The Princess Diaries (9 page)

Then my dad asked me if I knew what a compromise was, and I said yes, of course, I’m not in like the third grade anymore, so he pulled out this piece of paper, and on it we all drafted what my mom calls the Thermopolis-Renaldo Compromise. It goes like this:

I, the undersigned, Artur Christoff Phillipe Gerard Grimaldi Renaldo, agree that my sole offspring and heir, Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo, may finish out her high school tenure at Albert Einstein School for Boys (made coeducational circa 1975) without interruption, save for Christmas and summer breaks, which she will spend without complaint in the country of Genovia.

I asked if that meant no more summers at Miragnac, and he said yes. I couldn’t believe it. Christmas and summer, free of Grandmère? That would be like going to the dentist, only instead of having cavities filled I’d just get to read
Teen People
and suck up a lot of laughing gas! I was so happy, I hugged him right there. But unfortunately, it turned out there was more to the agreement:

I, the undersigned, Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo, agree to fulfill the duties of heir to Artur Christoff Phillipe Gerard Grimaldi Renaldo, prince of Genovia, and all that such a role entails, including but not exclusive to, assuming the throne upon the latter’s demise and attending functions of state at which the presence of said heir is deemed essential.

All of that sounded pretty good to me, except the last part. Functions of state? What were they?

My dad got all vague: "Oh, you know. Attending the funerals of world leaders, opening balls, that sort of thing."

Hello? Funerals? Balls? Whatever happened to smashing bottles of champagne against ocean liners, and going to Hollywood premieres, and that kind of thing?

"Well," my dad said, "Hollywood premieres aren’t really all they’re pegged up to be. Flashbulbs going off in your face, that kind of thing. Terribly unpleasant."

Yeah, but
funerals?
Balls?
I don’t even know how to put on lip liner, let alone curtsy. . . . 

"Oh, that’s all right," my dad said, putting the cap back on his pen. "Grandmère will take care of that."

Yeah, right. What can
she
do? She’s in France!

Ha! Ha! Ha!

Saturday Night

I can’t even believe what a loser I am. I mean, Saturday night, alone with my DAD!

He actually tried to talk me into going to see
Beauty and the Beast,
like he felt sorry for me because I didn’t have a date!

I finally had to say, "Look, Dad, I am not a child anymore. Even the prince of Genovia can’t get tickets to a Broadway show at a minute’s notice on a Saturday night."

He was just feeling left out because Mom had taken off on another date with Mr. Gianini. She wanted to cancel on him, given all the upheaval that has occurred in my life over the past twenty-four hours, but I totally made her go because I could see her lips getting smaller and smaller the more time she spent with Dad. Mom’s lips only get small when she’s trying to keep herself from saying something, and I think what she wanted to say to my dad was
"Get out! Go back to your hotel! You’re paying six hundred dollars a night for that suite! Can’t you go stay in it?"

My dad drives my mom completely insane because he’s always going around, digging her bank statements out from the big salad bowl where she throws all our mail, and trying to tell her how much she would save in interest if she would just transfer funds out of her checking account and into a Roth IRA.

So even though she felt like she should stay home, I knew if she did she’d explode, so I said go, please go, and that Dad and I would discuss what it’s like to govern a small principality in today’s economic market. Only when Mom came out in her datewear, which included this totally hot black minidress from Victoria’s Secret (my mom hates shopping, so she buys all her clothes from catalogs while she’s soaking in the tub after a long day of painting), my dad started to choke on this ice cube. I guess he had never seen my mom in a minidress before—back in college, when they were going out, all she ever wore were overalls, like me—because he drank down his scotch and soda really fast and then said, "
That’s
what you’re wearing?" which made my mom go, "What’s wrong with it?" and look at herself all worriedly in the mirror.

She looked totally fine; in fact, she looked much better than she usually did, which I guess was the problem. I mean, it sounds weird to admit, but my mom can be a total Betty when she puts her mind to it. I can only
wish
that someday I’ll be as pretty as my mom. I mean,
she
doesn’t have Yield sign hair or a flat chest or size-ten shoes. She is way hot, as far as moms go.

