Benefit for the Chernobyl Shelter Fund
Waldorf Astoria Bathroom
New York City
Have to write fast because the ladies’ room attendant is wondering what I’m doing locked in this bathroom stall.
But I had to jot down what this scientist who has been working on the project to build a containment structure over Chernobyl just told me (cannot believe all that radiation is still floating around out there, even though that nuclear reactor exploded almost thirty years ago).
So this scientist said that the very intelligent are sometimes bad at games like Trivial Pursuit because they dismiss knowledge they consider “inconsequential” to make room for information they think we’ll need someday (which finally explains why I’m so terrible at Jeopardy! Also sports).
(Of course I’m not saying I’m very intelligent.)
But why else do I know absolutely nothing about Chernobyl (or really what anyone is talking about here tonight, though I’m happy my presence is drawing attention to such an important cause) and so much about etiquette, Genovian history, and European citrus production?
Although this doesn’t explain why I know everything about Star Wars.
CHAPTER 4
5:22 a.m., Thursday, April 30
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
New York City
The journaling isn’t working yet, and neither is the magnesium. Probably I should have taken Michael up on his offer. (Just kidding.)
Not that I could have even if I wanted to, since he ended up not being able to come over again tonight, this time because of some kind of glitch in the consulate’s security system. Anytime anyone enters or exits the building from any of the side doors, it sets off the alarm, the one connected to the New York City Police Department.
Which I guess is a good thing (nice to know the system works), but I can’t have any overnight guests until they find the glitch, unless I want to pick up the morning paper and see “Princess of Slut-o-via!” in twenty-point font on the cover again.
Used an eye mask, earplugs, my mouth guard, Tylenol PM, and stole a shot from the two-hundred-year-old bottle of Napoleon brandy the consulate general keeps hidden under his desk for visiting dignitaries (which technically I am), but am still wide-awake at five in the morning.
The reporters seem to be having a nice time out there, though, judging by their laughter.
I partly blame my inability to fall asleep on the fact that I made the mistake of FaceTiming with Tina Hakim Baba before bed (even though she lives only a few dozen blocks away, I hardly ever see her anymore either). The whole time, I couldn’t stop lying. What kind of person lies to her best friend? Well, one of her best friends.
Our conversation started out normally enough—Tina swore she couldn’t see my eye twitching, even when I said the words guaranteed to bring on the twitch:
“Dad’s going to lose the election and my cousin Ivan will be the new prime minister of Genovia. He’ll do nothing for the immigration problem, but he will destroy the country’s fragile ecosystem and infrastructure by dredging the harbor and allowing cruise ships larger than the Costa Concordia to dock at the Port of Princess Clarisse.”
“Really, Mia, I can’t see it,” Tina assured me. “I’m not saying it’s all in your head, but I don’t think you need to worry.”
I could feel my eyelid pulsating like Sigourney Weaver’s stomach in the movie Alien, so I knew she was fibbing to make me feel better.
Maybe that’s why later on in the conversation, I returned the favor.
Still, since Tina’s in med school at NYU, it was refreshing to hear her take on twitching eyes, which she knew all about since she just did a section on ophthalmology. She confirmed everything Dr. Delgado said. It’s nice to know I’m not seeing a quack.
I didn’t ask her about the thing Michael told me, though. I didn’t want to remind her of her ex, Boris, with whom she’s been going through an extremely painful breakup.
“I think it’s good for you to get back into journaling,” Tina said. “I tried it, too, in the hopes it would help me not to think so much about . . . well, you know.”
Well, so much for not talking about her ex. That’s when our conversation started going downhill, and I started lying my head off.
I felt forced to ask: “Did journaling help?”
“No,” she said, with a sigh. “I really think I might be addicted to Boris. Did you know a medical study showed that participants who had recently experienced a breakup had the exact same brain activity as people going through drug withdrawal?”
Ack.
“Well,” I said, trying to keep my tone upbeat. “You’re a strong, independent woman, and I know you’re going to break that bad habit!”
“Thanks.” She sighed again. “It’s so hard, though. I thought Boris and I would stay together forever, the way you and Michael have.”
Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh.
Look, I know it’s weird that I’m nearly twenty-six and still dating my high school boyfriend. Believe me, I’m more than aware of what a cliché it is.
But it gets even worse: almost all my friends are people I went to high school with, too.
But in my own defense, when you find out at the tender age of fourteen that you’re the heir to a throne and a billion-dollar fortune (because my mom and dad never got married, and Dad always thought he could have more kids. Due to chemo for cancer that fortunately has remained in remission, he cannot), who are you going to trust, the people who knew and liked you before you got on Forbes List of Richest Young Royals, or the people you met after?