my thoughts, because he is my heart's breath.'
Grandmere gave a very rude snort in response to this. 'Puppy love,' she said. 'You'll get over it soon enough.' Um, I beg
your pardon, Grandmere, but I so fully will not. I have loved Michael for approximately eight years. That is more than half
my life. A deep and abiding passion such as this cannot be dismissed as easily as that, nor can it be defined by your
pedestrian grasp of human emotion.
I didn't say any of that out loud, though, on account of how Grandmere has those really long nails that she tends to
'accidentally' stab people with.
Except that even though Michael really is my reason for living and my heart's breath, I don't think I'll be decorating my
Algebra notebook with hearts and flowers and curlicue Mrs. Michael Moscovitzes, the way Lana Weinberger decorated
hers (only with Mrs. Josh Richters, of course). Not only because doing stuff like that is completely lame and because I do
not care to have my identity subjugated by taking my husband's name, but also because as consort to the ruler of Genovia, Michael will of course have to take my name. Not Thermopolis. Renaldo. Michael Renaldo. That looks kind of nice, now
that I think about it.
Thirteen more days until I see the lights of New York and Michael's dark brown eyes again. Please God, let me live that long.
HRH Michael Renaldo
M. Renaldo, Prince Consort
Michael Moscovitz Renaldo of Genovia
Friday, January 8, 2a.m.,
Royal Genovian Bedchamber
This just occurred to me:
When Michael said he loved me that night during the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, he might have meant love in the platonic sense. Not love in the tides of flaming passion sense. You know, like maybe he loves me like a friend.
Only you don't generally stick your tongue in your friend's mouth, do you?
Well, maybe here in Europe you might. But not in America, for God's sake.
Except Josh Richter used tongue that time he kissed me in front of the school, and he was certainly never in love with
me!!!!!
This is very upsetting. Seriously. I realize it is the middle of the night and I should be at least trying to sleep since tomorrow
I have to go cut the ribbon at the new children's wing of the Prince Philippe Memorial Hospital.
But how can I sleep when my boyfriend - the first real boyfriend I have ever had, since my last boyfriend, Kenny, doesn't count, seeing as how I didn't actually like him as more than just a friend — could be in Florida, loving me as a friend, and,
at this very minute, actually falling in love with some girl named Tiffany?
Why am I so stupid? Why didn't I demand that Michael specify when he said he loved me? Why didn't I go,
'Love me how? Like a friend? Or like a life partner?'
I am so retarded.
And even if he managed to find the phone number of the palace somehow (and if anyone could, it would be Michael,
since he once figured out a way to program his computer to autodial the 700 Club's toll-free donation hotline every two seconds, thus costing Pat Robertson a quarter of a million dollars in a single weekend and causing him to yank the toll-free number off the air, which, in the world of computer hacking, is practically like winning a Nobel Prize) I am sure the palace operator wouldn't even put the call through. Apparently, I get something like seven hundred calls a day, none of which are
from people I actually know. No, they're all from creepy paedophiles who would like to receive an autographed photo of
me, or from girls who want to know what it was like when I met Prince William (he is a very cute guy and everything, but
my heart fully belongs to another). I am never going to be able to sleep now. I mean, how can I, knowing that the man I
love could conceivably think of me only as a friend he likes to French kiss?
There is just one thing I can do: I have to call the only person I know who might be able to help me. And it is OK to call
her because:
1. it is only six o'clock where she is, and
2. she got her own mobile phone for Christmas, so even though right now she is skiing in Aspen, I can still reach her,
even if she is on a ski lift or whatever.
Thank God I have my own phone in my room. Even if I do have to dial nine to get a line outside of the palace.
Friday, January 8, 3 a.m
Royal Genovian Bedchamber
Tina answered on the very first ring! She totally wasn't on a ski lift. She sprained her ankle on a slope yesterday. Oh,
thank you, God, for causing Tina to sprain her ankle, so that she could be there for me in my hour of need.
And it is OK because she says it only hurts when she moves.
Tina was in her room at the ski lodge, watching the Lifetime Movie Channel when I called (Co-Ed Call Girl, in which
Tori Spelling portrays a young woman struggling to pay for her college education with money earned working as an escort - based on a true story).
At first it was very difficult to get Tina to focus on the situation at hand. All she wanted to know about was what Prince
William was like. I tried to explain to her that, beyond commenting that it was hot on the Cote d'Azur for December, Prince William and I hardly spoke to one another; I because my heart, of course, belongs to another, and he because apparently
he found my treatise on the plight of the giant sea turtle less than scintillating.
This was extremely disappointing to Tina.
'The least you could have done,' she said, 'was get his email address. I mean, even Britney Spears has that, and she's not
even royalty.'
Ever since she started going out with him, Tina's boyfriend, Dave Farouq El-Abar, has shied away from commitment, saying that a man can't let himself get tied down before the age of sixteen. So, even though Tina claims Dave is her Romeo in cargo pants, she has been keeping her eyes open for a nice boy willing to make a commitment.
Although I think Prince William is too old for her. I suggested she try for Will's little brother Harry, who is actually very cute
as well, but Tina said then she'd never get to be queen, a sentiment I guess I can understand, although believe me, being
royal loses a lot of its glamour once it actually happens to you.
'Look,' I said. "I'm sorry, OK? But I had other things on my mind. Like for instance that there is a distinct possibility
Michael only likes me as a friend.'
'What?' Tina was shocked. 'But I thought you said he used the L word the night of the Non-Denominational Winter Dance!'
'He did,' I said. 'Only he didn't say he was in love with me. He just said he loved me.'
Fortunately I didn't have to explain any further. Tina has read enough romance novels to know exactly what I was getting at.