Meg Cabot - Mia Goes Fourth

Once our boyfriends dump us, anyway.

Friday, January 22, 6 p.m.

Grandmere's Suite at the Plaza

Grandmere made me come here straight after school so that Paolo could start getting us ready for the ball. I didn't know

Paolo makes housecalls, but apparently he does. Only for royalty, he assured me, and Britney.

I explained to him about how I am growing out my hair on account of boys liking long hair better than short hair, and Paolo made some tut-tutting noises, but he slapped some curlers into it to try to get rid of the triangular shape, and I guess it

worked, because my hair looks pretty good. All of me looks pretty good. On the outside, anyway.

Too bad inside, I'm completely busted.

I am trying not to show it, though. You know, because I want Grandmere to think I am having a good time. I mean, I am

only doing this for her. Because she is an old lady and my grandmother and she fought the Nazis and all of that, for which someone has to give her some credit.

I just hope someday she appreciates it. My supreme sacrifice, I mean. But I doubt she ever will. Seventy-something-year-old ladies - particularly dowager princesses -never seem to remember what it was like to be fourteen and in love.

Well, I guess it is time to go. Grandmere has on this slinky black number with gutter all over it. She looks like Diana Ross.

Only with no eyebrows.

She says I look like a snowdrop. Hmmm, just what I always wanted, to look like a snowdrop.

Maybe that's my secret talent. I have the amazing ability to resemble a snowdrop.

My parents must be so proud.

Friday, January 22, 8 p.m.

Bathroom at the Contessa Trevanni's Fifth-Avenue Mansion

Yep. In the bathroom once again, where I always seem to end up at dances. Why is that?

The contessa's bathroom is a little bit overdone. It is nice and everything, but I don't know if I'd have chosen flaming wall-sconces as part of my bathroom decor. I mean, even at the palace, we don't have any flaming wall-sconces. Although

it looks very romantic and Ivanhoe-y and all, it is actually a pretty serious fire hazard, besides being probably a health risk, considering the carcinogens they must be giving off.

But, whatever. That isn't even the, real question — why would anyone have flaming wall-sconces in the bathroom? The real question, of course, is this: if I am supposedly descended from all these strong women - you know, Rosagunde, who strangled that warlord with her braid, and Agnes, who jumped off that bridge, not to mention Grandmere, who allegedly kept the Nazis from trashing Genovia by having Hitler over for tea — why is it that I am such a pushover?

I mean, seriously. I totally fell for Grandmere's whole riff about wanting to show up Elena Trevanni with her pretty and accomplished — yeah, at looking like a snowdrop — granddaughter. I actually felt sorry for her. I had empathy for Grandmere, not realizing then - as I do now - that Grandmere is completely devoid of human emotion, and that the whole

thing was just a charade to trick me into coming so she could parade me around as PRINCE RENE'S NEW GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

To his credit, Rene seems to have known nothing about it.

He looked as surprised as I was when Grandmere presented me to her supposed arch-rival, who, thanks to the skill of

Lana's plastic surgeon dad, looks about thirty years younger than Grandmere, though they are supposedly the same age.

But I think the contessa maybe went a little far with the surgery thing - it is so hard to know when to say 'when', I mean, look

at poor Michael Jackson - because she really does, just like Grandmere said, resemble an anteater. Like her eyes are sort of far apart on account of the skin around them being stretched so tight, which makes her nose look extra long and skinny.

When Grandmere introduced me - 'Contessa, may I present to you my granddaughter, Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo' (she always leaves out the Thermopolis) - I thought everything was going to be all right. Well, not everything, of course, since directly after the ball, I knew I was going to go over to my best friend's house and get dumped by her brother. But you know, everything at the ball.

But then Grandmere added, 'And of course you know Amelia's beau, Prince Pierre Rene Grimaldi Alberto.'

Beau? BEAU??? Rene and I exchanged quick glances. It was only then that I noticed that, standing right behind us in the reception line was none other than Lana Weinberger, her dad, and her mom. RIGHT THERE BEHIND US.

And Lana's mom, I saw, had allowed Lana to wear black instead of white to the black-and-white ball, even though I had been told, on no uncertain terms, that it was unseemly for a girl of my tender years to wear black. And Lana is the same age as me.

Lana, of course, totally overheard Grandmere's remark about me and Rene, and she got this look on her face . . .

Well, let's just say I'm surprised she didn't pull out her mobile then and there and call everyone she knew to tell them that

Mia Thermopolis was two-timing her best friend's brother.

So while I was standing there getting totally red in the face, and probably not resembling a snowdrop any more as much as

a candy cane, the contessa looked down her foot-long nose at me and went, 'So that rascal Rene has finally been snatched

up, and by your granddaughter, Clarisse. How satisfying that must be for you.'

Then Grandmere said, 'Isn't it, though, Elena?' And then to Rene and me she went, 'Come along, children,' and we followed her, Rene looking amused. But me? I was seething.

'I can't believe you did that,' I cried, as soon as we were out of the contessa's earshot.

'Did what, Amelia?' Grandmere asked, nodding to some guy in traditional African garb - a member of the Bengazi royal

family, no doubt.

'Told that woman that Rene and I are going out,' I said, 'when we most certainly are not. Grandmere, how many times do

I have to tell you, I'm going out with Michael Moscovitz!' At least I was until tonight, anyway.

'Rene,' Grandmere said, sweetly. She can be very sweet when she wants to be. 'Be an angel and see if you can find us

some champagne, would you?'

Rene, still looking cynically amused - the way I imagined Mr Rochester must have looked a lot of the time before he went

blind and got his hand chopped off - moved off in search of libation.

'Really, Amelia,' Grandmere said, when he was gone. 'Must you be so rude to poor Rene? I am only trying to make your cousin feel welcome and at home.'

'There is a difference,' I said, 'between making my cousin feel welcome and wanted, and trying to pass him off as my boyfriend!'

'Well, what's so wrong with Rene, anyway?' Grandmere wanted to know. All around us, elegant people in tuxedos and

evening gowns were heading to the dance floor, where a full orchestra was playing that song Audrey Hepburn sang in that movie about Tiffany's. Everyone was dressed in either black or white or both. The contessa's ballroom bore a significant resemblance to the penguin enclosure at the Central Park Zoo, where I had once sobbed my eyes out after discovering the truth about my heritage.

'He's extremely charming,' Grandmere went on, 'and quite cosmopolitan. Not to mention devilishly handsome. How can you possibly prefer a high school boy to a prince?'

'Because, Grandmere,' I said, 'I love him.'

'Love,' Grandmere said, looking towards the big glass ceiling overhead. 'Pfuit '

'Yes, Grandmere,' I said. 'I do. The way you loved Grandpere - and don't try to deny it, because I know you did. Now

you've got to stop harbouring a secret desire to make Prince Rene your grandson-in-law, because it is not going to happen.'