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Actually, I’ll be lucky if I can get anybody to marry me at all. What schmuck would want to marry a girl he can’t interrupt? Or can’t walk out on during an argument? Or has to give up citizenship of his own country for?
I shudder to think of the total loser I will one day be forced to marry. I am already in mourning for the cool race car–driving, mountain-climbing, sky-diving guy I could have had, if it weren’t for this whole crummy princess thing.
TOP FIVE WORST THINGS ABOUT BEING A PRINCESS
1. Can’t marry Michael Moscovitz (he would never renounce his American citizenship in favor of Genovian).
2. Can’t go anywhere without a bodyguard (I like Lars, but come on: Even the Pope gets to pray by himself sometimes).
3. Must maintain neutral opinion on important topics such as the meat industry and smoking.
4. Princess lessons with Grandmère.
5. Still forced to learn Algebra even though there is no reason why I will ever have to use it in my future career as ruler of small European principality.
Monday, October 27, Later
I figured as soon as I got home, I would tell my mom that she and Mr. G need to elope, and right away. Grandmère had brought in a professional! I knew it would be a pain, what with Mom’s latest show opening being so soon and all, but it was either that, or a royal wedding the likes of which this city hasn’t seen since . . .
Well, ever.
But when I got home, my mom had her head in the toilet.
It turns out her morning sickness has begun, and isn’t at all exclusive. She’ll throw up just about any time, not just in the a.m.
She was so sick, I didn’t have the heart to make her feel worse by telling her what Grandmère had planned.
“Be sure to put a video in,” my mom kept calling from the bathroom. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but Mr. G did.
She meant to be sure to tape my interview. My interview with Beverly Bellerieve!
I had completely forgotten about it, in light of what had happened at Grandmère’s. But my mom hadn’t.
Since my mom was incapacitated, Mr. G and I settled in to watch my interview together—well, in between running into the bathroom to offer my mom seltzer and saltines.
r /> I figured I would tell Mr. G about Grandmère and the wedding at the first commercial break—but I sort of forgot, in the unbelievable horror of what followed.
Beverly Bellerieve—undoubtedly in an effort to impress my father—actually did messenger over both a videotape and a written transcript of the interview. I will enclose parts of the written transcript here, so if I am ever asked to do another interview again, I can look at it and know exactly why I should never allow myself to appear on television ever again.
TWENTYFOUR/SEVEN for Monday 27 October
America’s Princess
B. Bellerieve int. w/M. Renaldo
Ext. Thompson Street, south of Houston (SoHo). World Trade in background.
Beverly Bellerieve (BB):
Imagine if you will, an ordinary teenage girl. Well, as ordinary as a teenage girl who lives in New York City’s Greenwich Village with her single mom, acclaimed painter Helen Thermopolis, can be.
Mia’s life was filled with the normal things most teenagers’ lives are full of—homework, friends, and the occasional F in Algebra . . . until one day, it all changed.
Int. penthouse suite, Plaza Hotel.
BB: Mia—may I call you Mia? Or would you prefer that I call you Your Highness? Or Amelia?
Mia Renaldo (MR):
