Princess Mia

“Mia,” she said. “Did you tell your grandmother you’d speak at a Domina Rei Women’s Society benefit?”

“Yeah,” I said, pulling my pillow over my head. “Anything, to make her leave.”

Mom went away, looking concerned.

I don’t know what SHE’S so worried about. I’m the one who’s going to have to find some way to get out of town before the event actually happens.

Thursday, September 16, 11 a.m., Dad’s limo

This morning at nine o’clock I was in bed with my eyes squeezed shut (because I heard someone coming and I didn’t want to deal) when my covers were thrown back and this stern, deep voice said, “Get. Up.”

I opened my eyes and was surprised to see my dad standing there, wearing his business suit and smelling of autumn.

I’ve been inside so long, I’ve forgotten what outside smells like.

I could tell by his expression that I was in for it.

So I said, “No,” and snatched the covers back, pulling them over my head.

Which is when I heard my dad go, “Lars. If you will.”

And then my bodyguard scooped me—covers still clutched over my head—from my bed, and began to carry me from my mother’s apartment.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, when I had disentangled my head from the covers, and saw that we were in the hallway, and that Ronnie, our neighbor from next door, was blinking at us in astonishment with her arms full of grocery bags.

“Something that’s for your own good,” my dad said, from behind Lars, on the stairs.

“But—” I seriously couldn’t believe this. “I’m in my pajamas!”

“I told you to get up,” Dad said. “You’re the one who wouldn’t do it.”

“You can’t do this to me!” I cried, as we exited the apartment building and headed toward my dad’s limo. “I’m an American! I have rights, you know!”

My dad looked at me and said very sarcastically, “No, you don’t. You’re a teenager.”

“Help!” I screamed to all the New York University students who live in our neighborhood and were just rolling home after a fun night out in the East Village. “Call Amnesty International! I’m being held against my will!”

“Lars,” my dad said disgustedly as the NYU kids looked around for the movie cameras they evidently thought were rolling, since the whole thing appeared to be some scene from a Law and Order episode being filmed on Thompson Street, or something. “Toss her in the car.”

And Lars did! He tossed me in the car!

And okay, he tossed my journal in after me. And a pen.

And my Chinese slippers with the sequin flowers on the toes.

But still! Is this any way to treat a princess, I ask you? Or even a human being?

And Dad won’t even tell me where we’re going. He just goes, “You’ll see,” when I ask.

After getting over the initial shock of being manhandled in such a way, I find, to my surprise, that I don’t much care. I mean, it’s weird to be sitting in my dad’s limo in my Hello Kitty pajamas, with my sheet and duvet wrapped around me.

But at the same time, I can’t summon up any real indignation about it.

I think that might actually be the problem. That I just don’t care about anything anymore.

Except I can’t even be bothered to care about that very much, either.

Thursday, September 16, noon, Dr. Knutz’s office

We’re sitting in a psychologist’s office.

I’m not even kidding. My dad didn’t take me to the royal jet to go back to Genovia. He brought me to the Upper East Side to see a psychologist.

And not just any psychologist, either. But one of the nation’s preeminent experts on adolescent and child psychology. At least if all the many degrees and awards framed on the wall of his outer office is any indication.

I guess this is supposed to impress me. Or at least comfort me.

Although I can’t say I feel too comforted by the fact that his name is Dr. Arthur T. Knutz.

Yes, that’s right. My dad has brought me to see Dr. Knutz. Because he—and Mom and Mr. G—apparently think I’m nuts.

I know I probably look nuts, sitting here in my pajamas, with my duvet still clutched around me. But whose fault is that? They could have let me get dressed.

Not that I would have, of course. But if they’d told me they were taking me out of the apartment, I might have at least put on a bra.

Dr. Knutz’s receptionist—or nurse, or whatever she is—doesn’t seem too bothered by my mode of dress, however. She just went, “Good morning, Prince Phillipe,” to my dad when he brought me in. Well, I mean, when Lars carried me in. Because when the limo pulled up in front of the brownstone Dr. Knutz’s office is in, I wouldn’t get out of the car. I wasn’t going to walk across East Seventy-eighth Street in my Hello Kitty pajamas! I may be crazy, but I’m not THAT crazy.

So Lars carried me.

The receptionist didn’t seem to think it was at all weird that her boss’s newest patient had to be carried into his office. She just went, “Dr. Knutz will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, will you please fill this out, dear?”

I don’t know why I got so panicky all of a sudden. But I was like, “No. What is it? A test? I don’t want to take a test.” It’s weird, but my heart started beating all crazy at the idea of having to take a test.

The receptionist just looked at me funny and went, “It’s just an assessment of how you’re feeling. There are no right or wrong answers. It will only take a minute to fill out.”