Forever Princess (13 page)

Hugo lay beneath her, hardly daring to believe his good fortune. He had been pursued by a great many women in his time, women more beautiful than Finnula Crais, women with more sophistication and worldly knowledge.

But none of them had ever appealed to him as immediately as this girl. She boldly announced that she wanted him for his money, and she wasn't going to resort to seductions and stratagems to get it. Her game was abduction, pure and simple, and Hugo was so amused, he thought he might laugh out loud.

Every other woman he'd ever known, in both the literal and biblical sense, had a single goal in mind—to become the chatelaine of Stephensgate Manor. Hugo had nothing against the institution of marriage, but he had never met a woman with whom he felt he wanted to spend the rest of his life. And here was a girl who stated, plain as day, that all she wanted from him was money. It was as if a gust of fresh English air had blown through him, renewing his faith in womankind.

“So it's your hostage I'm to be,” Hugo said to the stones beneath him. “And what makes you so certain I'll be able to pay your ransom?”

“Do you think I'm daft? I saw the coin you tossed Simon back at the Fox and Hare. You oughtn't be so showy with your spoils. You're lucky ‘tis me that's waylaid you, and not some of Dick and Timmy's friends. They have rather unsavory companions, you know. You could have come to serious harm.”

Hugo smiled to himself. Here he'd been worried about the girl meeting up with trouble on her way back to Stephensgate, never suspecting that she was sharing the same concern for him.

“Here, what are you smiling at?” the girl demanded, and to his
regret, she slid down from his back and prodded him, none too gently, in the side with a sharp toe. “Sit up, now, and stop sneering. There isn't anything amusing about me abducting you, you know. I know I don't look like much, but I think I proved back at the Fox and Hare that I truly am the finest shot with a short bow in all the county, and I'll thank you to remember it.”

Sitting up, Hugo found his hands well tied behind his back. There was certainly nothing lacking in the girl's knot-tying education. His bonds were not tight enough to cut off the circulation, yet not loose enough to give way.

Lifting his gaze, he found his fair captor kneeling a few feet away from him, her elfin face pale in a halo of wildly curling red hair, hair so long that the ends of it twined amongst the violets below her knees. Her lawn shirt was untucked and sticking to her still-wet body in places, so that her nipples were plainly visible through the thin material.

Quirking up an eyebrow, Hugo realized that the girl was completely unaware of the devastating effect her looks had on him. Or at least, aware only that naked, she made a fetching distraction.

Monday, May 1, 7:45 a.m., limo on the way to school

I got up this morning when the alarm rang (even though I hadn't slept a BIT, wondering if Michael had read my book—I KNOW!!! All I could think, all night, was, “Has he read it yet? What about now? Do you think he's read it now?” And then I'd freak out, going, “What do I care if my EX-boyfriend has read my book? Pull yourself together, Mia! It doesn't matter what HE thinks! What about your CURRENT boyfriend?” and then I'd lie awake freaking out about J.P. Had HE read it? What had HE thought about it? Had HE liked it? What if he hadn't?), and pulled Fat Louie off my chest and staggered to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth, and as I was staring at myself in the mirror (and the way my hair was sticking up in funny clumps—thank God I finally got more phytodefrisant), it suddenly hit me.

I'm eighteen.

And a legal adult.

And a princess (of course).

But now, thanks to the information Tina gave me yesterday, I'm pretty sure I'm basically the only virgin left in this year's Albert Einstein High's graduating class.

Yeah. Do the math: Tina and Boris—lost it this past summer.

Lilly and Kenneth? Obviously, they've been having sex for ages. You can just tell by the way they fondle each other in the hallway (which, thanks: I so want to see that on my way to Trig). So inappropriate.

Lana? Please. She left her virginity behind back in the
days of one Mr. Josh Richter.

Trisha? Ditto, although not with Josh. At least, I'm pretty sure, unless he's an even bigger dog than any of us suspect (likely).

