Note to everyone who thinks I haven't read the book: I have. I didn't like it. I didn't like the movie, but I didn't like the movie better. So this is sort of a conglomeration of the two.
Note to everyone who thinks my first-person narrator is Mia: She isn't. As you will find out eventually.
I walked around for a while, standing in doorways and hanging out in McDonald's, just trying to keep warm. I hadn't had time to get my wallet, or the stash of money under my mattress, or even my coat. I managed to get a packet of French fries at a McDonald's by explaining my sorry plight to the manager. He also gave me the address of a shelter for runaway girls.
"It's right near, you know where all those fancy old houses are? In back of there. Big old brick place, can't miss it." He scribbled down the address for me. "But I'd go back, if I were you. Let your mom cool down a little."
I thanked him for the advice and snarfed the fries, then set out for the shelter.
I stayed at that damn shelter for a week.
The beds near the heating vents were all taken up, so I was squeezed into a little corner with spiderwebs in it. When I woke up, I felt something crawling over my face. It turned out to be what looked like a baby tarantula.
Have you ever woken up at six A.M. and tried to get to the bathroom by rushing ahead of 50 other girls, some of whom have knives, tattoos, and track lines on their arms? It's not fun. I barely had time to get the spider prickles off of my face before my nose was nearly bashed in by a chick with enormous muscles. "Movitalosit," she slurred.
I tried to shove her back. "What the hell is your problem?"
She turned to face me. She was terrifying. Beautiful, but terrifying. "Gedoutta ma face."
I held up my hands. "Hey, I'm just trying to get some water here, okay?"
She grunted. "Ya new here."
I agreed.
She stuck out her meaty hand. I shook it. "I'm Johanna. First thing ya gotta know here is that the bathroom is a war zone."
In a few days, the shelter began to feel like home. I even had a routine. I would get up, splash water on my face, grab something edible from the kitchen, and set out walking. First I visited my mom's house, to see if she would take me back. The first day she wasn't even there. The second day, there was a strange car in the driveway. A long, black car. I figured she had found a boyfriend.
After the peek at my former dwelling, I would duck into the McDonald's where the manager gave me fries. I would take a quick pee and inquire about work positions. They never had anything open. Eventually, I gave up asking.
I would then work my way through the convenience stores and fast food joints of the city, trying to find a position. Nothing. Nobody was hiring a white lesbian 18-year-old with spiky blue hair.
After a few hours in the public library alone with some books, I would make my way back to the shelter, to a bowl of macaroni and cheese and the strong arms of Johanna. It wasn't the best life, but it was some kind of a life. If I had returned home, I would surely be met with withering scorn and even lousier treatment than I had before.
While I was thus engaged on these rounds one day, a long black car pulled up next to me, and the window rolled down.
I was looking for work, but honest work. I didn't want to spend my life jacking off 60-year-old executives for money. I backed off a little and shook my head.
Instead of the rich perv I had been expecting, it was a 50-year-old woman. Short hair, nice suit, expensive-looking jewelry.
"Are you Rachelle Winston?" she asked, putting the emphasis on the second syllable of each of my names.
"Just Rachel," I said. "I don't mean to sound rude, but who are you and what do you want with me?"
"Who is your mother?"
"Mom? Um...Anna. Anna Winston. But I sort of skipped out a week ago."
The woman clasped her hands together in delight. "I've been looking for you for so long! I am the Queen of Genovia, by the way. Please," she continued, "allow me to offer you a ride."
"To where?"
"The Genovian Embassy. I have some important news for you."
She sat me down on an embroidered couch. "Your mother gave me a photo of you," she said. "That's how I found you."
I took the photo from her hands. "Wasn't I sort of hard to find? I mean, there are a lot of teenage white girls with hair like mine in New York."
"But no one with a necklace like that," she said.
I put my hand up to the pendant I always wore. "What's wrong with it? Mom gave it to me." Well, she didn't exactly give it to me, per se. My dad gave it to her, and she never wears it, so I figure that gives me free reign.
She laughed. "That is the Royal Seal of Genovia," she said. "Listen closely, dear. I have some shocking news for you."
I waited.
"We've done DNA tests and tracked you down. Your father--"
"Is gay, and lives in California. I know," I interruped.
She looked petulant. "No, dear. That's your mother's divorced husband. Your biological father was the Crown Prince of Genovia."
"Yay," I said. "I'm a royal bastard. So?"
She sighed and looked at her watch. "Anna won't be here for another half hour, so I can tell you this." She snapped her fingers. "Satine!"
In came the most beautiful person I ever hoped to see in my life.
She had straight red hair down to the small of her back, with bangs falling over her green sloe eyes. Her skin was perfect: creamy, tan, and unblemished. I fell in love with her at once.
"Satine, please bring us some tea and whatever's in the kitchen," Queenie ordered.
