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All I did was get born.
And EVERYONE has done that.
But I couldn’t tell Mom any of that stuff. Because we’ve been through the princess thing before. It’s like Michael said: I’m a princess. I’m going to be one forever. No use complaining about it. It just IS.
So instead I just cried.
It made me feel a little better, I guess. I mean, it’s always nice to get hugged by your mom, no matter how old you get. Moms don’t give off pheromones—at least, I don’t think they do—but they still smell really nice. At least mine does. Like Dove soap and turpentine and coffee. Which mixed together is the second-best smell in the world.
The first being Michael’s neck, of course.
My mom said all the usual mom things, like, “Oh, honey, it will be okay,” and, “A year will go by before you know it,” and, “If Phillipe gets you the new PowerBook with the camera built in, you and Michael can videophone, and it will be like he’s right in the room with you.”
Except that it won’t. Because I won’t be able to smell him.
But when Mr. G came in to see what all the noise was about, I finally pulled myself together, and said I felt better, and not to worry about me. I tried to smile all bravely, and Mom patted me on the head and said that if I’d survived spending so much time with Grandmère, I’d survive this, easy.
But she’s wrong. Spending time with Grandmère is like eating an entire container of macadamia brittle compared to being without Michael for an entire year.
Or more.
ME, A PRINCESS???? YEAH, RIGHT.
A Screenplay by Mia Thermopolis
(first draft)
Scene 14
INT/NIGHT—The penguin tank at the Central Park Zoo. In the blue glow from the water of the illuminated penguin tank, a young girl (MIA) sits alone, frantically writing in her journal.
MIA
(voiceover)
I don’t know where to go or to whom to turn. I can’t go to Lilly’s. She is vehemently opposed to any form of government that is not for the people, by the people. She’s always said that when sovereignty is vested in a single person whose right to rule is hereditary, the principles of social equality and respect for the rights of the individual within a community are irrevocably lost. This is why today, real power has passed from reigning monarchs to constitutional assemblies, making royals such as Queen Elizabeth mere symbols of national unity.
Except in Genovia, apparently.
Wednesday, September 8, Homeroom
Michael told Lilly. I know he told her because when we stopped by the Moscovitzes’ apartment building to pick her up for school this morning, he was standing outside with her, holding a large hot chocolate (with whipped cream) from Starbucks for me. When the limo pulled up and Hans opened the door, Michael leaned in and said, “Good morning. This is for you. Tell me you didn’t change your mind overnight and hate me now.”
Except, of course, I could never hate Michael. Especially when the sun is just coming up all shiny and new and its rays hit his freshly shaved neck and when I lean over to take the hot chocolate and give him a good morning kiss, I smell his Michaely scent, which always seems to make everything seem like it’s going to be okay.
Until he’s out of range for me to smell him anymore, anyway.
Which is definitely what he’s going to be when he’s in Japan.
“I don’t hate you,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Um,” I said. “Something with you?”
“Good answer. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Then he kissed me and got out of the way so that Lilly could get in the car. Which she did with a crabby, “God, move, you ass,” to her brother, since she’s not exactly a morning person.
