Mia Goes Fourth

really my cousin anyway. Some ancestor of his was awarded a principality by the king of Italy way back in like 600AD,

same as great-great-and-so-on Grandma Rosagunde. Except that Rene's principality no longer exists, as it was absorbed

into Italy three hundred years ago.

Rene doesn't seem to mind, though, because everyone still calls him His Highness Prince Rene, and he is extended every privilege of a member of the royal household — even though his palace now belongs to a famous shoe designer, who has turned it into a resort for wealthy Americans to come for the weekend and make their own pasta and drink two-hundred-year-old balsamic vinegar.

Still, just because Rene is four years older than me, and a freshman at some French business school, doesn't mean he has the right to patronize me. I mean, I believe gambling is morally wrong, and the fact that Prince Rene spends so many hours at the roulette wheel instead of utilizing his time in a more productive fashion - such as helping to promote the protection of the

nesting grounds of the giant sea turtles who lay their eggs on Genovian beaches — irks me.

So yes, I did mention this to him. It just seems to me that Prince Rene needs to realize there is more to life than racing around

in his Alfa Romeo, or swimming in the palace pool wearing nothing but one of those little black Speedos (which are very stylish here in Europe). I also asked my dad to please, for the love of all that is holy, stick to swimming trunks, which, thankfully, he has.

And, OK, Rene just laughed at me.

But at least I can rest easy knowing I have done everything I could to show one extremely self-absorbed prince the error

of his profligate ways.

So that's it. That is my life in Genovia. Basically, all I want is to go home. I would not even mind having to start school early

if it meant I could forgo this evening's dinner with the Prince and Princess of Liechtenstein. Who 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,