Tuesday, June 12
So, guess who was just on the phone. Mom, of course. Ain't that just great? I mean, it's not like she ever calls me just to chat. Oh no, she only calls when she needs me to do something. Or when I've done something wrong. Funny, that seems to happen a lot. You'd have thought she'd have made me perfect by now, with all her 'sit up straight's and 'chew with your mouth closed's. For someone with 'immaculate manners', I sure screw up a lot.
This time, amazingly, I didn't screw up. No, this time she was actually happy with me. Because, get this, there's a princess out there that's worse than me. No joke. Mom said I shouldn't laugh, of course, but hey, it's funny! I mean, who wouldn't laugh at some of the stuff she's done? But it's not nice, blah blah blah, so I gotta stop. Great, even my journal's censored.
Anyway, I get to go to New York this year. I was really looking forward to Hawaii (I've never been, it's 'too public'), but I get to go to New York instead. Either way it's America, I guess, but really. On one hand, beaches, surf, and all the other good stuff that comes with tropical islands. On the other, smelly city and lots of weird people. Let's see. I choose.... Hawaii, maybe? But no, not happening. I get to go to New York and bum around with a princess who has no idea which salad fork to use, doesn't understand that life sucks so she might as well get over it, and is vegetarian. I dread to think what'll happen when I get tired of soy and tofu and order a real steak. It might even be fun.
Sum it up, I get a really lousy summer, I leave my friends early, and spend my last few days here writing exams. Thanks mom. Thanks a lot.
Saturday, June 16
As I now have an incredibly boring flight to London to look forward to, being as I have to go there to choose the right clothes and all, I decided I might as well write. It's better than staring at clouds, which there are a lot of.
Starting easy, my name. I am Princess Sara Mari del Minoti of Armen, daughter of King Casper James del Minoti the second of Armen and his lady Princess Jasmine Anne Ryel del Minoti of, you guessed it, Armen. Or, preferably, Sara.
Armen is, as most people don't know, a little country hidden somewhere among the Greek islands. I'm not sure where, I've never been there, and maps aren't too forthcoming. It's about 200 miles square, as my mother says with pride, which translates to about nothing. More common knowledge is that it's completely neutral, has favorable banking and taxation laws (i.e., like none, except pay the government occasionally) , and excellent vineyards. We have no outstanding artists or athletes, no entertainers or famous people of any sort, but apparently people come to visit just for the beautiful views and wonderful climate. I have long been of the opinion that it's the tax breaks, no-questions- asked banks, and non-existent minimum drinking age. My mother says I'm too cynical.
I was sent, at the age of four, to live with my aunt and uncle in Canada. Edmonton, actually, but few enough people I meet when I travel know where that it that I generally just say Canada or, at a stretch, Alberta. Yes, it's great living so close to the capital and no, the snow doesn't really bother me; there's only six feet of it during the summer, which isn't too bad.
I grew up with three cousins, Maggie (who liked to take the 'e' off to make herself seem more sophisticated), Rob, and Jen. There was also Aunt Karen, Uncle Max, and the dogs Cinders and Batman. Considering what I put up with, I'm surprised I'm just cynical and sarcastic, not totally insane. After eleven years with them it occurred to my mother to tell me that I was the princess and sole legitimate heir of King Casper. I had always assumed we were distantly related hundreds of years ago and my mom was just some rich lady who's husband I never met . Shows what I know.
So now I'm on my way to London to shop for clothes, because stained jeans with torn hems and t-shirts I've had since fourth grade just won't cut it in New York. Mother wanted to take me to Paris, because the fashions are apparently much better there, but we don't go there anymore. Not since I was thirteen and spent a week telling people I was a squid in my flawlessly accented but hardly fluent French. After Mom got mad at me, I used my wonderful dictionary skills to translate a speech which I recited at any restaurant with calamari (all of them) , detailing how I couldn't possibly eat calamari because I was a squid and that would be cannibalism, and so on. Mom doesn't order calamari anymore.
Now I'm stuck in England, so all I can do is recite Monty Python and talk in a really fake British accent. Fortunately, Lord of the Rings came out recently, so now I can do Gollum impressions, which I apparently do far too well for my mother's peace of mind. I'm so proud.
