The Princess Diaries (20 page)

Josh’s entourage consists of a bunch of senior boys who are all on the crew team with him. They are all really large and handsome, and they were all eating excessive amounts of animal by-products, just like Josh.

Josh’s entourage put their trays down beside Josh’s. Lana’s entourage put their trays beside Lana’s. And soon, our table, which had consisted only of two geeky girls and their bodyguards, was being graced by the most beautiful people in Albert Einstein—maybe even in all of Manhattan.

I got a good look at Lilly, and her eyes were bugging out the way they do when she sees something she thinks would make a good episode of her show.

"So," Lana said, all chatty-like, while she picked at her salad—no dressing, and only water on the side. "What are you up to this weekend, Mia? Are you going to the Cultural Diversity Dance?"

It was the first time she’d ever called me Mia and not Amelia.

"Uh," I said brilliantly. "Let me see . . . "

"Because Josh’s parents are going away, and we were thinking about having a thing at his place on Saturday night, after the dance, and all. You should come."

"Huh," I said. "Well, I don’t—"

"She should totally come," Lana said, stabbing at a cherry tomato with her fork. "Shouldn’t she, Josh?"

Josh was shoveling chili into his mouth using Doritos instead of a spoon. "Sure," he said with his mouth full. "She should come."

"It’s going to be so
cool,"
Lana said. "Josh’s place is like
great.
It’s got six bedrooms. On Park Avenue. And there’s a Jacuzzi in the master bedroom. Isn’t there a Jacuzzi, Josh?"

Josh said, "Yeah, there’s—"

Pierce, a member of Josh’s entourage, and a six-foot-two-inch rower, interrupted. "Hey, Richter, remember after the last dance? When Bonham-Allen passed out in your mom’s Jacuzzi? That was
rad."

Lana giggled. "Oh, God! She chugged that whole bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. Remember, Josh? She drank practically the whole thing herself—what a hog!—and then she wouldn’t stop throwing up."

"Major vomitage," Pierce agreed.

"She had to have her stomach pumped," Lana said to Tina and me. "The paramedics said if Josh hadn’t phoned them when he did she’d have died."

We all turned to look at Josh. He said, modestly, "It was
way
uncool."

Lana stopped giggling. "It was," she said, all solemn now that Josh Richter had declared the incident uncool.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to say about that, so I just said, "Wow."

"So," Lana said. She ate a shred of lettuce and swished some water around in her mouth. "Are you coming, or not?"

"I’m sorry," I said. "I can’t."

A lot of Lana’s friends, who’d been talking among themselves, stopped talking and looked at me. Josh’s friends, however, went right on eating.

"You
can’t?"
Lana said, making this very astonished face.

"No," I said. "I can’t."

"What do you mean, you
can’t?"

I thought about lying. I could have said something like, Lana, I can’t go because I have to have dinner with the prime minister of Iceland. I could have said, I can’t go because I have to go christen a cruise ship. There were all sorts of excuses I could have made up. But for once, for once in my stupid life, I went and told the truth.

"I can’t go," I said, "because my mom wouldn’t let me go to a party like that."

Oh, my God. Why did I say that? Why, why, why? I should have lied. I totally should have lied. Because how did I sound, saying something like that? Uh, like a total freak. Worse than a freak. A dork. A grade A nerd.

I don’t know what compelled me to tell the truth in the first place. It wasn’t even the
real
truth. I mean, it was
a
truth, but it wasn’t the
real
reason I was saying no. I mean, it’s true there was no way my mom was going to
let
me go to a party in a boy’s apartment when his parents are out of town. Even with a bodyguard. But the real reason, of course, is that I wouldn’t know how to
act
at a party like that. I mean, I’ve heard about these kinds of parties. There are like
whole rooms
reserved for people to go into to make out. We’re talking major French kissing. Maybe even MORE than French kissing. Maybe even like above-the-waist touching. Maybe even below-the-waist touching. I don’t know for sure, because no one I know has ever been to one of those parties. No one I know is popular enough to get invited.

