Mia Goes Fourth

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 with hearts and flowers and curlicue Mrs. Michael Moscovitzes, the way Lana Weinberger decorated

hers (only with Mrs. Josh Richters, of course). Not only because doing stuff like that is completely lame and because I do

not care to have my identity subjugated by taking my husband's name, but also because as consort to the ruler of Genovia, Michael will of course have to take my name. Not Thermopolis. Renaldo. Michael Renaldo. That looks kind of nice, now

that I think about it.

Thirteen more days until I see the lights of New York and Michael's dark brown eyes again. Please God, let me live that long.

HRH Michael Renaldo

     M. Renaldo, Prince Consort

          Michael Moscovitz Renaldo of Genovia

Friday, January 8, 2a.m.,

Royal Genovian Bedchamber

This just occurred to me:

When Michael said he loved me that night during the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, he might have meant love in the platonic sense. Not love in the tides of flaming passion sense. You know, like maybe he loves me like a friend.

Only you don't generally stick your tongue in your friend's mouth, do you?

Well, maybe here in Europe you might. But not in America, for God's sake.

Except Josh Richter used tongue that time he kissed me in front of the school, and he was certainly never in love with

me!!!!!

This is very upsetting. Seriously. I realize it is the middle of the night and I should be at least trying to sleep since tomorrow

I have to go cut the ribbon at the new children's wing of the Prince Philippe Memorial Hospital.

But how can I sleep when my boyfriend - the first real boyfriend I have ever had, since my last boyfriend, Kenny, doesn't count, seeing as how I didn't actually like him as more than just a friend — could be in Florida, loving me as a friend, and,

at this very minute, actually falling in love with some girl named Tiffany?

Why am I so stupid? Why didn't I demand that Michael specify when he said he loved me? Why didn't I go,

'Love me how? Like a friend? Or like a life partner?'

I am so retarded.

And even if he managed to find the phone number of the palace somehow (and if anyone could, it would be Michael,

since he once figured out a way to program his computer to autodial the 700 Club's toll-free donation hotline every two seconds, thus costing Pat Robertson a quarter of a million dollars in a single weekend and causing him to yank the toll-free number off the air, which, in the world of computer hacking, is practically like winning a Nobel Prize) I am sure the palace operator wouldn't even put the call through. Apparently, I get something like seven hundred calls a day, none of which are

from people I actually know. No, they're all from creepy paedophiles who would like to receive an autographed photo of

me, or from girls who want to know what it was like when I met Prince William (he is a very cute guy and everything, but

my heart fully belongs to another). I am never going to be able to sleep now. I mean, how can I, knowing that the man I

love could conceivably think of me only as a friend he likes to French kiss?

There is just one thing I can do: I have to call the only person I know who might be able to help me. And it is OK to call

her because:

1. it is only six o'clock where she is, and

2. she got her own mobile phone for Christmas, so even though right now she is skiing in Aspen, I can still reach her,

    even if she is on a ski lift or whatever.

Thank God I have my own phone in my room. Even if I do have to dial nine to get a line outside of the palace.

Friday, January 8, 3 a.m

Royal Genovian Bedchamber

Tina answered on the very first ring! She totally wasn't on a ski lift. She sprained her ankle on a slope yesterday. Oh,

thank you, God, for causing Tina to sprain her ankle, so that she could be there for me in my hour of need.

And it is OK because she says it only hurts when she moves.

Tina was in her room at the ski lodge, watching the Lifetime Movie Channel when I called (Co-Ed Call Girl, in which