chance of actually getting Prince produced, at least off-Broadway, because his dad is such a mover and shaker in the theater world, and all.

And Stacey Cheeseman has done all those Gap Kids commercials, and had that part in that Sean Penn movie. J.P.’s even got Andrew Lowenstein, Brad Pitt’s third cousin’s nephew, playing the part of the male lead. The thing is bound to be HUGE. I hear, from people who’ve seen it, it might even have Hollywood potential.

But, back to the whole prom thing: It’s not like I don’t know J.P. loves me. He tells me so, like, ten times a day—

Oh, God, I forgot how annoyed everyone gets when I start writing in my journal instead of paying attention to what’s going on. Lana is making me try on a strapless Badgley Mischka now.

Look, I get the fashion thing now. I do. How you look on the outside is a reflection of how you feel about yourself on the inside. If you let yourself go—not washing your hair, wearing the same clothes you slept in all day or clothes that don’t fit or are out of style—that says, “I do not care about myself. And you shouldn’t care about me either.”

You have to Make An Effort, because that says to other people I Am Worth Getting To Know. Your clothes don’t have to be expensive. You just have to look good in them.

I realize that now, and acknowledge that in the past, I may have slacked off in that area (although I still wear my overalls at home on the weekends when no one is around).

And since I’ve stopped binge eating, my weight has stopped fluctuating, and I’m back down to a B cup.

So I get the fashion thing. I do.

But honestly—why does Lana think I look good in purple? Just because it’s the color of royalty doesn’t mean it looks good on every royal! Not to be mean, but has anyone taken a good look at Queen Elizabeth lately? She so needs neutral colors.

An excerpt from Ransom My Heart by Daphne Delacroix

Shropshire, England, 1291

Hugo stared down at the lovely apparition swimming naked below him, his thoughts a jumble in his head. Foremost amongst them was the question, Who is she?, though he knew the answer to that. Finnula Crais, the miller’s daughter. There had been a family of that name in villenage to his father, Hugo remembered.

This, then, must be one of their offspring. But what was this miller about, allowing a defenseless maid to roam the countryside unescorted and dressed in such provocative garb—or completely undressed, as the case now stood?

As soon as Hugo arrived at Stephensgate Manor, he would send for the miller, and see to it that the girl was better protected in the future. Did the man not ken the riffraff that traveled the roads these days, the footpads and cutthroats and despoilers of young women such as the one below him?