Shameeka? The way her dad guards her like she's all the gold in Fort Knox combined? She told me last year she busted out in the tenth grade (not that any of us ever suspected, she was
that
discreet about it) with that senior she was dating, what's-his-name.

Perin and Ling Su? No comment.

And then there's my boyfriend, J.P. He says he's been waiting his whole life for the right person, and he knows that person is me, and when I'm ready, he'll be ready, too. He can wait for all eternity, if he has to.

Which leaves who?

Oh, yeah. Me.

And God knows
I've
never done it, despite what everyone (well, okay, Tina) apparently seems to think.

Honestly? It's just never come up. Between J.P. and me, I mean. Except for the whole J.P. being willing to wait for all eternity thing (such a refreshing change from my
last
boyfriend). I mean, for one thing, J.P. is the epitome of gentlemanlike behavior. He is
completely
unlike Michael in that regard. He has never let his hands drift below my neck for so much as a
second
while we're kissing.

Truthfully, I'd be worried he wasn't interested if he hadn't told me that he respects my boundaries and doesn't want to go any further than I'm prepared to.

Which is very nice of him.

The thing is, I don't really know what my boundaries
are. I've never had a chance to test my boundaries out. With J.P., anyway.

It was just so…different, I guess, when I was going out with Michael. I mean, he never asked about my boundaries. He just sort of went for it, and if I had any objections, I was supposed to speak up. Or move his hand. Which I did. Frequently. Not because I didn't like where it was, but because his—or my—parents or roommate were always walking in.

The problem with Michael was that when things started getting going, in the heat of the moment, and all, I often didn't
want
to say something—or move his hand—because I liked what was going on too much.

That's my problem—
the other thing
—my horrible, terrible secret that I can never tell anyone, not even Dr. K:

With J.P., I never feel that way. Partly because things never get that far. But also because…well.

I suppose I could just do what Tina did with Boris, and jump his bones. I've seen J.P. in his bathing suit (he's come to visit me in Genovia) plenty of times. But jumping his bones has just never occurred to me. It's not like he's not hot or anything. He totally works out. Lana says J.P. makes Matt Damon from the
Bourne
movies look like Oliver from
Hannah Montana.

I just don't know what's wrong with me! It's not like I've lost my sex drive, because yesterday during the wrestling match over the iPhone with Michael, and again, when he hugged me—it was there, all right.

It just doesn't seem to be there with J.P. That's the
Other Thing.

This isn't something I particularly want to think about on my birthday, though. Not when I've already had the joyous wonder of waking up in the morning and looking at myself in the mirror and realizing I'm eighteen; I'm a princess; and I'm a virgin.

You know what? At this point in my life, I might as well be a unicorn.

Happy freaking birthday to me.

Anyway, Mom, Mr. G, and Rocky were all up waiting for me with homemade heart-shaped waffles as a breakfast surprise (the heart-shaped waffle maker was a wedding gift for them from Martha Stewart). Which was super sweet of them. I mean, they didn't know about my discovery (that I'm such a societal freak, I might as well be a unicorn).

Then Dad called from Genovia while we were eating to wish me a happy birthday and remind me today is the day I come into my full allowance as princess royale (not enough money to buy my own penthouse on Park Avenue, but enough to rent one if I need to), and not to spend it all in one place (ha ha ha, he hasn't forgotten my spending spree at Bendel's that one time and the subsequent donation I gave to Amnesty International) because it only gets replenished once a year.

I'll admit, he got a little choked up on the phone and said he never thought, back when he met me at the Plaza four years ago to explain to me that I was actually the heir to the throne and I got the hiccups and acted like such a little freak about finding out I was a princess and all, that I'd turn out this well (if you consider this well).

I got a little choked up myself, and said I hoped there
were no ill feelings about the constitutional monarchy thing, especially since we still get to keep the title, the throne, the palace, the crowns, the jewels, and the jet, and all that.

He said not to be ridiculous, all gruffly, which I knew meant he was about to cry from the emotion of it all, and hung up.

