But if my dad has any serious hope of keeping the Genovian throne in the hands of the Renaldos and not allowing it to slip

into Sebastiano's control, he had better get over the whole Kenny thing, because I'm pretty sure that Kenny and I will not be doing any procreating. In this lifetime, anyway.

'Dad,' I said. 'Forget Kenny, OK? Kenny and I are just friends. I'm talking about someone else.'

My dad was looking over the side of the balcony railing, like he wanted to spit. Not that he ever would. I don't think. 'Do I know him? This someone else, I mean?'

I hesitated. I've never really admitted to anyone out loud that I have a crush on Michael. Really. I mean, who could I tell? Lilly would just make fun of me - or worse, tell him. And Mom, well, she's got her own problems.

'It's Lilly's brother,' I said, in a rush, to get it over with.

My dad looked alarmed. 'Isn't he in college?'

'Not yet,' I said. 'He's going in the fall.' When he still looked alarmed, I said, 'Don't worry, Dad. I don't stand a chance. Michael is very smart. He'd never want someone like me.'

Then my dad got all offended. It was like he couldn't figure out which to be, worried about my liking a senior, or angry that

the senior didn't like me back.

'What do you mean, he'd never want someone like you?' my father demanded. 'What's wrong with you?'

'Duh, Dad,' I said. 'I practically flunked Algebra, remember? Michael is going to an Ivy League school in the fall, for crying

out loud. What would he want with a girl like me?'

Now my dad was really annoyed. 'You may take after your mother as far as your aptitude with numbers is concerned, but

you take after me in every other respect.'

This was surprising to hear. I stuck out my chin and tried to believe it. 'Yeah,' I said.

'And you and I, Mia, are not unintelligent,' my dad went on. 'If you want this Michael fellow, you must let him know it.' My

dad looked at all the lights stretched out before us before going on in a different voice, 'Do not make the mistake I have in the past, Mia, of keeping your feelings to yourself, out of shyness ... or worse, pride.'

I looked up at my dad kind of sharply at that. Because something in his voice ... I don't know. He just sounded so ... sad.

Was he, I couldn't help wondering, talking about Mom? Like he wished that, before she'd married Mr. Gianini, he had said something to her about how he felt about her? I mean about how he really felt about her - not about her leaving the electricity bills in the salad spinner, but about how he really felt, deep down?

I think maybe so. Especially when he looked down at me - my dad's not super tall, you know, for a guy, but he's taller than

me, anyway - and went, with his eyelids kind of crinkling up at the corners, 'Faint heart never won fair lady, you know, Mia.'

I didn't know what to say to that. I mean, how is a person supposed to reply to something like that?

Not that it ever would have worked out between them, whatever Dad might think. I mean, Mom would so never have fitted in back at the palace, given her enthusiasm for World's Scariest Police Car Chases (which I'm sure they don't have in Genovia) and her love of jalapeno nachos (ditto). She would have grown resentful and then made my dad's life a never-ending misery.

At least this way, he still gets to date Victoria's Secret underwear models.

So instead of saying anything like, 'Gee, Dad, sorry it didn't work out between you and Mom,' which would, of course, have been a lie, I just went, 'You think I should just go up to Michael and be like, “Hey, I like you?”

My dad shook his head in disgust. 'No, no, no,' he said. 'Of course you must be more subtle than that. Tell him by showing how you feel.'

'Oh,' I said. I may take after my father in every respect except my madis aptitude, but I had no idea what he was talking about. I kept seeing this picture in my head of me showing Michael how I felt about him by thrusting my tongue into his mouth in the hallway at school when I passed him between English and lunch - a kind of painful prospect, under the circumstances.

'We'd better get back in,' my father said. 'Or your grandmother will suspect us of plotting against her.'

So what else is new? Grandmere is always suspecting somebody of plotting against her. She thinks the launderers at the Plaza are plotting against her. She blames the soap they use on their linens for making all of Rommel's fur fall out.

Reminded of plots, I asked my dad, 'Do you think Sebastiano's plotting to kill me so he can ascend the throne himself?'

My dad made a strangled noise, but he managed not to burst out laughing. I guess that wouldn't have seemed very princely.

'No, Mia,' he said. 'I do not.'

But my dad, he really doesn't have much of an imagination. I have decided to stay on the alert about Sebastiano, just in case.

My mom just poked her head into my room to say that Kenny is on the phone for me.

I suppose he wants to ask me to the Non-Denominational Winter Dance. Really, it is about time.

Sunday; December 6, 11 p.m.

OK. I am in shock. Kenny so did NOT ask me to the Non-Denominational Winter Dance. Instead, this is how our conversation went:

Me: Hello?

Kenny: Hi, Mia. It's Kenny.

Me: Oh, hi, Kenny. What's the matter?

Kenny sounded funny, which is why I asked.

Kenny: Well, I just wanted to see if you were OK. I mean, if your tongue was OK.