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Authors: Meg Cabot

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Princess on the Brink (7 page)

BOOK: Princess on the Brink
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Wednesday, September 8, Chemistry
 

Mia—Is it true? Michael is going to Tsukuba for a year to work on a robotic device that could put an end to open-heart surgery?

 

 

 

Oh, God. Here we go. Tina insists Kenny is still in love with me—even after all this time—but I’ve always told her she is confusing her Harlequin romance novels with real life again.

But maybe I was being unnecessarily harsh. Maybe she’s RIGHT. Because why else would he be so interested in my current dating status????

 

 

 

Yes, Kenny. It’s true. Although we are not breaking up!!!

 

 

 

That is SO COOL. Do you think he’d consider hiring me—you know, when he gets back—as, like, an intern or something? Because I’ve always been fascinated by robotics, and have actually been tinkering with a design for an orbital rotor for a robotic scalpel. Do you think he could use me? I assume he’ll be hiring his friends.

 

 

 

Oh. So, it’s not me he wants after all…well, that’s a relief.

 

 

 

Kenny, you KNOW about this robotic surgery stuff?

 

 

 

Um, of course. And it isn’t “stuff,” Mia, it’s really the new
frontier in robotic science. Robotic surgical systems are already being installed in hospitals around the globe. The ultimate goal of the robotic field is to design a system that will do exactly what Michael’s prototype does. If he can build a model that actually operates as it’s supposed to in a surgical setting…well, let’s just say there won’t have been as ground-shaking a development in science since Lucy the cloned sheep. Michael will be hailed as a genius…no, more than just a genius. Perhaps even a MEDICAL SAVIOR.

 

 

 

Oh. Well. Thanks for clarifying that for me. I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you to Michael.

 

 

 

Sweet. Thanks!

 

 

 

Mia—You okay? You hardly touched your falafel at lunch.

 

 

 

God, J.P. is so sweet! I can’t believe he noticed!

 

 

 

I’m fine. I guess.

 

 

 

I don’t imagine Boris pontificating on orchestral dalliances he has seen helped very much.

 

 

 

Yeah, not so much. It’s just…what’s a medical savior going to want to have to do with ME? I mean, I’m just a PRINCESS. Anybody can be a
princess.
All you have to do is have the right parents. It’s no harder than being born Paris Hilton, for God’s sake.

At least you remember to put on underwear in the morning, I’m assuming.

 

 

 

Is that supposed to be helping?

 

 

 

Sorry. I thought the situation called for a little levity. Bad miscalculation on my part. Mia, you’re wonderful in and of yourself. You know that. You’re a lot more than just a princess. In fact, I would say that’s the tiniest part of you, not what DEFINES you.

 

 

 

But I haven’t DONE anything. I mean, not anything great that people are going to remember me by. Except be a princess, which, as I mentioned, isn’t something I actively DID, I just got born that way.

 

 

 

You’re only sixteen. Cut yourself some slack.

 

 

 

But Michael’s only nineteen and he may be saving thousands of people’s lives, like, next
year.
If I’m going to do something great someday, I need to get started NOW.

 

 

 

I thought you were going to write a screenplay of your life and Lilly was going to direct it.

 

 

 

Yeah, but what have I done in my LIFE that will make the screenplay meaningful? Like, I haven’t saved hundreds of Jews from annihilation by the Nazi scourge, or gone blind and yet gone on to write beautiful music.

I think holding yourself to the standards set by Oskar Schindler and Stevie Wonder is a bit unrealistic.

 

 

 

But don’t you see? MICHAEL is setting that kind of standard.

 

 

 

But Michael loves you, just the way you are! So what are you worried about? You can be a great person just for being a good friend or a terrific writer or humorous to be around, you know.

 

 

 

I guess. It’s just that he’s probably going to be meeting a lot of brilliant, beautiful girls in Japan, and how do I know he’s not going to fall for one of THEM?

 

 

 

He’s probably met lots of brilliant, beautiful girls at Columbia, and he hasn’t fallen for any of them, has he?

 

 

 

Well, no. But that’s just because, even though they’re all brilliant, they all look like Judith Gershner.

 

 

 

Who’s Judith Gershner?

 

 

 

She’s this girl who used to go here who could clone fruit flies and who I thought Michael liked and—You know what? Never mind. You’re right. I’m being ridiculous.

 

 

 

I didn’t say you were being ridiculous. I said you were being too hard on yourself. You’re a great person, and if in the
unlikely event Michael were ever to imply otherwise, I will happily kick his ass for you.

 

 

 

Ha. Thanks. But that’s what I have Lars for.

