Meg Cabot - Princess Mia

God, I hope that’s not the case. Although if it is, all I can say is, it was good while it lasted.

Friday, September 24, Dr. Knutz’s waiting room

Lana and Trisha insisted on taking me out for what they like to call a Mani-Pedi Time-Out. They said I deserved it, after what Lilly did to me in the caf.

So instead of playing softball during sixth period, I got my toenails and what was left of my fingernails (I haven’t had new acrylic tips put on since I got back from Genovia this summer, and I’ve been biting what remains of my natural nails) painted I’m-Not-Really-a-Waitress red, a color Grandmère insists is totally inappropriate for young girls.

Which is precisely why I picked it.

But I have to admit, after we were done with our forty-five-minute manicure/pedicures, I didn’t feel much better. I know Lana and Trisha were trying.

But there’s just too much drama in my life right now for a simple hand and foot massage (and nail color application) to cure.

Oh. Dr. Knutz is ready to see me now.

I don’t think anyone, even Dr. Knutz, could EVER be ready for me and the disaster that is my life.

Friday, September 24, limo on the way to the Four Seasons

So I poured my heart out to Dr. Knutz, the cowboy therapist, and here is what he said:

“But Genovia already has a prime minister.”

I just looked at him. “No, it doesn’t,” I said.

“Yes, it does,” Dr. Knutz said. “I watched the movies of your life, like you told me to. And I distinctly remember—”

“The movies of my life got that part WRONG,” I said. “Among the many, many other parts they got wrong. They claimed artistic license, or something. They said they had to raise the stakes. As if the stakes in my REAL life aren’t high enough.”

So then Dr. Knutz said, “Oh. I see.” He thought about it for a minute. Then he said, “You know, all of this reminds me of a horse I have, back at the ranch….”

I nearly flung myself out of my chair at him.

“DO NOT TELL ME ABOUT DUSTY AGAIN!” I yelled. “I ALREADY KNOW ABOUT DUSTY!”

“This isn’t about Dusty,” Dr. Knutz said, looking startled. “It’s about Pancho.”

“How many horses do you have, anyway?” I demanded.

“Oh, a few dozen,” Dr. Knutz said. “But that’s not important. What’s important is, Pancho is a bit of a pushover. Anybody who takes him out of his stall and saddles him up, Pancho falls in love with. He’ll rub his head against them, just like a cat, and follow them around…even if they don’t treat him particularly nicely. Pancho is desperate for affection, wants everybody to like him—”

“Okay,” I interrupted. “I get it. Pancho has self-esteem issues. I do, too. But what does this have to do with the fact that my father is trying to keep Princess Amelie’s Bill of Rights from the Genovian people?”

“Nothing,” Dr. Knutz said. “It has to do with the fact that you’re not trying to do anything to stop him.”

I stared at him some more. “How am I supposed to dothat ?”

“Well, that’s for you to figure out,” Dr. Knutz said.

Okay.That got me mad.

“You said the first day I sat in here,” I yelled, “that the only way I was going to get out from the bottom of the dark hole of depression I’ve fallen into was to ask for help. Well, I’m asking you for help…and now you tell me I have to figure it out myself? How much are you getting paid an hour for this, anyway?”

Dr. Knutz regarded me calmly from behind his notepad.

“Listen to what you’ve just told me,” he said. “The boy you love told you he just wants to be friends, and you did nothing. Your best friend humiliated you in front of the entire school, and you did nothing. Your father tells you he isn’t honoring the wishes of your dead ancestor, and you do nothing. I told you the first time we met, no one can help you unless you help yourself. Nothing’s ever going to change for you if you don’t do something every day that—”

“—scares me,” I said. “I KNOW. But how? What am Isupposed to do about all this?”

“It isn’t about what you’resupposed to do, Mia,” Dr. Knutz said, sounding a little frustrated. “What do youwant to do?”

I still didn’t get it. I was like, “I want…I want…I want to do the right thing!”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Dr. Knutz said. “If you want to do the right thing, don’t be like Pancho. Do what Princess Amelie would do!”

WHAT WAS HETALKING ABOUT???

But before I had a chance to figure it out, he went, “Oh, look at that. Our time is up. But this has been a very interesting session. Next week, I’d like to see you with your father again. I have a feeling you two will have some issues that need discussing. And bring along this grandmother of yours,” Dr. Knutz added. “I saw a photo of her on Google. She seems an intriguing woman.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What are you saying? How can I do what Princess Amelie did? Princess Amelie failed. Her bill never got passed. No one ever KNEW about it. No one but me.”

“Bye for now,” Dr. Knutz said.

And shooed me away.

I just don’t get it. My dad is paying this guy to help me with my problems. But all he’s doing is passing the buck, saying I have to solve my own problems.

But isn’t that what he’s getting paid for doing???

And how in God’s name am I supposed to do anything about the Princess Amelie situation? I made my case to Dad, and he totally blew me off. What more can I do?

The worst part of it is, Dr. Knutz got my blood work back from Dr. Fung’s office. The results? Normal. I’m totally normal, in every regard.Better than normal. Like Rocky, I’m in the freaking 99th percentile for my age group, or something. I was hoping at the very least that the fact that I’d started eating meat again would have raised my cholesterol to the point that it could be blamed for my hideous depression.

But my cholesterol is fine.Everything is fine. I’m healthy as a freaking horse.

Ouch. Why did I have to use the word “horse”?

Oh, God. We’re here. I can’t BELIEVE I have to do this stupid Domina Rei thing tonight.

All I can say is, if I get Grandmère into this club, or whatever it is, she better get off my back about my hair.

Pancho? He seriously told me a story about a horse named PANCHO?

Friday, September 24, 9 p.m., ladies’ room, The Waldorf-Astoria

She hates the nail polish.

She’s acting like my wearing it is going to totally ruin her chances of being asked to join this crazy club. She’s more upset about my nail polish than she is about the fact that our family, for centuries now, has essentially been living a lie. It was the first thing I brought up when I got to her suite.

“Grandmère,” I said. “You can’t agree with Dad that ignoring Princess Amelie Virginie’s dying wish is the right thing to do. Can you?”

And she’d rolled her eyes and gone, “Not that again! Your father PROMISED me you’d have forgotten all about that by now.”

Yeah. I noticed that by how he hadn’t returned a single one of my phone calls all day. He was giving me the silent treatment, the same as Lilly.

Well, the same as Lilly until she’d exploded this afternoon, that is.

“But, honestly, Amelia,” Grandmère had gone on. “You can’t expect us to completely alter our lives because of the whim of some four-hundred-year-old dead princess, can you?”

“Amelie didn’t craft her Bill of Rights on a whim, Grandmère. And our lives wouldn’t be altered,” I’d insisted. “We’d still go on just like before. Only we wouldn’t actually be RULING. We’d be letting the PEOPLE rule—or at least CHOOSE who they WANT to rule. Which could very well be Dad, you know—”