Later Saturday
Still stuck on the plane. First class, fortunately, or I'd be trying to hijack to plane. Still bored. My laptop just died. I guess I should have recharged it. Nick won't lend me his. He says he has to write a letter to his father explaining why he won't be coming home this summer. That'll be tricky, I agree. His dad isn't the most understanding. You don't really expect a Mafia leader to be.
Nick is twenty-two and my, well, bodyguard, I guess. He's average height, with brown hair and eyes. Nothing great to look at. Cute, maybe, but nothing more. His dad, Geoff Samson, is the leader of Armen's Mafia, as his grandfather was. Mom doesn't know that, it turns out. My father chose him, actually because of that. He's good friends with Samson, and the Mafia connections have proved useful in the past. Besides, who's gonna mess with the Mafia?
As my bodyguard, Nick doesn't do much of the typical stuff. He stays with some people his dad has connections to a few houses down from my uncle's and goes to the university. He picks me up from school and drives me around, gets hold of fireworks and beer for me and my friends, and just generally hangs out with me. I'd hate to have a regular bodyguard, like I'm stuck with during the summers when Mom and I travel and Nick goes back to Armen. They're all big, quiet, and kinda disturbing to be around. I couldn't stand it.
I'm bored. I think I'll annoy the stewardess for a while. Take her mind off the tedium of her job. She might hate me for it, and decide she rather likes tedium, but at least I'll be occupied for half an hour.
Sunday, June 17
Nick is a great guy, you know? Really great. But sometimes I really wish I didn't get stuck with him. I mean, yeah he's cool to hang out with. Yeah he's a great friend. Yeah, I could get stuck with someone else. But do I gotta share a hotel room with the guy?
That's not totally fair, I know. It's not like we're exactly in the same room. Same suite, yes, but it's got four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, a living room, everything! I could probably go days without seeing him, if I timed it right. Except I timed it completely wrong, and walked into the kitchen when he was eating breakfast in his boxers. I know it shouldn't bother me but really, put some clothes on! What if my Mom showed up? I doubt she could get in, the suite having absolutely incredible security, but you never know with her. Wouldn't that have looked just a bit wrong?
So I tell him off a bit, send him to put on some pants, and right after the door closes, who lets herself in? My mom. Ironic, eh? And she's all "Let's go shopping, dear. There's some absolutely darling outfits you just have to try." Thank you, no.
"I don't do darling, mom. I don't do outfits either, in case you've forgotten. I wear jeans, t-shirts, and skate shoes."
Even that didn't seem to bother her. I must be losing my touch. Normally I'd have her screaming at me for a comment like that. Damn.
"Come on honey. You'll love it, I promise."
"Whatever." If there's one thing my mom hates, it's words like whatever and meh. This time she just smiled. What's she on, I wonder. "Nick," I yelled, another thing mom hates, "get ready, we gotta go." Gonna, gotta, sorta. Mom hates them all. She didn't seem to mind. She's on something, for sure.
Later Sunday
My mother is so incredibly stupid, she defies the imagination. We're in England, right? London. Probably not even two hours drive from my private estate which, might I add, is filled with all the clothes she's been buying for me for the past couple of years, ever since she told me I was a princess and not just a seriously rich kid, or maybe even before. I've gotta have like a quarter million in clothes and shoes there, but could we just go pick some up? No, of courses not. Instead, we spend seven hours in the most exclusive shops in London, with me modeling every dress in the shop while Mom enjoys the exotic teas they give to their favorite customers. 'Turn more, Sara. Slowly, dear,' and 'very pretty'. Blegh.
Not that Mother could have come to my estate with me anyway. Grandpa wouldn't allow that. He hasn't spoken to her in like fifteen, twenty years, because she married a man who believes in bigamy. I gotta say, I agree, and if it weren't for the whole king thing, I think Grandpa would have murdered them both. But King Casper being, well, royal, he got a little slack. Not my mother though. Completely disowned. Not allowed within miles of the family estates, including mine. Not that I'm complaining. I'm more than happy to have a place she can't go. Like a secret tree fort, sorta. Except that my fort has twelve bedrooms, two dining rooms, half a dozen parlors and studies, a stable, and close to two hundred acres. The Ryel's are apparently some smaller branch of the royal family, or maybe some family that was royal at one point. Mother doesn't talk about them. Getting cut off probably came as a pretty hard blow, even if she was warned.
Well anyway, I now have another couple thousand dollars worth of clothes, none of which are suitable for climbing, running, riding, anything. I'm not even allowed to get the bathing suits wet! Argh!
