It isn't exactly on display, or anything. It's just sitting on his desk. But hey, that's a far cry from being crumpled at the bottom

of his backpack. It shows that the cards mean something to him, that he hasn't just buried them under all the other junk on his desk - the DOS manuals and anti-Microsoft literature ... or worse, thrown them away. This is somewhat heartening.

Uh-oh. I just heard the front door open. Michael??? Or the Drs. Moscovitz???? I better get out of here. Michael doesn't

have all those 'Enter At Your Own Risk' signs on the door for nothing.

Saturday, December 12, 3 p.m., Grandmere's

How, you might ask, did I go from the Moscovitzes' apartment to my grandmother's suite at the Plaza in the space of a mere half hour?

Well, I'll tell you.

Disaster has struck, in the form of Sebastiano.

I always suspected, of course, that Sebastiano was not the sweet-tempered innocent he pretended to be. But now it looks

like the only murder Sebastiano needs to worry about is his own. Because if my dad ever gets his hands on him, Sebastiano

is one dead fashion designer.

Looking at it objectively, I think I can safely say I'd prefer to have been murdered. I mean, I'd be dead and all, which would

be sad - especially since I still haven't written down those instructions for caring for Fat Louie while I'm gone — but at least I wouldn't have to show up for school on Monday. But now, not only do I have to show up for school on Monday, but I have

to show up for school on Monday knowing that every single one of my fellow classmates is going to have seen the supplement that arrived in the Sunday Times: the supplement featuring about twenty photos of ME standing in front of a triple mirror in dresses by Sebastiano, with the words Fashion Fit for a Princess emblazoned all over the place.

Oh, yes. I'm not kidding. Fashion Fit for a Princess. I can't really blame him, I guess. Sebastiano, I mean. I suppose the opportunity was too much for him to resist. He is, after all, a businessman, and having a princess model your clothes . . . well, you can't buy exposure like that.

Because you know all the other papers are going to pick up on the story. You know, Princess of Genovia Makes Modelling Debut. That kind of thing.

So with just one little photo spread, Sebastiano is going to get virtually worldwide coverage of his new clothing line. A clothing line that it looks like I have endorsed. Grandmere doesn't understand why my dad and I are so upset. Well, I think she gets why my dad is upset. You know, the whole 'my daughter is being used' thing. She just doesn't get why I'm so unhappy.

'You look perfectly beautiful,' she keeps saying. Yeah. Like that helps.

Grandmere thinks I am overreacting. But hello, have I ever aspired to tread in Claudia Schiffer's footsteps? I don't think so. Fashion is so not what I'm about. What about the environment? What about the rights of animals? What about the HORSESHOE CRABS??????

People are not going to believe I didn't pose for those photos. People are going to think I am a sellout. People are going to think I am a stuck-up model snob.

I would so rather that they think I am a juvenile delinquent, I can't tell you.

Little did I know when I heard the front door to the Moscovitzes' apartment opening, and I hustled out of Michael's room, that I was about to be greeted by the disastrous news. It was only Lilly's parents, after all, coming home from the gym where they'd met with their personal trainers. Afterwards, they'd stopped to have latte and read the Sunday paper, large sections of which arrive, for reasons no one understands, on Saturday, if you have a subscription. What a surprise they had when they opened

up the paper and saw the Princess of Genovia hawking this hot new fashion designer's spring collection.

What a surprise I had when the Drs Moscovitz congratulated me on my new modelling career, and I was all, 'What are you talking about?'

So, while Lilly and Boris looked on curiously, Dr. Moscovitz opened her paper and showed me:

And there it was, in all of its four-colour-layout glory.

I'm not going to lie and say I looked bad. I looked OK. What they had done was, they had taken all the photos Sebastiano's assistant had snapped of me trying to decide which dress to wear to my introduction to the people of Genovia, and laid them all out on this purple background. I'm not smiling in the pictures or anything. I'm just looking at myself in the mirror, clearly going, in my head, Ew, could I look more like a walking toothpick?

But of course, if you didn't know me and didn't know WHY I was trying on all these dresses, I'd seem like some freak who cares WAY too much about how she looks in a party dress.

Which is exactly the kind of person I've always wanted to be portrayed as.

NOT!!!!!!!

I can't figure out what Sebastiano was thinking. I mean, I have to admit, I am a little hurt. I'd thought, when he'd asked me all those questions about Michael, that he and I had kind of made a connection. But I guess not. Not if he could do something like this.

My dad has already called the Times and demanded that they remove the supplement from all the papers that haven't been delivered yet. He has called the concierge of the Plaza and insisted on Sebastiano being listed as persona non grata, which means the cousin to the Prince of Genovia won't be allowed to set foot on hotel property.

I thought this was a little harsh, but not as harsh as what my dad wanted to do, which was call the NYPD and press charges against Sebastiano for using the likeness of a minor without the authority of her parents. Thank God Grandmere talked him