Meg Cabot - Princess on the Brink

“What would I want with some geisha girl,” Michael wanted to know, “when I could have you?”

“Geisha girls have sex with you whenever you want,” I pointed out, between sniffles. “I know, I saw that movie.”

“Well,” Michael said. “Actually, now that you mention it, a geisha girl might not be so bad.”

So then I had to hit him. Even though I still wasn’t seeing anything funny in the situation.

I still don’t. It’s a horrible, unfair, completely tragic situation.

Oh, sure, I stopped crying. And when Lars came over and asked if everything was all right, I told him it was.

But it wasn’t.

And it isn’t. Everything will never be all right again.

But I acted like I was okay with it. I mean, I had to, right? I let Michael walk me home, and I even held his hand the whole way. And at the door to the loft, I let him kiss me, while Lars politely pretended to need to tie his shoe at the bottom of the stairs. Which was good because there was also some under-the-bra action going on.

But in a tender way, like in that scene where Jennifer Beals and Michael Nouri are in the abandoned factory inFlashdance.

And when Michael whispered, “Are we okay?” I said, “Yes, we’re okay,” even though I don’t believe we are. At least,I’m not.

And when Michael said, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said, “You do that.”

And then I went inside the loft, walked straight to the fridge, took out the container of macadamia brittle Häagen-Dazs, grabbed a spoon, went into my room, and ate the whole thing.

But I still don’t feel okay.

I don’t think I’ll ever feel okay again.

Tuesday, September 7, 11 p.m.

My mom just tapped on my door and was all, “Mia? Are you in there?”

I said I was, and she opened the door.

“I didn’t even hear you come in,” she said. “Did you have a nice time with—”

Then her voice trailed off, because she’d seen the empty Häagen-Dazs container. And my face.

“Honey,” she said, sinking down onto the bed beside me. “What happened?”

And all of a sudden, I started crying all over again, like I hadn’t just been crying an hour before.

“He’s moving to Japan,” was all I could say. And I flung myself into her arms.

I wanted to tell her a lot more. I wanted to tell her about how it was all my fault, for not sleeping with him (even though I know, deep down inside, that’s not really true). It’s more my fault because I’m a princess—a freaking PRINCESS—and what guy could live up to that, EVER? Except a prince.

The worst part is, being a princess isn’t even something I DID. I mean, it’s not like I saved the president from being shot like Samantha Madison, or found all these missing kids with my psychic powers like Jessica Mastriani, or kept hundreds of tourists from drowning like ten-year-old Tilly Smith did when she was on that beach in Thailand and realized a tsunami was coming because she’d just been studying tsunamis in school, and told all those people to “RUN!”

All I did was get born.

And EVERYONE has done that.

But I couldn’t tell Mom any of that stuff. Because we’ve been through the princess thing before. It’s like Michael said: I’m a princess. I’m going to be one forever. No use complaining about it. It just IS.

So instead I just cried.

It made me feel a little better, I guess. I mean, it’s always nice to get hugged by your mom, no matter how old you get. Moms don’t give off pheromones—at least, I don’t think they do—but they still smell really nice. At least mine does. Like Dove soap and turpentine and coffee. Which mixed together is the second-best smell in the world.

The first being Michael’s neck, of course.

My mom said all the usual mom things, like, “Oh, honey, it will be okay,” and, “A year will go by before you know it,” and, “If Phillipe gets you the new PowerBook with the camera built in, you and Michael can videophone, and it will be like he’s right in the room with you.”

Except that it won’t. Because I won’t be able to smell him.

But when Mr. G came in to see what all the noise was about, I finally pulled myself together, and said I felt better, and not to worry about me. I tried to smile all bravely, and Mom patted me on the head and said that if I’d survived spending so much time with Grandmère, I’d survive this, easy.

But she’s wrong. Spending time with Grandmère is like eating an entire container of macadamia brittle compared to being without Michael for an entire year.

Or more.

ME, A PRINCESS???? YEAH, RIGHT.

A Screenplay by Mia Thermopolis

(first draft)

Scene 14

INT/NIGHT—The penguin tank at the Central Park Zoo. In the blue glow from the water of the illuminated penguin tank, a young girl (MIA) sits alone, frantically writing in her journal.

MIA

(voiceover)

I don’t know where to go or to whom to turn. I can’t go to Lilly’s. She is vehemently opposed to any form of government that is not for the people, by the people. She’s always said that when sovereignty is vested in a single person whose right to rule is hereditary, the principles of social equality and respect for the rights of the individual within a community are irrevocably lost. This is why today, real power has passed from reigning monarchs to constitutional assemblies, making royals such as Queen Elizabeth mere symbols of national unity.

Except in Genovia, apparently.

Wednesday, September 8, Homeroom

Michael told Lilly. I know he told her because when we stopped by the Moscovitzes’ apartment building to pick her up for school this morning, he was standing outside with her, holding a large hot chocolate (with whipped cream) from Starbucks for me. When the limo pulled up and Hans opened the door, Michael leaned in and said, “Good morning. This is for you. Tell me you didn’t change your mind overnight and hate me now.”

Except, of course, I could never hate Michael. Especially when the sun is just coming up all shiny and new and its rays hit his freshly shaved neck and when I lean over to take the hot chocolate and give him a good morning kiss, I smell his Michaely scent, which always seems to make everything seem like it’s going to be okay.

Until he’s out of range for me to smell him anymore, anyway.

Which is definitely what he’s going to be when he’s in Japan.

“I don’t hate you,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Um,” I said. “Something with you?”

“Good answer. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Then he kissed me and got out of the way so that Lilly could get in the car. Which she did with a crabby, “God,move , youass ,” to her brother, since she’s not exactly a morning person.

Then Michael said, “Play nice with the other kids, girls,” and shut the door. And Lilly turned to me and said, “He’s such anass .”

“He totally moved when you asked him to,” I pointed out.

“Not because ofthat ,” Lilly said fiercely. “Because of this stupid Japan thing.”

“If his model works, he’ll end up saving thousands of lives and making millions of dollars,” I said. My hot chocolate was too hot to sip so I blew on it. Only the whipped cream was in the way.

Lilly looked at me, her eyes all big. “Oh my God,” she said. “Are you going to bereasonable about this?”

“I don’t have a choice,” I said. “Do I?”

“I bet if you threw a big enough fit,” Lilly said, “he wouldn’t go.”

“I already did,” I assured her. “There was crying and snot and everything. It didn’t change his mind.”

Lilly just grunted upon hearing this.

“The thing is,” I said. Because I had given this a lot of thought. Like all night long. “He has to go. I don’t want him to, but it’s, like, a thing with him. He feels like he has to prove himself soUs Weekly stops saying I should be dating James Franco instead. Which is stupid, but what can I do about it?”