Meg Cabot - Princess in Training

So, it IS true. I should have known. I mean, I’d kind of been hoping that Lana was just trying to make me feel bad. But now it looked as if she might actually have been telling the truth.

“You look worried, Mia,” commented Kate, the performance artist who likes to stand up onstage and smear chicken fat on herself to make a statement about the beauty industry.

“She’s always worried,” said Gretchen, a welder who specializes in metal replicas of body parts. Particularly of the male variety. “She’s Mia, remember?”

All the feminist artists laughed uproariously at that, too.

This made me feel bad. Like my mom’s been talking about me behind my back. I mean, I talk about HER behind HER back, of course. But it’s different when your own mother has been talking about YOU.

Clearly, Lilly is not the only one who thinks I’m a baby-licker.

“You spend way too much time freaking out about things, Mia.” Becca, the neon light artist, waved her margarita glass at me knowingly. “You should stop thinking so much. I don’t remember thinking half as much as you do when I was your age.”

“Because you were already on lithium when you were her age,” Kate pointed out.

But Becca ignored her.

“Is it the snails?” Becca wanted to know.

I just blinked at her. “The what?”

“The snails,” she said. “You know, the ones you dumped in the bay. Are you worried about how everyone is upset about them?”

“Um,” I said, wondering if she, like Tina, had seen this on the news. “I guess so.”

“That’s understandable,” Becca said. “I’d be worried, too. Why don’t you take up yoga?” she suggested. “That always helps me to relax.”

“Or watch more TV,” suggested Dee, who enjoys creating totem poles and then dancing around them with pieces of liver strapped beneath her arms.

I couldn’t believe this. I was being told by these intelligent women to watch MORE TV? Clearly, they’re not friends with Karen Martinez.

“Stop picking on Mia.” Windstorm, who happens to be one of my mom’s oldest friends AND a midwife AND a minister AND a professional choreographer, got up to put more ice in the blender. “She’s got a right to think too much and freak out if she wants to. There isn’t anything more stressful than being a fifteen-year-old, with the possible exception of being a fifteen-year-old princess.”

I had never thought of that before. DO I think too much? Do other people not think as much as I do? Except according to Ms. Martinez, I don’t think ENOUGH….

“I guess it must have been one of those delivery boys, slipping a menu under the door,” my mom said, coming back to the table. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” I said, taking my plate and hurrying off to my room. “Have fun, you guys! I mean, women!”

I wonder if Windstorm is right. About my thinking too much. Maybe that’s my problem. I can’t shut my brain off. Maybe other people can, but I can’t. I’ve never actually tried, of course, because who wants to have an empty head? Except for, you know, the Hilton sisters. Because it’s probably easier to party all the time if you aren’t worrying about killer algae or all the petroleum running out.

Still, maybe there’s something to it. I can hardly sleep at night, my mind is so busy whirring away up there, wondering what I’m going to do if aliens come in the night and take over everything, or whatever. I would LOVE to be able to shut my mind off, the way other people seem to be able to. If Windstorm is right, anyway.

Ooooo, Michael’s Instant Messaging me now!

SKINNERBX: So, are we still getting together on Saturday?

Right as Michael asked this, I got another Instant Message.

WOMYNRULE: BL, what are you doing Saturday?

Seriously. Why me? WHY?

FTLOUIE: I can’t talk to you right now. I’m IMing your brother.

WOMYNRULE: Tell him Mom’s turning his room into a shrine to the Reverend Moon.

FTLOUIE: LILLY! GO AWAY!

WOMYNRULE: Just keep Saturday free, okay? It’s important. It has to do with the campaign.

FTLOUIE: I already have plans with your brother on Saturday.

WOMYNRULE: What, are you two going to Do It then, or something?

FTLOUIE: NO WE ARE NOT GOING TO DO IT THEN. WHO TOLD YOU THAT?

WOMYNRULE: No one! Geez! Don’t get the princess panties in a royal twist. Why would you even get so mad about that unless—Wait—ARE YOU GUYS DOING IT???? AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME??????????

FTLOUIE: NO, FOR THE LAST TIME WE ARE NOT DOING IT!!!!

SKINNERBX: Doing what? What are you talking about?

OH, MY GOD.

FTLOUIE: Not you! I meant to send that to Lilly!

SKINNERBX: Wait, is Lilly IMing you right now, too?

WOMYNRULE: I can’t believe you’re Doing It with my brother. That is so gross. You know, he has hair growing out of his toes. Like a hobbit.

FTLOUIE: Lilly! SHUT UP!

SKINNERBX: Is Lilly giving you a hard time? Tell her if she doesn’t cut it out I’ll tell Mom about the time she did the “gravitational experiment” with Grandma’s Hummel figurines.

FTLOUIE: BOTH OF YOU! STOP IT!!!! YOU’RE DRIVING ME INSANE!!!!

FTLOUIE: terminated

Seriously. I’m GLAD I’m a baby-licker if it means Rocky and I will never end up like those two. Thursday, September 10, Homeroom

Oh.

My.

God.

That is all I have to say. Thursday, September 10, PE

They’re even in the gym. I don’t know how she did it. But they’re even HANGING FROM THE ROPES IN THE GYM.

Seriously.

They’re in the showers, too. Encased in plastic sheets, so they won’t get wet.

I know we learned in Health and Safety that it’s physically impossible to die from embarrassment, but I might turn out to be the exception to the rule. Thursday, September 10, Geometry

THEY ARE EVERYWHERE.

GIANT FULL-COLOR HEADSHOTS OF ME IN MY TIARA. WITH MY SCEPTER. From when I got formally introduced to the people of Genovia last December.

And underneath my photo, it says:

VOTE FOR MIA.

Then underneath that:

PIT.

PIT. What does that even MEAN?????

Everyone is talking about them. EVERYONE. I was just sitting here, innocently going over my homework, when Trisha Hayes came in and was all, “Nice try, PIT. But it won’t make any difference. You may be a princess, but Lana is the most popular girl in school. She’s going to decimate you on Monday.”

“Somebody’s been studying up on their vocab,” is what I said to Trisha. Because of her use of the word “decimate.”

But that’s not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was, “IT WASN’T ME!!!! I DIDN’T DO IT!!!! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT PIT MEANS!!!!!”

But I couldn’t. Because everyone was looking at us. Including Mr. Harding. Who took five points off Trisha’s homework for not being in her seat by the time the bell rang.

“You can’t do that,” Trisha had the bad judgment to say to him.

“Uh,” Mr. Harding said. “Excuse me, Miss Hayes, but yes, I can.”

“Not for long,” Trisha said. “When my friend Lana is student council president, she’s going to abolish tardy demerits.”

“And what do you have to say about that, Miss Thermopolis?” Mr. Hardy wanted to know. “Is abolishing tardy demerits part of your campaign strategy, as well?”

“Um,” I said. “No.”

“Really?” Mr. Harding looked way interested. Except that I think he was only interested because he found the whole thing vaguely hilarious. On some weird teacher level. “And why is that?”

“Um,” I said, feeling my ears starting to turn red. That’s because I could tell that everyone in the entire class was staring at us. “Because I thought I might concentrate on stuff that actually matters. Like the lack of choice in vegetarian entrées in the cafeteria. And the cameras they’ve installed outside by Joe, which are a violation of our right to privacy. And the fact that some of the teachers around here don’t grade objectively.”