Princess in Waiting Read Free

are
    totally nice people, but hello, it's Tuesday, I could be watching Buffy instead.
    With my new boyfriend.
    My new boyfriend with whom I have not even been able to have a date yet, because the very day after
    we finally confessed
    our secret passion to one another, we were cruelly torn apart and cast to opposite sides of the earth - I
    to my castle in Genovia, and he to his grandmother's condo in Boca Raton.
    You know, it has been exactly eighteen days since we last spoke to one another. It is entirely possible
    that Michael has forgotten all about me by now. I know Michael is vastly superior to all the other
    members of his species - boys, I mean. But everyone knows that boys are like dogs - their short-term
    memory is completely nil. You tell them your favourite fictional character is Xena, Warrior Princess, and
    next thing you know, they are going on about how your favourite fictional character
    is Xica of Telemundo. Boys just don't know any better, on account of how their brains are too filled up
    with stuff about modems and Star Trek Voyager and Limp Bizkit and all.
    Michael is no exception to this rule. Oh, I know he is co-valedictorian of his class, and got a perfect
    score on his SATs and was accepted early-decision to one of the most prestigious universities in the
    country. But, you know, it took him about five million years even to admit he liked me. And that was only
    after I'd sent him all these anonymous love letters. Which turned
    out not to be so anonymous because he fully knew it was me the whole time thanks to all of my friends,
    including his little
    sister, having such exceptionally large mouths.
    But, whatever. I am just saying, eighteen days is a long time. How do I know Michael hasn't met some
    other girl? Some Floridian girl, with long, sun-streaked hair, and a tan, and breasts? Who has access to
    the Internet and isn't cooped up in
    a palace with her crazy grandma, a homeless, Speedo-wearing prince and a freakish, hairless miniature
    poodle?
    'Amelia!' Grandmere just shrieked at me. Are you paying attention?'
    Yeah, sure, Grandmere. I'm paying attention. You are only squandering what are supposed to be the
    best days of my life.
    And probably, because of you, right now my boyfriend is strolling down the beach with some girl named
    Tiffany who can
    do long division in her head and knows how to ride a boogie board.
    But yes, I am paying attention to your very boring lecture about maintaining regal poise at all times.
    'I swear I do not know what is wrong with you,' Grandmere said. 'Your head has been in the clouds ever
    since we left New York. Even more so than usual.' Then she narrowed her eyes at me - always a very
    scary thing, because Grandmere has had black kohl tattooed all around her lids so that she can spend her
    mornings shaving off her eyebrows and drawing on new
    ones rather than messing around with mascara and eyeliner. 'You are not thinking about that boy, are
    you?'
    That boy is what Grandmere has started calling Michael, ever since I announced that he was my reason
    for living. Well,
    except for my cat, Fat Louie, of course.
    'If you are speaking of Michael Moscovitz,' I said to her, in my most regal voice, 'I most certainly am. He
    is never far from
    my thoughts, because he is my heart's breath.'
    Grandmere gave a very rude snort in response to this. 'Puppy love,' she said. 'You'll get over it soon
    enough.' Um, I beg
    your pardon, Grandmere, but I so fully will not. I have loved Michael for approximately eight years. That
    is more than half
    my life. A deep and abiding passion such as this cannot be dismissed as easily as that, nor can it be
    defined by your
    pedestrian grasp of human emotion.
    I didn't say any of that out loud, though, on account of how Grandmere has those really long nails that she
    tends to
    'accidentally' stab people with.
    Except that even though Michael really is my reason for living and my heart's breath, I don't think I'll be
    decorating my
    Algebra notebook