 

 

 

Mia: Not to be a jerk, but if you want to pass this class, you’d better stop passing notes with J.P. and pay attention. I know I’m your lab partner, but I’m not taking up the slack if you start to fall behind.

 

 

 

Okay, Kenny. Sorry. You’re right.

 

 

 

BUSTED!!!!

 

 

 

Shut up, you’re making me laugh!!!!!!!!! I’m paying attention now.

 

 

 

Archimedes’ Principle: volume of a solid is equal to the volume of water it displaces.

 

 

 

Densities of typical solids and liquids in g/ml

 

 

 

Substance

Density

Gasoline

0.68

Ice

0.92

Water

1.00

Salt

2.16

Iron

7.86

Lead

11.38

Mercury

13.55

Gold

19.3

 

 

 

I realize Chemistry is important, you know, in our daily lives and everything. But seriously. What possible use is knowing the density of gasoline going to be in my future capacity as ruler of Genovia?

Wednesday, September 8, Precalc
 

Composite function = combination of 2 functions
f
(
g
(
x
)) does NOT =
g
(
f
(
x
))

 

 

 

A relation is any collection of points on the
x-y
coordinate system

Constant function = horizontal line

Horizontal line has 0 slope

 

 

 

Oh.

My.

God.

This.

Is.

So.

Boring.

 

 

 

HOMEWORK

Homeroom: n/a

Intro to Creative Writing: Describe a person who you know

English:
Franny and Zooey

French: Continue
décrire un soir amusant avec les amis

G & T: n/a

PE: n/a

Chemistry: Whatever, Kenny will tell me Precalculus:??????

Wednesday, September 8, the limo on the way home from the Ritz-Carlton
 

When I walked into Grandmère’s suite at the Ritz today (the W was apparently so unsatisfactory, she only stayed one night), I was totally shocked to find my father there.

I’d forgotten he was coming into town for the UN’s General Assembly.

And
he
’d apparently forgotten that it’s never a good idea to drop by to see Grandmère before cocktail hour (she’s been told by her physician that she can’t have any more three-Sidecar luncheons if she doesn’t want her angina acting up) because she is more than a little cranky.

“Look at this!” she was saying, as she shook a pillow in my dad’s face. “Mere seven-hundred-threadcount sheets! It’s scandalous! No wonder Rommel has a rash!”

“Rommel always has a rash,” my dad said tiredly. Then he noticed I’d come in, and he said, “Hi, honey. Long time no—
What happened to your hair?

I didn’t even bother getting offended. Having your boyfriend announce he’s moving to Japan has a way of causing you to get your priorities straight.

“I got it cut,” I said. “I don’t care if you don’t like it. I don’t have to mess with it anymore, and that’s all that matters. To me, anyway.”

“Oh,” Dad said. “It’s, uh. Cute. What’s the matter?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Something’s the matter, Mia. I can tell.”

“It’s really nothing,” I assured him. Just the knowledge that all my parents have to do is look at my face and know
something is wrong made me realize how very much I must actually be hurting by this Michael thing. Because I’m TRYING to hide it. I really am. For Michael’s sake. Because I know I should be excited and happy for him.

And I AM excited and happy for him.

Except for the part where I’m weeping. On the inside.

“Are you listening to me, Phillipe?” Grandmère was demanding. “You know Rommel requires eight-hundred-threadcount sheets
at the very least
.”

Dad sighed. “I’ll have some thousand-count sheets sent over from Bergdorf’s, all right? Mia, I know something’s wrong. What’s your mother done now? Got arrested at another one of her war protests? I’ve
told
her to stop chaining herself to things.”

“It’s not
Mom
,” I said, throwing myself onto a brocade-covered chaise lounge. “She hasn’t chained herself to anything in
years
.”

“Well, she’s a very…unpredictable woman,” my dad said. Which is his way of saying, as nicely as possible, that Mom is flighty and irresponsible about a lot of things. But not her kids. “But you’re right, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It’s nothing to do with Frank, is it? The two of them are getting along all right? It’s very stressful having a new baby in the house. Or so I hear.”

I rolled my eyes. My dad always wants the scoop on what’s going on with Mom and Mr. Gianini. Which is sort of hilarious, because there’s never actually anything going on with them. Unless you mean their fights over what to watch at breakfast, CNN (Mr. G) or MTV (Mom). Mom can’t stand politics first thing in the morning. She prefers
Panic! At the Disco.

“It isn’t just the sheets, Phillipe,” Grandmère was going on. “Do you realize the televisions in the rooms of this hotel are only
twenty-seven inches
wide?”