Poor Dad. He'd be a lot better off if he'd just meet and marry a nice girl (and not a supermodel, like the president of France did, though I'm sure she's very nice).

But he's still looking for love in all the wrong places. Like fancy underwear catalogs.

At least he knows enough not to date while he's campaigning.

Then Mom came out with her present to me, which was a collage incorporating all the things from our lives together, including things like ticket stubs from train rides to women's reproductive rights rallies in Washington, D.C., and my old overalls from when I was six, and pictures of Rocky when he was a baby, and pictures of Mom and me painting the loft, and Fat Louie's collar from when he was a kitten, and snapshots of me in my Halloween costume as Joan of Arc and stuff.

Mom said it was so I wouldn't be homesick when I went to college.

Which was totally sweet of her and completely brought tears to my eyes.

Until she reminded me I need to hurry up and make my decision about where I'm going to college next year.

Okay! Yeah, I'll be sure to get right on that! Push me
out of the loft, why don't you?

I know she and Dad and Mr. G mean well. But it's not that easy. I have a lot of things on my mind right now. Like how yesterday my best friend confessed she's been having sex regularly with her boyfriend and never told me until now, and like how before that I gave my novel to my ex-boyfriend to read, and how now I have to go turn in the article I wrote on said ex-boyfriend to his sister, who hates me, and later on tonight I have to attend a party on a yacht with three hundred of my closest friends, most of whom I don't even know because they're celebrities my grandma, who's a dowager princess of a small European country, invited.

And, oh, yeah, my actual boyfriend has had my novel for more than twenty-four hours and hasn't read it and wouldn't come to eat at Applebee's with me.

Could someone possibly cut me a tiny piece of slack?

Life's not easy for unicorns, you know. We're a dying breed.

Monday, May 1, Homeroom

Okay, so I just left the offices of the
Atom
. I'm still shaking a little.

There was no one in there but Lilly when I went in just now. I put on a big fake smile (like I always do when I see my ex-best friend) and went, “Hi, Lilly. Here's the story on your brother,” and handed the article to her. (I was up until one o'clock last night writing it. How do you write four hundred words on your ex-boyfriend and keep it a piece of impartial journalism? Answer: You can't. I nearly had an embolism doing it. But I don't think you can tell from reading it that I spilled hot chocolate on and then smelled the subject.)

Lilly looked up from whatever she was doing on the school computer (I couldn't help remembering that stage she went through when she used to put the names of deities and then dirty words into Google just to see what kind of websites she'd come up with. God, those were the days. I
miss
those days.) and went, “Oh, hi, Mia. Thanks.”

Then she added, sort of hesitantly, “Happy birthday.”

!!!!! She remembered!!!!

Well, I guess the fact that Grandmère sent her an invitation to my party might have been a slight reminder.

Surprised, I said, “Um…thanks.”

I figured that was it and was halfway out the door when she stopped me by going, “Look, I hope you won't be weirded out if Kenneth and I come tonight. To your party, I mean.”

“No, not at all,” I said. Mia Thermopolis's Big Fat Lie
Number Seven. “I'd love for you both to come.”

Which is just an example of how well all those princess lessons have paid off. The truth, of course, is that inside my head I was going,
Oh my God. She's coming??? Why? She can only be coming because she's plotting some horrible revenge on me. Like, she and Kenny are going to hijack the yacht once it sets sail and steer it out into international waters and detonate it in the name of free love once we've all been put into life rafts, or something. Good thing Vigo made Grandmère hire extra security in case Jennifer Aniston shows up and Brad Pitt is there, too.

“Thanks,” Lilly said. “There's something I really want to give you for your birthday, but I can only do it if I come to your party.”

Something she wants to
give
me for my birthday, but she can only give it to me on the Royal Genovian yacht? Great! My hijack theory confirmed.

“Um,” I stammered. “You d-don't actually have to give me anything, Lilly.”