Plus everybody drinks. But I don’t drink, and I don’t have anybody to make out with. So what would I
do
there?

Lana looked at me, and then she looked at her friends, and then she burst out laughing. Loud. I mean, REALLY loud.

Well, I guess I can’t really blame her.

"Oh my God," Lana said when she had gotten over laughing so hard that she couldn’t talk. "You can’t be serious."

I knew right then Lana had just latched upon a whole new thing to torture me about. I didn’t really care so much about me, but I felt bad for Tina Hakim Baba, who’d managed to keep such a low profile for so long. Suddenly, because of me, she was being sucked into the middle of the popular girl torture zone.

"Oh my God," Lana said. "Are you kidding me?"

"Um," I said. "No."

"Well, you’re not supposed to tell her the
truth,"
Lana said, all snotty again.

I didn’t know what she was talking about.

"Your mom.
Nobody
tells their mom the
truth.
You tell her you’re spending the night at a girlfriend’s house.
Duh."

Oh.

She meant lie. To my mom. Lana had obviously never met my mom.
Nobody
lies to my mom. You just can’t. Not about something like that. No way.

So I said, "Look, it’s not like I don’t appreciate being asked, and all, but I really don’t think I can come. Besides, I don’t even drink. . . . "

Okay,
that
was another big mistake.

Lana looked at me like I’d just said I’d never watched
Party of Five,
or something. She went: "You don’t
drink?"

I just looked at her. The truth is, at Miragnac I do drink. We drink wine with dinner every night. That’s just what you do in France. You don’t drink it for
fun,
though. You drink it because it goes with the food. It’s supposed to make the foie gras taste better. I wouldn’t know about that, since I don’t eat foie gras, but I can tell you from experience that wine goes better with goat cheese than Dr Pepper does.

I certainly wouldn’t chug a whole bottle of it, though, not even on a dare. Not even for Josh Richter.

So I just shrugged and went, "No. I try to be respectful of my body and not put a whole lot of toxins into it."

Lana snorted at that, but across from her—beside me—Josh Richter swallowed the mouthful of burger he was chewing and said, "I can respect that."

Lana’s mouth dropped open. So, I’m sorry to say, did mine. Josh Richter respected something
I
had said? Are you
kidding
me?

But he looked perfectly serious. More than serious. He looked the way he had that day at Bigelows, like he could see into my soul with those electric blue eyes of his. . . .  Like he already
had
seen into my soul. . . . 

I guess Lana didn’t notice her boyfriend looking into my soul, though. Because she said, "God, Josh. You drink more’n anybody else in this whole
school."

Josh turned his head and looked at her with those hypnotic eyes. He said, without smiling, "Well, maybe I should quit, then."

Lana started laughing. She said, "Oh, right! That’ll happen!"

Josh didn’t laugh, though. He just went on looking at her.

That’s when I started to get the heebie-jeebies. Josh just kept staring at Lana. I was glad he wasn’t staring at
me
like that; those blue eyes of his are no joke.

I got up real fast and grabbed my tray. Tina, seeing what I was doing, did the same.

"Well," I said, "bye."

Then we booked out of there.

On the way to drop off our trays, Tina was like, "What was
that
all about?" and I said I didn’t know. But I know one thing for sure:

For once, I’m kind of glad I’m not Lana Weinberger.

More Thursday, French

When I went to my locker after lunch to get my books for French, Josh was there. He was sort of leaning on his closed locker door, looking around. When he saw me coming, he straightened up and went, "Hey."

And then he smiled. A big smile that showed all of his white teeth. His perfectly straight white teeth. I had to look away, those teeth were so perfect and so blindingly white.

I said, "Hey," back. I was really embarrassed and all, since I had sort of seen him fighting with Lana a few minutes before. I figured he was probably waiting for her, and that the two of them would make up and probably French kiss all over the place, so I tried to work my combination as quickly as possible and get the heck out of there so I wouldn’t have to watch.

But Josh started
talking
to me. He said, "I really agree with what you said in the caf just now. You know, about respecting your body and everything. I think that’s really, you know, a cool attitude."

