Mia Goes Fourth

Michael like the one Tina just got from Dave, I will fully be taking a swan dive off the Tappanzee Bridge. And I highly

doubt any cute coastguard officer is going to come along and fish me out - at least, not in one piece. The Tappanzee

Bridge is WAY higher than the Pont des Vierges.

Of course you know what this means - this whole thing with Tina and Dave, I mean. It means that I can't cancel my date

with Michael. No way, no how. I don't care if Monaco starts lobbing SCUD missiles at the Genovian House of Parliament:

I am not going to that black-and-white ball. Grandmere and the Contessa Trevanni are just going to have to learn how to

live with disappointment.

Because when it comes to our men, we Renaldo women don't mess around. We play for keeps. And we have the battle

scars to prove it.

Homework:

Algebra: probs at beginning of Ch 11, PLUS ??? Don't know, thanks to Grandmere

English: update journal (How I Spent My Winter Break -500 words) PLUS ??? Don't know, thanks to Grandmere

Biology: Read Chapter 13, PLUS ??? Don't know, thanks to Grandmere

Health and Safety: Chapter 1: You and Your Environment PLUS ??? Don't know, thanks to Grandmere

G & T: Figure out secret talent

French: Chapitre Dix PLUS Don't know, due to skipping!!!!

World Civ.: Chapter 13: Brave New World; bring in current event illustrating how technology can cost society

Wednesday, January 20,

limo on the Way Home from Grandmere's

I don't believe this.

Apparently it is not enough that Grandmere has to disrupt my entire school day with her spur-of-the-moment illicit

shopping trips. Oh, no. Apparently she won't be satisfied until she has destroyed my love life, too.

That's right, DESTROYED my love life.

It is clear to me now that this has been her goal all along. The simple fact of the matter is, Grandmere can't stand Michael.

Not, of course, because he's ever done anything to her. Never done anything to her except make her granddaughter

superbly, sublimely happy.

No, Grandmere doesn't like Michael because Michael is not royal.

How do I know this? Well, it became pretty obvious when I walked into her suite for my princess lesson today, and who should just be coming in from his tennis lesson at the New York Health and Racquet Club, swinging his racquet and looking

all Andre Agassi-ish? Oh, only Prince Rene.

'What are YOU doing here?' I demanded, in a manner that Grandmere later reproved me for (she said my question was unladylike in its accusatory tone, as if I suspected Rene of something underhanded, which, of course, I did, as he has

never shown any marked interest in the plight of Genovia's sea turtles and dolphins, which will soon be endangered, if

we don't stop jet-setters like Rene from recklessly polluting their habitat).

'Enjoying your beautiful city,' was how Rene replied. And then he excused himself to go shower, as he was smelling a

bit ripe from the court.

'Really, Amelia,' Grandmere said, disapprovingly. 'Is that any way to greet your cousin?'

'Why isn't he back in school?' I wanted to know.

'For your information,' Grandmere said, 'he happens to be on a break.'

'Still?' This sounds pretty suspicious to me. I mean, what kind of business college - even a French one - has a Christmas

break that goes on practically into February?

'European schools,' was Grandmere's explanation for this, 'traditionally have a longer winter holiday than American ones,

so that their pupils can make full use of the ski season.'

'I didn't see any skis on him,' I pointed out, craftily.

'Pfuit!' was all Grandmere had to say about it, however. 'Rene has never been to Manhattan. Of course I invited him along.

He wants to experience the city that never sleeps.'

Well, I guess I can see that. I mean, New York is the greatest city in the world, after all. Why, just the other day, a construction worker down on Forty-Second Street found a twenty-pound rat! That's a rat that's only five pounds lighter

than my cat! You won't be finding any twenty-pound rats in Paris or Hong Kong, that's for darn sure.

So, anyway, we were going along, doing the princess lesson thing - you know, Grandmere was instructing me about all the personages I was going to meet at this black-and-white ball, including this year's crop of debutantes, the daughters of

socialites and other so-called American royalty, who were 'coming out' to Society with a capital S, and looking for husbands (even though what they should be looking for, if you ask me, is a good undergraduate programme, and maybe a part-time job teaching illiterate homeless people to read - but that's just me) when all of a sudden it occurred to me - the solution to my problem:

Why couldn't Michael be my escort to the Contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball?

OK, granted, it was no Star Wars. And yeah, he'd have to get his hands on a tux and all. But at least we would be together.