Satine curtseyed. "There's quiche and sushi, madam."
"That's fine," Queenie snapped. "This girl hasn't eaten for days."
"Actually, I had fries this morning--" I objected.
"Hush," Queenie said. "Satine, NOW."
Satine flounced into the kitchen. I took the opportunity to study the way her legs moved.
Queenie cleared her throat. "I finally found the legitimate heir to the throne," she said. "However, she has absolutely no ambitions, save to avoid attention. She has no grasp of intrigue, espionage, or conspiracy. She will make a suitable figurehead, but nothing more."
"Doesn't that really describe most members of the monarchy?" I quipped.
She gave me a cold look. "Not anymore, dear. I have for some time been trying to get Genovia recognized as a world power."
I nodded. "Well, do you have nukes?"
"No, but we can get them if we want them," she responded. "To go on. The governing power is actually the prime minister. No one takes the royalty seriously."
"What kind of government do you have?" I interrupted.
Satine came in with two cups of tea and set them in front of us. "Madames." I gave her a sidewise grin. She giggled.
"Thank you, Satine. We're parliamentary. Similar to America's Congress, but more powerful." I knew what that meant, but I let her go on. "For a long time we've been stable, but in the last election..." She shook her head. "The parliament voted for Erik Blare, who was running on the socialist contingency. He's challenging the monarchy, claiming that we do nothing but tax the peasants and then use the money for our own excesses."
"And of course that's totally untrue and you're really being extremely altruistic, but the ungrateful proletariat doesn't recognize that," I commented.
She laughed. "Of course not. I'm not that inbred that I would mistake decadence for self-sacrifice." She sipped her tea delicately. "I love my country, but I'm not quite willing to give up my rather pleasant lifestyle."
"So you're going to play on the superstitions of the peasants with a huge propaganda campaign and somehow get Erik Blare out of office," I guessed.
She shook her head and set down her tea. "No, dear. For a while, I've actually been setting up a rather nice nest egg, with which I plan to retire. I'm thinking Saint Tropez."
"And what does this have to do with me?" I asked, trying the tea. It tasted faintly of apricots.
"You come in here," she said. "Your mother told me all about your preoccupation with strategy games and politics. She's also told me that you've participated in several protests."
Which was true. In second grade, I protested dodgeball by throwing the foam balls at the gym teacher. In fourth grade, I scribbled on the blackboard with permanent marker after the teacher refused to let me spell "color" with a U, which is, let me stress, a perfectly acceptable way of spelling it in Europe, and up until that time, most of the books I had read were by English authors. In seventh grade, I protested the substandard cafeteria food by dumping a vat of the highlighter-yellow mucous they try to pass off as gravy into the toilet. And in high school, when the principal refused to let me form a Gay/Straight alliance group on the grounds that "it wasn't appropriate", I stood outside his office with a few of my friends for a week straight, holding up signs and chanting.
I nodded. "And?"
Queenie set down her cup and leanred toward me. "I need you to create a revolution."
Note to everyone who thinks my first-person narrator is Mia: She isn't. As you will find out eventually.
I walked around for a while, standing in doorways and hanging out in McDonald's, just trying to keep warm. I hadn't had time to get my wallet, or the stash of money under my mattress, or even my coat. I managed to get a packet of French fries at a McDonald's by explaining my sorry plight to the manager. He also gave me the address of a shelter for runaway girls.
"It's right near, you know where all those fancy old houses are? In back of there. Big old brick place, can't miss it." He scribbled down the address for me. "But I'd go back, if I were you. Let your mom cool down a little."
I thanked him for the advice and snarfed the fries, then set out for the shelter.
I stayed at that damn shelter for a week.
The beds near the heating vents were all taken up, so I was squeezed into a little corner with spiderwebs in it. When I woke up, I felt something crawling over my face. It turned out to be what looked like a baby tarantula.
Have you ever woken up at six A.M. and tried to get to the bathroom by rushing ahead of 50 other girls, some of whom have knives, tattoos, and track lines on their arms? It's not fun. I barely had time to get the spider prickles off of my face before my nose was nearly bashed in by a chick with enormous muscles. "Movitalosit," she slurred.
I tried to shove her back. "What the hell is your problem?"
She turned to face me. She was terrifying. Beautiful, but terrifying. "Gedoutta ma face."
I held up my hands. "Hey, I'm just trying to get some water here, okay?"
She grunted. "Ya new here."
I agreed.
She stuck out her meaty hand. I shook it. "I'm Johanna. First thing ya gotta know here is that the bathroom is a war zone."
In a few days, the shelter began to feel like home. I even had a routine. I would get up, splash water on my face, grab something edible from the kitchen, and set out walking. First I visited my mom's house, to see if she would take me back. The first day she wasn't even there. The second day, there was a strange car in the driveway. A long, black car. I figured she had found a boyfriend.