I could feel my face start to burn. It was sort of like I was on fire. I concentrated on not dropping anything as I moved books around in my locker. It’s too bad my hair is so short now. I couldn’t duck my head to hide the fact that I was blushing. "Huh," I said, real intelligently.

"So," Josh said, "are you going to the dance with anyone, or not?"

I dropped my Algebra book. It went skittering across the hall. I stooped down to pick it up.

"Um," I said, by way of answering his question.

I was down on my hands and knees, picking up old worksheets that had slid out of my Algebra book, when I saw these knees covered in gray flannel bend. Then Josh’s face was right next to mine.

"Here," he said, and handed me my favorite pencil, the one with the feathery pom-pom on the end.

"Thanks," I said. Then I made the mistake of looking into his too-blue eyes.

"No," I said, real faintly, because that’s how his eyes made me feel: faint. "I’m not going to the dance with anyone."

Then the bell rang.

Josh said, "Well, see you." And then he left.

I am still in shock.

Josh Richter
spoke
to me. He actually
spoke
to me.
Twice.

For the first time in like a month, I don’t care that I’m flunking Algebra. I don’t care that my mom is dating one of my teachers. I don’t care that I’m the heir to the throne of Genovia. I don’t even care that my best friend and I aren’t speaking.

I think Josh Richter might
like
me.

HOMEWORK

Algebra: ??? Can’t remember!!!

English: ??? Ask Shameeka

World Civ: ??? Ask Lilly. Forgot. Can’t ask Lilly. She’s not speaking to me.

G & T: none

French: ???

Biology: ???

God, just because a boy might like me, I completely lose my head. I disgust myself.

Thursday Night

Grandmère says: "Well, of course the boy likes you. What wouldn’t he like? You are turning out very well, thanks to Paolo’s handiwork and my tutelage."

Geez, Grandmère, thanks. Like it would be impossible for any guy to like me for
me,
and not because all of a sudden I’m a princess with a $200 haircut.

I think I sort of hate her.

I mean it. I know it’s wrong to hate people, but I really do sort of hate my grandmother. At least, I strongly dislike her. I mean, besides the fact that she’s totally vain and thinks only about herself, she’s also kind of mean to people.

Like tonight, for instance:

Grandmère decided that for my lesson today we would go to dinner somewhere outside of the hotel so she could teach me how to deal with the press. Only there wasn’t a whole lot of press around when we went outside, just some kid reporter from
Tiger Beat,
or something. I guess all the real reporters had gone home to get their dinner. (Plus it’s no fun for the press to stalk you when you’re ready for them. It’s only when you least expect them that they come around. This is how they get their kicks, at least as far as I can figure out.)

Anyway, I was pretty happy about this, because who needs the press around, yelling questions and setting off flashbulbs in your face? Believe me, as it is, I see big purple splotches everywhere I go.

But then as I was getting into the car Hans had brought around, Grandmère said, "Wait one moment," and went back inside. I thought maybe she’d forgotten her tiara or something, but she came back out a minute later looking no different than before.

But then, when we pulled up in front of the restaurant, which was the Four Seasons, there were all these reporters there! At first I thought somebody important had to be inside, like Shaquille O’Neal or Madonna, but then they all started taking pictures of me and yelling "Princess Amelia, how does it feel to grow up in a single-parent household, then find out your mom’s ex has three hundred million dollars?" and "Princess, what kind of running shoes do you wear?"

I totally forgot my whole fear of confrontation thing. I was mad. I turned to Grandmère in the car, and I said, "How did they know we were coming here?"

Grandmère just dug around in her purse for her cigarettes. "Now, what did I do with that lighter?" she asked.

"You called them, didn’t you?" I was so mad, I could hardly even see straight. "You called and told them we were coming here."

"Don’t be ridiculous," Grandmère said. "I had no time to call all these people."

"You didn’t have to. You’d just have to call one, and they’d all follow. Grandmère,
why?"

Grandmère lit her cigarette. I hate when she smokes in the car. "This is an important part of being a royal, Amelia," she said between puffs. "You must learn to handle the press. Why are you taking on so?"