This was the wrong thing to say, though, because Lilly scowled at me and said, “Well, I know you already have everything, Mia, but I think there's something
I
can give you that no one else can.”

I got super nervous then (not that I wasn't before), and said, “I didn't mean it the way it sounded. What I meant was—”

Lilly seemed to regret her caustic outburst, and said, “I didn't mean it like that, either. Look, I don't want to fight anymore.”

This was the first time in two years Lilly had referred to the fact that we even used to be friends, and that we'd been
fighting. I was so surprised I didn't know what to say at first. I mean, it had never even occurred to me that not fighting was an option. I just figured the only option was what we'd been doing…basically ignoring each other.

“I don't want to fight anymore either,” I said, meaning it.

But if she didn't want to fight anymore, what DID she want? Surely not to be my friend. I'm not cool enough for her. I don't have any piercings, I'm a princess, I go on shopping sprees with Lana Weinberger, I wear pink ball gowns sometimes, I have a Prada tote, I'm a virgin, and, oh, yeah—she thinks I stole her boyfriend.

“Anyway,” Lilly said, reaching into her backpack, which was covered all over with buttons in Korean…I suppose promoting her TV show there. “My brother told me to give you this.”

And she pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. It was a white envelope with blue letterhead engraved on it where the return address was supposed to go. The letterhead said “Pavlov Surgical,” and there was a little illustration of Michael's sheltie, Pavlov. The envelope was kind of lumpy, like there was something in it besides a letter.

“Oh,” I said. I could feel myself blushing, like I do whenever Michael's name comes up. I knew I was turning the color of his high-tops. Great. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Lilly said.

Thank GOD the first bell rang just then. So I said, “See you later.”

And then I turned around and ran.

It was just so…WEIRD. Why is Lilly being so NICE
to me? She must have something planned for tonight. She and Kenneth. Obviously they're going to do something to ruin my party.

Although maybe not, because Michael and his parents are going to be there. Why would she do something to hurt me when it might embarrass her parents and brother? I could tell how much she loves them at the thing at Columbia on Saturday—and, of course, from having known her almost my whole life, despite us not talking the past two years.

Anyway. I looked around for Tina or Lana or Shameeka or someone to discuss what had just happened with Lilly, but I couldn't find anyone. Which was strange, because you'd think they'd have come up to me at my locker to wish me a happy birthday, or something. But nothing.

I couldn't help thinking—in an example of the marked paranoia I've been exhibiting lately—that maybe they were all avoiding me because Tina told them about my book. I know she said it was cute, but that's just what she said to my face. Maybe behind my back she thinks it's awful and she sent it to everyone else and they all think it's awful too and the reason they haven't stopped by to say happy birthday is because they're afraid they won't be able to stop laughing in my face long enough.

Or maybe they really
are
planning an intervention.

It's not unlikely.

Now I'm hyperventilating because when I got to Homeroom and I was sure no one was looking, I tore open the envelope Lilly gave me and this is what I found inside. A handwritten note from Michael that said:

Inside the envelope with the letter was a little Princess Leia action figure USB flash drive. For me to store my novel on, since he was right—I never back up my computer's hard drive.

The sight of it—it's Princess Leia in her Hoth outfit, my favorite of her costumes (how had he remembered?)—brought tears to my eyes.

He said he liked my book!

He said I'm the Stephen King of my genre!

He gave me a personally designed USB flash drive to store it so it wouldn't get lost!

Really, is there any higher compliment a boy can give a girl?

I don't think so.

I don't think I've ever had a nicer birthday gift.

Except Fat Louie, of course.

Plus…he signed his letter
Love.

Love, Michael.

That doesn't mean anything, of course. People sign things
Love
all the time. That doesn't mean they love you in a romantic way. My mom signs all her notes to me
Love, Mom
. Mr. G writes notes to me and signs them
Love, Frank
(which, ew).

But still. The fact that he wrote the word…

Love.
Love!

Oh my God. I know. I'm pathetic.

A pathetic unicorn.