“You say there’s nothing on American television but filth and violence,” my dad said, staring at his mother in astonishment.

“Well, yes,” Grandmère said. “There is. Except for
Judge Judy
.”

“It’s just…
everything
,” I said, ignoring Grandmère. Because Dad was now ignoring her, too. “It’s only two days into the semester, and it’s already my worst one ever. Ms. Martinez stuck me in Intro to Creative Writing. Intro stands for INTRODUCTION. I don’t need to be introduced to creative writing. I eat, sleep, and breathe creative writing. And don’t even get me started on Chemistry and Precalculus. But the worst is…well, it’s Michael.”

Dad didn’t look surprised to hear this. In fact, he looked pleased.

“Well, now, Mia, I hate to tell you this but…I suspected this might be coming. Michael’s in college now, and you’re still in high school, and you have to spend a lot of time on your royal duties and in Genovia, and you can’t expect a young man in his prime to simply wait around for you. It’s natural that Michael might find a young lady closer to his own age who actually has the time to spend doing the kinds of things college-age kids do—things that are simply not appropriate for a high-school aged princess to take part in.”

“Dad.” I blinked at him. “Michael didn’t break up with
me. At least if that’s what you meant by that speech you just gave me.”

“He didn’t?” Dad stopped looking so pleased. “Oh. Well, what
did
he do then?”

“He—well, remember when you flew back to Genovia with me and we watched
The Lord of the Rings
during the flight?”

“Yes.” Dad raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me Michael’s come into possession of the One Ring?”

“No,” I said. I couldn’t believe he was trying to make a joke out of it. “But he’s trying to prove himself to the elf king, like Aragorn.”

“Who’s the elf king?” Dad wanted to know, like he genuinely didn’t know.

“Dad. YOU’RE the elf king.”

“Really?” Dad adjusted his tie, looking pleased again. Then he stopped. “Wait…my ears aren’t pointy. Are they?”

“I meant FIGURATIVELY, Dad,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Michael feels like he has to prove himself in order to be with your daughter. Just like Aragorn felt he had to prove himself to win the elf king’s approval to be with Arwen.”

“Well,” Dad said. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Only how exactly does he plan on doing it? Winning my approval, I mean? Because, I’m sorry, but leading an army of the dead to defeat the Orcs isn’t really going to cut the mustard with me.”

“Michael isn’t leading an army of the dead anywhere.
He’s invented a robotic surgical arm that will allow surgeons to do heart surgery without opening up the chest,” I said.

That wiped the smirk clean off Dad’s face.

“Really?” he asked in a totally different tone. “Michael did that?”

“Well, he has a prototype for it,” I explained. “And some Japanese company is flying him out there so he can help them to build a working model. Or something. The thing is, it’s going to take a YEAR! Michael is going to be in Tsukuba for a YEAR! Or more!”

“A year,” Dad repeated. “Or more. Well. That’s a very long time.”

“Yes, it’s a very long time,” I said dramatically. “And while he’s thousands of miles away, inventing cool stuff, I’m going to be stuck in stupid Intro to Creative Writing and eleventh-grade Chem, which I’m already flunking, not to mention Precalc, which, once again, I don’t even know why I have to learn, since we’ve got all those accountants….”

“Now, now,” Dad said. “Everyone has to learn calculus in order to be a well-rounded individual.”

“You know what would make me a well-rounded individual, and you a celebrated philanthropist and possibly even be named
Time
magazine’s Person of the Year?” I asked. “Well, I’ll tell you: if you founded your own robotics lab right here in New York City that Michael could build his robotic arm thingie in!”

My dad got a good laugh out of that one.

Which was nice. Except that I wasn’t joking.

“I’m serious, Dad,” I said. “I mean, why not? It’s not
like you don’t have the money.”

“Mia,” my dad said, sobering. “I don’t know anything about robotics labs.”

“But Michael does,” I said. “He could tell you what he’d need. And then you could just, you know. Pay for it. And you’d totally get credit when Michael successfully completes his robotic arm thingie. They’d put you on
Larry King
, I’ll bet. Who cares about
Vogue
…think of how much Genovia would be in the press
then.
It would do WONDERS for tourism. Which you must admit has been on the wane since the dollar tanked.”

“Mia,” Dad said, shaking his head. “It’s out of the question. I’m very pleased for Michael—I always thought he had potential. But I am not going to spend millions of dollars building some robotics laboratory so you can fritter away eleventh grade necking with your boyfriend instead of passing Precalculus.”

I glared at him. “Nobody calls it necking anymore, Dad.”

