Meg Cabot - Mia Goes Fourth

I don't want to hear any arguing about it.'

Argue about it? How could I argue about something I hadn't even begun to understand?

'Of course,' the saleslady was saying, with a big smile. 'Come with me, won't you, Your Highnesses?'

'Friday night?' I cried, that part, at least, of what was going on beginning to sink in. 'Friday night? Grandmere,

I can't go to any ball on Friday night. I already made plans with—'

But Grandmere just put her hand in the centre of my back and pushed.

And then I was tripping after the saleslady, who didn't even blink an eye, as if princesses in combat boots go tripping

after her all the time.

And now I am sitting in Grandmere's limo on my way back to school, and all I can think about is the number of people

I would like to thank for my current predicament, foremost among which is my mother, for forgetting to tell me that she

already gave Grandmere permission to drag me to this thing; the Contessa Trevanni, for having a black-and-white ball in

the first place; the salespeople at Chanel, who, although they are very nice, are really all just a bunch of enablers, as they

have enabled my grandma to garb me in a white, diamante ball gown and drag me to something I have no desire to attend

in the first place; my father, for setting his mother loose upon the hapless city of Manhattan without anyone to supervise her;

and of course Grandmere herself, for completely ruining my life.

Because when I told her, as the Chanel people were throwing yards of fabric over me, that I cannot possibly attend

Contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball this Friday night, as that is the night Michael and I are supposed to have our

first date, she responded by giving me a big lecture about how a princess's first duty is to her people. Her heart,

Grandmere says, must always come second.

I tried to explain how this date could not be postponed or rescheduled, as Star Wars would only be showing at the Screen Room that night, and that after that they would go back to showing Moulin Rouge, which I can't see because I heard

someone dies at the end.

But Grandmere refused to see that my date with Michael was anywhere near as important as Contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball. Apparently Contessa Trevanni is a very socially prominent member of the Monaco royal family,

besides being some kind of distant cousin (who isn't?) of ours. My not attending her black-and-white ball here in the city

with all the other debutantes would be a slight from which the royal house of Renaldo might never recover.

I pointed out that my not attending Star Wars with Michael will be a slight from which my relationship with my boyfriend

might never recover. But Grandmere said only that if Michael really loves me, he'll understand when I have to cancel.

'And if he doesn't,' Grandmere said, exhaling a plume of grey smoke from the Gitanes she was sucking down, 'then he

was never appropriate consort material to begin with.'

Which is very easy for Grandmere to say. She hasn't been in love with Michael since the first grade. She doesn't spend

hours and hours attempting to write poems befitting his greatness. She doesn't know what it is to love, since the only

person Grandmere has ever been in love with in her entire life is herself.

Well, it's true.

And now we are pulling up to the school. It is lunchtime. In a minute I will have to go inside and explain to Michael how I cannot make it to our first date, or it will cause an international incident from which the country over which I will one day

rule may never recover.

Why couldn't Grandmere just have shot me instead?

Wednesday, January 20,

Gifted and Talented

I couldn't tell him.

I mean, how could I? Especially when he was being so nice to me during lunch. Everybody in the whole school, it seemed, knew that Grandmere had come and taken me away during second period. In her chinchilla cape, with those eyebrows,

and Rommel at her side, how could anyone have missed her? She is as conspicuous as Cher.

Everyone was all concerned, you know, about the supposed illness in my family. Michael especially. He was all, 'Is there anything I can help with? Your Algebra homework, or something? I know it isn't much, but it's the least I can do . . .'

How could I tell him the truth - that my father wasn't sick; that my grandmother had dragged me off in the middle of school

to take me shopping? Shopping for a dress to wear at a ball to which he was not invited, and which was to take place

during the exact time we were supposed to have been enjoying dinner and a space fantasy set in a galaxy far far away?

I couldn't. I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell anyone. I just sat there at lunch being all quiet. People mistook my lack of talkativeness for extreme mental duress. Which it was, actually, only not for the reasons they thought. Basically all I was thinking as I sat there was I HATE MY GRANDMOTHER. I HATE MY GRANDMOTHER. I HATE MY GRANDMOTHER. I HATE MY GRANDMOTHER.

I really, really do.

As soon as lunch was over, I sneaked off to one of the pay phones outside the auditorium doors and called home. I knew

my mom would be there instead of at her studio because she is still working on the nursery walls. She'd gotten to the third

wall, on which she was depicting a highly realistic painting of the fall of Saigon.

'Oh, God, Mia,' she said, when I asked her if there wasn't something she'd possibly forgotten to mention to me. 'I am so

sorry. Your grandmother called during Ab Fab. You know how I get during Ab Fab.''

'Mom,' I said, dirough gritted teeth. 'Why did you tell her it was OK for me to go to this stupid thing? You told me I could

go out with Michael that night!'

'I did?' My mom sounded bewildered. And why shouldn't she? She clearly did not remember the conversation she'd had

with me about my date with Michael . . . primarily of course because she'd been dead to the world during it. Still, she didn't need to know that. What was important was that she was made to feel as guilty as possible for the heinous crime she had committed. 'Oh, honey. I am so sorry. Well, you're just going to have to cancel Michael. He'll understand.'

'Mom,' I cried. 'He will not! This was supposed to be our first date! You've got to do something!'

'Well,' my mom said, sounding kind of wry. 'I'm a little surprised to hear you're so unhappy about it, sweetheart. You know, considering your whole thing about not wanting to chase Michael. Cancelling your first date with him would definitely fall

under that category.'

'Very funny, Mom,' I said. 'But Jane wouldn't cancel her first date with Mr. Rochester. She just wouldn't call him all the time beforehand, or let him get to second base during it.'

'Oh,' my mom said.

'Look,' I said. 'This is serious. You've got to get me out of this stupid ball!'

But all my mom said was that she'd talk to my dad about it. I knew what that meant, of course. No way was I getting out

of this ball. My dad has never in his life forsaken duty for love.

So now I am sitting here (doing nothing, as usual, because I am neither gifted nor talented), knowing that at some point or another I am going to have to tell Michael our date is cancelled. Only how? How am I going to do it? And what if he's so

mad he never asks me out again?

Worse, what if he asks some other girl to see Star Wars with him? I mean, some girl who knows all the lines you're suppose

to shout at the screen during the movie. Like when Ben Kenobi goes, 'Obi Wan. Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time,' you're supposed to shout, 'How long?' and then Ben goes, 'A very long time.'