Meg Cabot: Sweet Sixteen Princess

I was like, "No. Why?"

"Because you keep looking at me."

Busted! How embarrassing!

"Sorry," I muttered into my Diet Coke, hoping he wouldn't notice how I was blushing. Only how could he not, under the unforgiving glare of the fluorescent overheads? (Note to self: Look into cost of getting new, more flattering lighting in caf.) "I was just... checking something."

"Checking what?"

"Nothing," I said hastily, and dug into my bean salad.

"Mia," J.P. started to say, in a soft—but deep- voice, that (not surprisingly, considering the fact that Boris, across the table, had his violin out, and was showing Tina, Ling Su, and Perin how easy it was to pluck out the chords to the Foo Fighters' "Best of You") only I could hear. "Do you-"

But he never got to finish whatever it was he was going to say to me, because at that moment Lilly returned.

"Can you believe they were out of mac and cheese?" she asked. "I had to settle for four slices of bread and a bag of Doritos." She seemed to over- come her disappointment pretty quickly, though, if how fast she chowed down those Doritos is any indication.

I wonder what J. P. was going to say to me?

I think Tina is definitely right. One of these days, he's going to blow like Mount Vesuvius. There will be no controlling J. P.'s eruption of passion when it finally happens.

Thursday, 7 p.m., April 29, limo home from the Plaza

be attacked by this woman with purple hair in a pair of lowriders who went, "Oh, great, she's here," and tried to stick a portable microphone pack down the back of my shirt.

"What are you DOING?" I demanded.

Fortunately Lars was with me, and he stepped in front of the woman and said, looking down at her all menacingly, "May I help you?"

Ms. Purple Hair had to crane her neck to see Lars's face. Apparently she didn't like what she saw up there, since she took a few stumbling steps backward and went, "Urn... Lewis? We've got a slight ... or, I guess I should say, big—really big- problem."

Which is when this skinny guy in a pair of fancy red eyeglasses came hurrying out of Grandmère's living room, going, "Oh, great, she's here. Princess Mia, I'm so glad to meet you. I'm Lewis, and this is my assistant, Janine—" He indicated the purple- haired woman, who was still staring up at Lars like she was looking at King Kong, or someone, and seemed unable to utter a sound. "If you'd just let Janine put your mic on, we can go ahead and get started."

I didn't bother asking Lewis what it was we could go ahead and get started. Instead, I went, "Excuse me," and walked past him, and right up to Grand- mère, who was sitting in her pink Louis XV chair with her hair all freshly set, her makeup perfect, and a trembling, nearly hairless toy poodle in her lap.

"Oh, Amelia, good, you're here," she said.

"Where's your mic?"

"Grandmère," I said, noticing for the first time the cameraman hovering by her shoulder. "What is going on? Who are these people? Why is that man filming us?"

"He isn't going to be able to use any of the foot- age, Mia, if you don't put a mic on," Grandmère said irritably. "Janine! Janine, would you please put a mic on her?"

Lewis came in, bobbing his spiky-haired head.

"Um, yes, your Highness, well, Janine tried, see, but there appears to be a problem—"

"What problem?" Grandmère demanded imperi- ously.

"She, urn," Lewis said, looking scared. But not of Lars. Of Grandmère. "Wouldn't let Janine put it on her."

Grandmère swung the evil eye she'd been focus- ing on Lewis onto me.

"Amelia," she said coldly. "Kindly allow the violet-haired young lady to put a microphone on you, so that we can get this out of the way. I have a dinner engagement I don't care to miss."

"Nobody's putting anything on me," I said, so loudly that Rommel, in Grandmère's lap, put his ears back and whimpered, "until someone explains to me what's going on."

"Oh, sorry," Lewis said, looking mortified. "I thought you knew. I had no idea. Janine and I—oh, and that's Rafe, with the camera"—Rafe, a burly guy in a bandanna, waved at me from behind his camera lens—"are from MTV, and you're currently being dinner date waiting. Mr. Castro is a very impatient man."

I took a deep breath. Then I went—even though I really, really didn't want to know—"What sweet sixteen birthday party?"

"The one I am throwing for you," Grandmère said. "I shall be flying you and one hundred of your closest friends in the royal jet to Genovia, where you'll be met at the airport by horse-drawn carriages and taken immediately to the palace for a champagne brunch, followed by an all-expenses-paid shopping trip to boutiques such as Chanel and Louis Vuitton on the Rue de Prince Phillipe for the girls, and a trip to the Genovian beach for private jet ski lessons for the boys. Then it's back to the palace for massages and fashion and beauty makeovers. Then everyone is invited to a black-tie ball in your honor, at which Destiny's Child, who have agreed to reunite for one night only on your behalf, will perform their great- est hits. After which I will have everyone flown home the following morning so that they arrive back in America in time for school on Monday."

I could only stare at her. I knew my mouth was open. I also knew that Rafe was filming the whole thing.

But I couldn't close my mouth. And I couldn't summon the words to ask Rafe to put his camera down.

Because I was totally FREAKED!!!!

Champagne brunches? All-expenses-paid shopping trips to Louis Vuitton? Massages? Destiny's Child?

One hundred of my closest friends?

I don't even KNOW one hundred people, much less have that many friends.

"It's going to be spectacular," Lewis said, pulling up a chair so he could peer at me more closely through the lenses of his red-framed glasses—which kind of resembled plastic scissor handles, I noticed. "It'll be the most fantastic episode of My Super Sweet Sixteen ever. We're even changing the name of the series just for your episode . . . we're calling it My Super ROYAL Sweet Sixteen. Your party, Princess, is going to make every other party ever featured on this show look like a five-year-old's birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese."

"And," Grandmère said—up close, I could see that she had really layered on the pancake makeup for the benefit of the camera—"it will attract mil- lions of eager tourists to Genovia, once they've seen all that our little country has to offer by way of exclusive, high-end shopping, world-class entertainment, seaside recreation opportunities, fine dining, luxury accommodations, and old-world hospitality."

I looked from Grandmère to Lewis and then back again, my mouth still open.

Then I jumped up and ran for the door.

Thursday, April 29, the loft

Well, who wouldn't have run? This has got to be, hands down, the most disturbing thing she's ever done. Seriously. I mean, MTV? My Super ROYAL Sweet Sixteen? Has she lost her mind?

She called Mom to complain, of course. About me. She says I'm being selfish and ungrateful. She says all I ever think about is myself, and that this is a tremendous opportunity for Genovia to finally get some good press after all the negative news stories about it lately, considering the snail thing and almost getting thrown out of the EU, and all. She says if I really cared about the country over which I will someday rule, I would accept her generous gift and agree to be filmed doing so.

And I DO really care about Genovia. I DO.

BUT I DO NOT WANT A SWEET SIXTEEN BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!!!

And I particularly do not want one that is going to be BROADCAST AROUND THE COUNTRY ON MTV!!!!!!!

Why is that so hard for people to understand????

At least Mom's on my side. When she heard what Grandmère (and MTV) had planned, her lips got all small, the way they do when she's really, really mad. Then she said, "Don't worry, honey. I'll take care of it."