Forever Princess

FTLOUIE: YOU SAID SHE WOULDN’T.

ILUVROMANCE: Well, she probably won’t. But…what if she does?

FTLOUIE: Because Michael doesn’t care, Tina. I mean, he broke up with me. Heleft the party last night. What would he care if I’m going around saying I’m still a virgin but I’m going to sleep with my boyfriend after the prom and that I only just got over still liking him? If he cared, he’d do something about it, right? I mean, Michael has my phone number, right?

ILUVROMANCE: Right.

FTLOUIE: And the phone’s not ringing, is it? ILUVROMANCE: I guess not.

FTLOUIE: No. It isn’t. So. No offense, Tina. I love romance, too, but in this particular case, it’s OVER. MICHAEL DOESN’T CARE ABOUT ME ANYMORE. As his behavior at my party clearly illustrates.

ILUVROMANCE: Well. Okay. If you say so.

FTLOUIE: I do. I do say so. Case closed.

That’s when I told both Tina and J.P. that I really had to go. I had to log off, or I thought my head was going to spin out into the courtyard of our building and go whizzing off into space to be with all the space satellites that keep hurtling down to rain upon us.

That’s not what I told them, of course. I said if I don’t study, I won’t pass Trig. Truthfully, if I don’t pass Trig, then maybe one of these colleges that let me in based on my actual grades and essays and extracurriculars and all really won’t let me in.

J.P. IMed me a million good-bye kisses. I sent them back in return. Tina just IMed “Bye.” But I could tell there were ten thousand more things she wanted to say. Like about how J.P. wasn’t my One, undoubtedly.

Nice of her to mention that NOW. Not that there’s anything I can do about it.

I suppose she thinks my One is Michael. Why does my best friend have to think my One is a guy who is categorically uninterested in me?

Tuesday, May 2, 8 p.m., the loft

Crud. There is stuff all over the gossip websites about my “engagement” to J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV.

It’s all tied in with how Dad is still losing in the Genovian election polls…and how maybe flying to the U.S. for a day for his daughter’s eighteenth birthday party wasn’t the best idea, seeing as how he really can’t afford to be spending the time away from the campaign.

On the other hand, a lot of the articles say maybe if he did spend more time with his daughter, she wouldn’t be getting herself engaged at such a young age.

I’m like the Jamie Lynn Spears of the Renaldo family! Minus the pregnancy!

I’m going to crawl under the covers and never come out.

It’s a PROMISE RING! Who told them it was an engagement ring anyway?

Seriously, when is it all just going to go away?

Oh, that’s right: Never.

Tuesday, May 2, 9 p.m., the loft

Grandmère just called. She wanted to know if I had a dress for the prom yet.

“Um,” I said, suddenly remembering that, in fact, I didn’t. “No?”

“I figured as much,” Grandmère said, with a sigh. “I’ll put Sebastiano on it, since he’s here in town.”

Then she said if I’d just given J.P. the speech she’d made me memorize so long ago, none of the gossip stuff would be happening. I guess they’d said something about it on Entertainment Tonight. Grandmère never misses an episode, since she’s obsessed with Mary Hart’s posture, which she says is perfect, and I should emulate. (I would, but I’d have to jam a broomstick up my butt.)

“On the other hand,” she went on, “if you had to get yourself engaged to anyone, Amelia, at least you picked someone with breeding and his own fortune. It could be worse. I suppose,” she added, with a cackle, “it could have been That Boy.”

By That Boy, Grandmère meant Michael. And I don’t frankly see what’s so funny about that.

“I’m not engaged,” I told her. “It’s a promise ring.”

“What in God’s name,” Grandmère wanted to know, “is a promise ring? And what is this your father tells me about you having written a romance novel?”

I really was not in the mood to discuss Ransom My Heart with Grandmère. I still had about twenty chapters of Trig to review. Oh, and my devirginization to map out. I had to figure out what I was going to buy at CVS to keep a whole Juno scenario from breaking out. The next novel I write does not need to be titled Pregnant Princess.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” I snapped. “Since no one wants to publish it anyway.”

“Well, thank the Lord for that,” Grandmère said. “The last thing this family needs is some tawdry paperback novel writer—”

“It’s not tawdry,” I interrupted her, stung. “It’s a very humorous and moving romance about a young girl’s sexual awakening in the year twelve ninety-one—”

“Oh my God.” Grandmère sounded as if she’d swallowed the wrong way. “Please tell me if you do get published, you’ll be using a pen name.”

“Of course I am,” I said. How much can one person be expected to take, anyway? “But even if I wasn’t, what’s wrong with it? Why does everyone have to be such a prude? You know, I’ve put up with doing what everybody else wants me to do for nearly four years now. It’s about time I got to do something I want to do—”

“Well, for the love of God,” Grandmère said, “why can’t you take up skiing, or something? Why does it have to be novel writing?”