Meg Cabot - Forever Princess

But it turned out they were all trying to get pictures of ME.

At first it was fine, just…whatever. I had on my new Christian Louboutin boots so I was feeling okay about it. It’s like Lana says…if you have on your CLs, nothing bad can happen to you (shallow…but true).

But then one of them yelled, “Hey, Princess, how does it feel to know your father is going to lose the election…and to your cousin René, who’s never run so much as a Laundromat, let alone a whole country?”

I haven’t had nearly four years of princess lessons (well, on and off) for nothing. It wasn’t like I was unprepared for this. I just said, “No comment.”

Except that might have been a mistake, because, of course, if you sayanything , that just baits them to ask you more, and even though J.P. and Lars and I were trying to walk back to the loft (it’s literally, like, two blocks from the restaurant, so we hadn’t bothered with the limo), the paps crowded all around us, and we couldn’t walk fast enough, especially since my CLs have, like, four-inch heels and I haven’t really practiced walking in them enough and I was kind of teetering in them (just a little) like Big Bird.

So the reporters were totally able to keep up even though I had Lars on one side and J.P. on the other, hustling me along.

“But your dad is losing in the polls,” the “journalist” said. “Come on. That’s gotta hurt. Especially since if you had just kept your mouth shut, none of this would be happening.”

Man! These guys are brutal. Also, their grasp on politics is somewhat lacking.

“I did what was right for the people of Genovia,” I said, trying to keep a pleasant smile plastered across my face, the way Grandmère had taught me. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re just trying to get home—”

“Yeah, guys,” J.P. said, while Lars was opening his coat to make sure his gun showed. Not that this ever scared the paps, because they knew good and well he couldn’t shoot them (although he had, upon occasion, shoulder rolled a few of them). “Just leave her alone, will you?”

“You’re the boyfriend, right?” one of the paps wanted to know. “Is that Abernathy-Reynolds, or Reynolds-Abernathy?”

“Reynolds-Abernathy,” J.P. said. “And quit pushing!”

“The people of Genovia sure do seem to want bloomin’ onions,” another of the paparazzi pointed out. “Don’t they, Princess? How does that make you feel?”

“I’ve been trained in a special technique that can send your nasal cartilage into your brain using only the heel of my hand,” Lars informed the pap. “How does that make YOU feel?”

I know I should be used to this stuff by now. Really, there are other people who have it so much worse than me. I mean, at least the “press” lets me go to and from school in relative anonymity.

Still. Sometimes…

“Is it true Sir Paul McCartney is bringing Denise Richards to your birthday party Monday night, Princess?” one of the reporters yelled.

“Is it true Prince William will be there?” yelled another.

“What about your ex-boyfriend?” yelled a third. “Now that he’s back in—”

That was the exact moment when Lars physically threw me into an empty cab he’d signaled to pull over, and commanded it to take us around SoHo a few times until he was sure we’d shaken off all the reporters (who’ve given up staking out the loft due to the fact that all the residents, including Mom, Mr. G, and me routinely water-balloon-bomb them from above).

All I can say is, thank God J.P. is so busy with his play that he had no idea what that last reporter had been talking about. He no sooner checks the Internet for Google alerts on me (or Michael Moscovitz) than he remembers to eat breakfast. That’s how crazed he is right now.

Anyway, when we got back to the loft, there was no sign of any reporters lurking around (thanks to their having gotten soaked one too many times due to Mom’s expert aim).

That was when J.P. asked if he could come up.

I knew what he wanted, of course. I also knew Mom and Mr. G would be asleep, because they always crash early on Fridays after a long work week.

Really, the last thing I felt like doing after the paparazzi incident was to mess around in my room with my boyfriend.

But as he pointed out (beneath his breath, so Lars couldn’t overhear), it had been ages since we’d been alone together, what with his rehearsal schedule and my princess stuff.

So I said good-bye to Lars at the vestibule and let J.P. come up. I mean, he WAS sweet, defending me from the paparazzi like that.

And he let me have that extra piece of crispy salmon skin, even though I know he wanted it.

I feel terrible about all the lies I’ve told him. Really, I do.

An excerpt fromRansom My Heart by Daphne Delacroix

“I told you not to move!” said the diminutive captor astride Hugo’s back.

Hugo, admiring the slim arch of the foot, the only part of her that he could actually see, decided he ought to apologize now. Surely the girl had a right to be angry; in all innocence, she had come to the spring to bathe, not to be spied upon. And while he was greatly enjoying the feel of her nubile body against him, he was not enjoying her wrath. Better that he calm the spirited wench, and see her back on the road to Stephensgate, where he could make sure that she was kept from straddling other men’s backs, and thereby getting herself into mischief.

“I earnestly beg your pardon, demoiselle,” he began, in what he hoped was a contrite tone, though it was difficult for him to speak without laughing. “I stumbled upon you in your most private hour, and for that, I must ask your forgiveness—”

“I took you for simple, but not completely stupid” was the girl’s surprising reply. Hugo was amazed to hear that her own voice was as rich with amusement as his own.

“I meant for you to stumble upon me, of course,” she elaborated. Quick as lightning, the knife left his throat, and the maid seized both of his wrists and had them trussed behind him before he was even aware of what was happening.

“You’re my prisoner now,” Finnula Crais said, with evident satisfaction at a job well done. “To gain your freedom, you’ll have to pay for it. Handsomely.”

Saturday, April 29, 10 a.m., the loft

Ever since I’ve woken up, all I can think about is what that reporter said…about Dad losing in the polls and it being all my fault.

I know it’s not true. I mean, yes, it’s true we’re having an election.

But the fact that Dad is losing isn’t my fault.

And then, naturally, my mind keeps turning back to what Grandmère said, back in Dr. Knutz’s office. About how if we could get our hands on one of Michael’s CardioArms, Dad might stand a better chance against René.

Except I know how wrong it is to think that way. The reason we need a CardioArm is because it would make the lives of the citizens of Genovia so much easier.

A CardioArm at the Royal Genovian Hospital wouldn’t stimulate the economy or bring tourists to Genovia or even help Dad in the polls or anything like that, like Grandmère seems to believe.

But itwould help Genovians who are sick not to have to travel to hospitals outside of our country to get medical care, because instead, they could easily get noninvasive heart surgery right inside our own borders. They’d save time and expense.

Plus, like the article said, they’d heal faster, because of the CardioArm’s precision.

I’mnot saying if we got one, people would be more likely to vote for Dad. I’m just saying, getting one would be the right thing to do—the princessy thing to do—for my own people.

And I’mnot saying by going to the thing today, I want to get back together with Michael. I mean, if he’d even have me, which he fully wouldn’t, because he’s moved on, as is illustrated by the fact that clearly, he’s been in Manhattan for a while now, and hasn’t even so much as called. Or e-mailed.