Then the buzzer rang and Mom ran out because she didn’t want Mr. Gianini to come up and meet her ex, the prince of Genovia. Which was understandable, since he was still choking and looked sort of funny. I mean, he looked like a red-faced bald man in a cashmere sweater coughing up a lung. I mean,
I
would have been embarrassed to admit I had ever had sex with him, if I were her.

Anyway, it was good for me that she didn’t buzz Mr. Gianini up, because I didn’t want him asking me in front of my parents why I hadn’t gone to his review session on Friday.

So then, after they were gone, I tried to show my dad how much better suited I am for life in Manhattan than in Genovia by ordering some really excellent food. I got us an insalata caprese, ravioli al funghetto, and a pizza margherita, all for under twenty bucks, but I swear, my dad wasn’t a bit impressed! He just poured himself another scotch and soda and turned on the TV. He didn’t even notice when Fat Louie sat down next to him. He started petting him like it was nothing. And my dad claims to be
allergic
to cats.

And then, to top it all off, he didn’t even want to talk about Genovia. All he wanted to do was watch sports. I’m not kidding. Sports. We have seventy-seven channels, and all he would watch were the ones showing men in uniforms chasing after a little ball. Forget the Dirty Harry movie marathon. Forget Pop-Up Videos. He just turned on the sports channel and stared at it, and when I happened to mention that Mom and I usually watch whatever is on HBO on Saturday nights, he just turned up the volume!!!

What a baby.

And you think that’s bad? You should have seen him when the food got here. He made Lars frisk the deliveryman before he would let me buzz him up! Can you believe it? I had to give Antonio a whole extra dollar to make up for the indignity of it all. And then my dad sat down and ate, without saying a word, until, after another scotch and soda, he fell asleep, right on the futon, with Fat Louie on his lap!

I guess being a prince and having had testicular cancer can really make a person think he’s something special. I mean, God forbid he should share some quality time with his only daughter, the heir to his throne.

So here I am again, home on a Saturday night. Not that I’m ever NOT home on a Saturday night, except when I’m with Lilly. Why am I so unpopular? I mean, I know I look weird and stuff, but I really try to be nice to people, you know? You’d think people would value me as a human being and invite me to their parties just because they like my company. It’s not MY fault my hair sticks out the way it does, any more than it’s Lilly’s fault her face looks sort of squished.

I tried to call Lilly a zillion times, but her phone was busy, which meant Michael was probably home working on his ’zine. The Moscovitzes are trying to have a second line installed so that people who call them can actually get through once in a while, but the phone company says it doesn’t have any more 212 numbers to give out. Lilly’s mom says she refuses to have two separate area codes in the same apartment and that if she can’t have 212 she’ll just buy a beeper. Besides, Michael will be leaving for college next fall, and then their phone problems will be solved.

I really wanted to talk to Lilly. I mean, I haven’t told her anything about the princess thing, and I’m not going to,
ever,
but sometimes, even without telling her what’s bothering me, talking to Lilly makes me feel better. Maybe it’s just knowing that somebody else my age is also stuck at home on a Saturday night. I mean, most of the other girls in our class date. Even Shameeka has started dating. She’s been quite popular since she developed breasts over the summer. True, her curfew is ten o’clock, even on weekends, and she has to introduce her date to her mom and dad, and her date has to provide a detailed itinerary of exactly where they’re going and what they’ll be doing, besides showing two pieces of photo ID for Mr. Taylor to photocopy before he’ll let Shameeka go out of the house with him.

But still, she’s
dating.
Somebody
asked her out.

Nobody has ever asked me out.

It was pretty boring, watching my dad snore, even though it was fairly comical the way Fat Louie kept glancing at him, all annoyed, every time he inhaled. I had already seen all the Dirty Harry movies, and there was nothing else on. I decided to try instant messaging Michael, telling him I really needed to talk to Lilly and would he please go off-line so I could call her.

CRACKING:
WHAT DO YOU WANT, THERMOPOLIS?

FTLOUIE:
I WANT TO TALK TO LILLY. PLEASE GO OFF-LINE SO I CAN CALL HER.

