The Princess Diaries

My dad did ask her—not Grandm่re. Mom. He asked her why she never bothered to consider that her boyfriend might be the one who spilled the beans to Carol Fernandez.

The minute he said it, I think my dad probably regretted it. Because my mom’s eyes got the way they do when she’s really mad—I mean really mad, like the time I told her about the guy in Washington Square Park who flashed his you-know-what at me and Lilly one day when we were filming for her show. Her eyes got narrower and narrower, until they were nothing more than little slits. Then, next thing I knew, she was putting on her coat and going out to kick some flasher butt.

Only she didn’t put on her coat when my dad said that about Mr. Gianini. Instead, her eyes got very narrow, and her lips almost disappeared, she pressed them together so hard, and then she went, “Get . . .  out,” in a voice that kind of sounded like the poltergeist in that movie Amityville Horror.

But my dad wouldn’t get out, even though technically the loft belongs to my mom (thank God Carol Fernandez didn’t put the loft’s address in the paper; and thank God my mom is so paranoid about Jesse Helms siccing the CIA on sociopolitical artists like herself, in order to yank their NEA grants, that she keeps our phone number unlisted; no reporters have discovered the loft, so we can at least order in Chinese without fear of hearing a story on Extra on how much the Princess Amelia likes moo shu vegetable).

Instead, my dad went, “Really, Helen. I think you’re letting your dislike of my mother blind you to the real truth.”

“The real truth?” my mom yelled. “The real truth, Phillipe, is that your mother is—“

At this point, I decided it might be best to retire to my room. I put my headphones on so I wouldn’t have to listen to them fight. This is a trick I learned from watching kids on made-for-TV movies whose parents are divorcing. My favorite CD right now is the latest Britney Spears, which I know is really dorky, and I could never tell Lilly, but secretly I sort of want to be Britney Spears. Once I had a dream I was Britney, and I was performing in the auditorium at Albert Einstein, and I had this little pink minidress on, and Josh Richter complimented me on it right before I went onstage.

Isn’t that an embarrassing thing to admit? The funny thing is, while I know I could never tell Lilly about that dream without her going all Freudian on me and telling me how the pink dress is a phallic symbol and being Britney signifies my low self-esteem or something, I know I could tell Tina Hakim Baba, and she would totally get into it and just want to know whether or not Josh was wearing leather pants.

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this, but it’s really hard to write with my new fake fingernails.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether or not Grandm่re really is the one who tipped off Carol Fernandez. I mean, when I went to my princess lesson today I was still crying, and Grandm่re was totally unsympathetic about it. She was all, “And these tears are because . . .  ?” And when I told her, she just raised her painted-on eyebrows—she plucks hers all out and draws on new ones every day, which kind of defeats the purpose, if you ask me, but whatever—and went, “C’est la vie,” which means “Well, that’s life” in French.

Only in life, I don’t think a whole lot of girls get their faces plastered across the cover of the Post, unless they’ve won the lottery or had sex with the president or something. I didn’t do anything except get born.

I don’t think “that’s life” at all. I think that sucks, is what I think.

Then Grandm่re started talking about how she’d been fielding calls all day from representatives of the media, and how all these people want to interview me, like Leeza Gibbons and Barbara Walters and stuff, and she said I ought to have a press conference, and that she’d already talked to the Plaza people about it, and they’d set aside this special room with a podium and a pitcher of ice water and some potted palms and stuff.

I couldn’t believe it! I was like, “Grandm่re! I don’t want to talk to Barbara Walters! God! Like I really want everyone knowing my business!”

And Grandm่re said, all prissy, “Well, if you don’t try to accommodate the media, they’re just going to try to get the story any way they can, which means they’ll keep showing up at your school. And at your friends’ houses, and at your grocery store, and at the place where you rent those movie videos you like so much.”

Grandm่re doesn’t believe in VCRs. She says if God meant for us to watch movies at home He wouldn’t have invented coming attractions.

Then Grandm่re wanted to know where my sense of civic duty was. She said it would greatly promote tourism in Genovia if I just went on Dateline.

I really want to do what’s best for Genovia. I really do. But I also have to do what’s best for Mia Thermopolis. And going on Dateline would definitely not be good for me.

But Grandm่re seems really gung-ho on the whole promoting Genovia thing. So I sort of started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, my mom is right. Maybe Grandm่re did talk to Carol Fernandez.

But would Grandm่re do something like that?

Well. Yeah.

I just lifted up my headphones. They’re still at it.

Looks like it’s going to be a long night.

Thursday, October 16, Homeroom

Well, this morning my face was on the covers of the Daily News and New York Newsday. My picture was also in the Metro Section of The New York Times. They used my school photo, and let me tell you, my mom wasn’t too happy about that, since that meant either somebody in our family, to whom she sent copies of that photo—which looks bad for Grandm่re—or someone at Albert Einstein must have leaked it, which looks bad for Mr. Gianini. I wasn’t too happy about it because my school photo was taken before Paolo fixed my hair and I look like one of those girls who are always going on TV to talk about their bad experience being in a cult or escaping from an abusive husband or something.