The Princess Diaries (The Princess Diaries 1)

I was really worried they’d start in on me, but they totally didn’t. My mom did try to make me eat some Ramen, but I wouldn’t, because it was beef flavored. And then my dad offered to send his driver to Nobu to pick up some blackened sea bass, but I was like, “Really, Dad, I just want to go to bed.” Then my mom started feeling my head and stuff, thinking I was sick. This nearly made me start crying again. I guess my dad recognized my expression from the Plaza, since all of a sudden he was like, “Helen, just leave her alone.”

To my surprise, she did. And so I went into my bathroom and closed the door and took a long, hot bath, then got into my favorite pajamas, the cool red flannel ones, found Fat Louie where he was trying to hide under the futon couch (he doesn’t like my dad so much), and went to bed.

Before I fell asleep, I could hear my dad talking to my mom in the kitchen for a long, long time. His voice was rumbly, like thunder. It sort of reminded me of Captain Picard’s voice on Star Trek: The Next Generation.

My dad actually has a lot in common with Captain Picard. You know, he’s white and bald and has to rule over a small populace.

Except that Captain Picard always makes everything okay by the end of the episode, and I sincerely doubt everything will be okay for me.

Friday, October 3, Homeroom

Today when I woke up, the pigeons that live on the fire escape outside my window were cooing away (Fat Louie was on the windowsill—well, as much of him as could fit on the windowsill, anyway—watching them), and the sun was shining, and I actually got up on time and didn’t hit the snooze button seven thousand times. I took a shower and didn’t cut my legs shaving them, found a fairly unwrinkled blouse at the bottom of my closet, and even got my hair to look sort of halfway passable. I was in a good mood. It was Friday. Friday is my favorite day, besides Saturday and Sunday. Fridays always mean two days—two glorious, relaxing days—of NO Algebra are coming my way.

And then I walked out into the kitchen and there was all this pink light coming down through the skylight right on my mom, who was wearing her best kimono and making French toast using Egg Beaters instead of real eggs, even though I’m no longer ovo-lacto since I realized eggs aren’t fertilized so they could never have been baby chicks anyway.

And I was all set to thank her for thinking of me, and then I heard this rustle.

And there was my DAD sitting at the dining room table (well, really it’s just a table, since we don’t have a dining room, but whatever), reading The New York Times and wearing a suit.

A suit. At seven o’clock in the morning.

And then I remembered. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten it:

I’m a princess.

Oh my God. Everything good about my day just went right out the window after that.

As soon as he saw me, my dad was all, “Ah, Mia.”

I knew I was in for it. He only says “Ah, Mia” when he’s about to give me a big lecture.

He folded his paper all carefully and laid it down. My dad always folds papers carefully, making the edges all neat. My mom never does this. She usually crumples the pages up and leaves them, out of order, on the futon couch or next to the toilet. This kind of thing drives my father insane and is probably the real reason why they never got married.

My mom, I saw, had set the table with our best Kmart plates, the ones with the blue stripes on them, and the green plastic cactus-shaped margarita glasses from Ikea. She had even put a bunch of fake sunflowers in the middle of the table in a yellow vase. She had done all that to cheer me up, I know, and she’d probably gotten up really early to do it, too. But instead of cheering me up, it just made me sadder.

Because I bet they don’t use green plastic cactus-shaped margarita glasses for breakfast at the palace in Genovia.

“We need to talk, Mia,” my dad said. This is how his worst lectures always start. Except this time he looked at me kind of funny before he started. “What’s wrong with your hair?”

I put my hand up to my head. “Why?” I thought my hair looked good, for a change.

“Nothing is wrong with her hair, Phillipe,” my mom said. She usually tries to ward off my dad’s lectures, if she can. “Come and sit down, Mia, and have some breakfast. I even heated up the syrup for the French toast, the way you like it.”

I appreciated this gesture on my mom’s part. I really did. But I was not going to sit down and talk about my future in Genovia. I mean, come on. So I was all, “Uh, I’d love to, really, but I gotta go. I have a test in World Civ today, and I promised Lilly I’d meet her to go over our notes together—”

“Sit down.”

Boy, my dad can really sound like a starship captain in the Federation when he wants to.

I sat. My mom shoveled some French toast onto my plate. I poured syrup over it and took a bite, just to be polite. It tasted like cardboard.

“Mia,” my mom said. She was still trying to ward off my dad’s lecture. “I know how upset you must be about all of this. But really, it isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

Oh, right. All of a sudden you tell me I’m a princess, and I’m supposed to be happy about it?

“I mean,” my mom went on, “most girls would probably be delighted to find out their father is a prince!”

No girls I know. Actually, that’s not true. Lana Weinberger would probably love to be a princess. In fact, she already thinks she is one.