CRACKING:
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO TALK TO HER ABOUT?

FTLOUIE:
NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. JUST GO OFF-LINE, PLEASE. YOU CAN’T HOG ALL THE LINES OF COMMUNICATION TO YOURSELF. IT ISN’T FAIR.

CRACKING:
NO ONE EVER SAID LIFE WAS FAIR, THERMOPOLIS. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HOME, ANYWAY? WHAT’S THE MATTER? DREAMBOY DIDN’T CALL?

FTLOUIE:
WHO’S DREAMBOY?

CRACKING:
YOU KNOW, YOUR POSTNUCLEAR ARMAGEDDON LIFE-MATE OF CHOICE, JOSH RICHTER.

Lilly told him! I can’t believe she told him! I’m going to kill her.

FTLOUIE:
WOULD YOU PLEASE GO OFF-LINE SO I CAN CALL LILLY????

CRACKING:
WHAT’S THE MATTER, THERMOPOLIS? DID I STRIKE A NERVE?

I logged off. He can be such a jerk sometimes.

But then about five minutes later the phone rang, and it was Lilly. So I guess even though Michael’s a jerk, he can be a nice jerk when he wants to be.

Lilly’s very upset about how her parents are violating her First Amendment right to free speech by not letting her make the episode of her show dedicated to her feet. She is going to call the ACLU as soon as it opens on Monday morning. Without her parents’ financial support, which they have currently revoked,
Lilly Tells It Like It Is
cannot go on. It costs about $200 per episode, if you include the cost of tape and all. Public access is only accessible to people with cash.

Lilly was so upset that I didn’t feel like yelling at her about telling Michael that I chose Josh. Now that I think about it, it’s probably just better that way.

My life is a convoluted web of lies.

Sunday, October 5

I can’t believe Mr. Gianini told her. I can’t believe he told my mother I skipped his stupid review session on Friday!!!!

Hello?
Do I have no rights here? Can’t I skip a review session and not get finked on by my mother’s boyfriend?

I mean, it’s not like my life isn’t bad enough: I’m already deformed,
and
I have to be a princess. Do I have to have my every activity reported upon by my Algebra teacher????

Thanks a lot, Mr. Gianini. Thanks to you, I got to spend my entire Sunday having the quadratic formula drilled into me by my demented father, who kept rubbing his bald head and screaming in frustration when he found out I don’t know how to multiply fractions.

Hello? May I remind everyone that I’m supposed to have Saturday and Sunday OFF from school?

AND Mr. Gianini had to go and tell my mother there’s going to be a pop quiz tomorrow. I mean, I guess that was kind of nice of him and all, to give me a heads-up, but you’re not supposed to study for a pop quiz. The whole point is to test what you’ve retained.

Then again, since I’ve apparently retained nothing mathematical since about the second grade, I guess I can’t really blame my dad for being so mad. He said if I don’t pass Algebra he’s going to make me go to summer school. So then I pointed out that summer school was fine by me, since I’d already agreed to spend summers in Genovia. So then he said I’d have to go to summer school in GENOVIA!

I am so sure. I met some kids who went to school in Genovia and they didn’t even know what a number line was. And they measure everything by kilos and centimeters. As if metric wasn’t so totally over!

But just in case, I’m not taking any chances. I wrote out the quadratic formula on the white rubber sole of my Converse high-top, right where it curves in between my heel and my toes. I’ll wear them tomorrow and cross my legs and take a peek if I get stuck.

Monday, October 6, 3 a.m.

I’ve been up all night, worrying about getting caught cheating. What will happen if someone sees I have the quadratic formula written on my shoe? Will I be expelled? I don’t want to be expelled! I mean, even though everybody at Albert Einstein High School thinks I’m a freak, I’m sort of getting used to it. I don’t want to have to start over at a whole new school. I’ll have to wear the scarlet mark of being a cheater for the rest of my high school career!

And what about college? I might not get into college if it goes down on my permanent record that I’m a cheater.

Not that I want to go to college. But what about Greenpeace? I’m sure Greenpeace doesn’t want cheaters. Oh my God, what am I going to do???