Well, I had to say SOMETHING. Also…
fritter
?

“Excuse me.” Grandmère stomped over until she stood in the middle of the room and could glare at both of us at the same time. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your very important discussion of THAT BOY. But I’m wondering if the two of you have noticed something about this room. Something that is very obviously MISSING.”

Dad and I looked around. Grandmère’s 1,530-square-foot penthouse suite came complete with two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms—each of which contained a marble soaking tub with separate stall shower—two 12-inch flat-screen televisions (and those were just the TVs in the
bathrooms
), exclusive Frédéric Fekkai and Côté Bastide bath amenities, Floris shaving kit and Frette candles, living room, dining room with seating for eight, separate pantry, library of books, DVD player, stereo, in-room selection of compact discs and DVDs, multiline cordless telephone with voice mail and data line capabilities, high-speed Internet access, and a floor-model telescope so she could look out at the stars or across the park into Woody Allen’s apartment.

There was nothing Grandmère’s suite didn’t have. NOTHING.

“AN ASHTRAY!” Grandmère shouted. “THIS IS A NONSMOKING SUITE!!!”

Dad looked up at the ceiling. Then he sighed. Then he said, “Mia. If Michael, as you say, is intent on proving himself worthy of you to me, then he wouldn’t want my help anyway. I’m sorry you’re going to have to be separated from him for a year, but I think buckling down and concentrating exclusively on your studies might not be such a bad thing. Mother.” He looked at Grandmère. “You are impossible. But I will get you a suite at another hotel. Let me make a few phone calls,” he said and walked into the dining room to do so.

Grandmère, looking very self-satisfied, opened her purse, plucked out the key card to her suite, and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.

“Well,” she said. “What a shame. Looks like I’ll be moving. Again.”

“Grandmère,” I said. She was making me SO MAD. “Do you know there are people who are still living in
TENTS and FEMA TRAILERS because of all the hurricanes and tsunamis and earthquakes there’ve been in various parts of the world? And you’re complaining that you can’t SMOKE in your room? There is nothing wrong with this suite. It’s totally beautiful. It’s every bit as nice as your suite back at the Plaza. You’re just being ridiculous, because you don’t like change.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Grandmère said with a sigh, as she sat down in one of the brocade-covered armchairs across from the couch I was sitting on. “But I believe my folly might be to your advantage.”

“Oh?” I was barely listening to her. I couldn’t believe how quickly my dad had shot down my Build Your Own Lab idea. I really thought it had been a good one. I mean, I know I only came up with it on the spur of the moment. But it seemed like something he might go for. He’s always building hospital wings over in Genovia, and then naming them after himself. I think the Prince Phillipe Renaldo Surgical Robotic Systems Lab has a nice ring to it.

“The suite is paid for through the end of the week,” Grandmère said, leaning over to tap on the key card she’d left on the table. “I won’t be staying here, of course. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t feel free to use it, if you like.”

“What am I going to do with a suite at the Ritz, Grandmère?” I demanded. “It might have escaped your notice, because you’re so preoccupied with your own quote suffering unquote. But I am hardly going to be hosting any slumber parties this week. I am in a full-on life crisis.”

Grandmère’s gaze hardened on me. “Sometimes,” she
said, “I cannot believe that you and I are related by blood.”

“Welcome to my world,” I said.

“Well, the rooms are yours,” Grandmère said, sliding the key card closer to me. “To do with whatever it is you wish. Personally, if I still lived with my parents, and my paramour was leaving on a yearlong quest to prove himself to MY father, I’d use the rooms to stage a very private and very romantic good-bye. But that’s just me. I’ve always been a very passionate woman, very in touch with my emotions. I’ve often noticed that I—”

Blah, blah, blah. Grandmère’s voice went on and on. And on. Dad came back into the room and told her he’d gotten her a suite at the Four Seasons, so then she rang for her maid and made her start packing for the third time this week alone.

And that was my princess lesson for the day.

Good thing I’m not paying for them, because the quality has really started going downhill.

I think I’m hallucinating from being dehydrated, or something. I have all the symptoms:

 
  • Extreme thirst
  • Dry mouth with no saliva
  • Dry eyes; no tears
  • Decreased urination, or urinating 3 or fewer times in 24 hours
  • Arms and legs that may feel cool to the touch
  • Feeling very tired, restless, or irritable
  • Light-headedness that is relieved by lying down
 

Of course, I generally experience all of these symptoms after spending any amount of time with Grandmère.

Still, I’m drinking all the bottled water in the limo, just to be on the safe side.

BOOK: Princess on the Brink
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