After the peek at my former dwelling, I would duck into the McDonald's where the manager gave me fries. I would take a quick pee and inquire about work positions. They never had anything open. Eventually, I gave up asking.
I would then work my way through the convenience stores and fast food joints of the city, trying to find a position. Nothing. Nobody was hiring a white lesbian 18-year-old with spiky blue hair.
After a few hours in the public library alone with some books, I would make my way back to the shelter, to a bowl of macaroni and cheese and the strong arms of Johanna. It wasn't the best life, but it was some kind of a life. If I had returned home, I would surely be met with withering scorn and even lousier treatment than I had before.
While I was thus engaged on these rounds one day, a long black car pulled up next to me, and the window rolled down.
I was looking for work, but honest work. I didn't want to spend my life jacking off 60-year-old executives for money. I backed off a little and shook my head.
Instead of the rich perv I had been expecting, it was a 50-year-old woman. Short hair, nice suit, expensive-looking jewelry.
"Are you Rachelle Winston?" she asked, putting the emphasis on the second syllable of each of my names.
"Just Rachel," I said. "I don't mean to sound rude, but who are you and what do you want with me?"
"Who is your mother?"
"Mom? Um...Anna. Anna Winston. But I sort of skipped out a week ago."
The woman clasped her hands together in delight. "I've been looking for you for so long! I am the Queen of Genovia, by the way. Please," she continued, "allow me to offer you a ride."
"To where?"
"The Genovian Embassy. I have some important news for you."
She sat me down on an embroidered couch. "Your mother gave me a photo of you," she said. "That's how I found you."
I took the photo from her hands. "Wasn't I sort of hard to find? I mean, there are a lot of teenage white girls with hair like mine in New York."
"But no one with a necklace like that," she said.
I put my hand up to the pendant I always wore. "What's wrong with it? Mom gave it to me." Well, she didn't exactly give it to me, per se. My dad gave it to her, and she never wears it, so I figure that gives me free reign.
She laughed. "That is the Royal Seal of Genovia," she said. "Listen closely, dear. I have some shocking news for you."
I waited.
"We've done DNA tests and tracked you down. Your father--"
"Is gay, and lives in California. I know," I interruped.
She looked petulant. "No, dear. That's your mother's divorced husband. Your biological father was the Crown Prince of Genovia."
"Yay," I said. "I'm a royal bastard. So?"
She sighed and looked at her watch. "Anna won't be here for another half hour, so I can tell you this." She snapped her fingers. "Satine!"
In came the most beautiful person I ever hoped to see in my life.
She had straight red hair down to the small of her back, with bangs falling over her green sloe eyes. Her skin was perfect: creamy, tan, and unblemished. I fell in love with her at once.
"Satine, please bring us some tea and whatever's in the kitchen," Queenie ordered.
Satine curtseyed. "There's quiche and sushi, madam."
"That's fine," Queenie snapped. "This girl hasn't eaten for days."
"Actually, I had fries this morning--" I objected.
"Hush," Queenie said. "Satine, NOW."
Satine flounced into the kitchen. I took the opportunity to study the way her legs moved.
Queenie cleared her throat. "I finally found the legitimate heir to the throne," she said. "However, she has absolutely no ambitions, save to avoid attention. She has no grasp of intrigue, espionage, or conspiracy. She will make a suitable figurehead, but nothing more."
"Doesn't that really describe most members of the monarchy?" I quipped.
She gave me a cold look. "Not anymore, dear. I have for some time been trying to get Genovia recognized as a world power."
I nodded. "Well, do you have nukes?"
"No, but we can get them if we want them," she responded. "To go on. The governing power is actually the prime minister. No one takes the royalty seriously."
"What kind of government do you have?" I interrupted.
Satine came in with two cups of tea and set them in front of us. "Madames." I gave her a sidewise grin. She giggled.
"Thank you, Satine. We're parliamentary. Similar to America's Congress, but more powerful." I knew what that meant, but I let her go on. "For a long time we've been stable, but in the last election..." She shook her head. "The parliament voted for Erik Blare, who was running on the socialist contingency. He's challenging the monarchy, claiming that we do nothing but tax the peasants and then use the money for our own excesses."
"And of course that's totally untrue and you're really being extremely altruistic, but the ungrateful proletariat doesn't recognize that," I commented.
She laughed. "Of course not. I'm not that inbred that I would mistake decadence for self-sacrifice." She sipped her tea delicately. "I love my country, but I'm not quite willing to give up my rather pleasant lifestyle."
"So you're going to play on the superstitions of the peasants with a huge propaganda campaign and somehow get Erik Blare out of office," I guessed.
She shook her head and set down her tea. "No, dear. For a while, I've actually been setting up a rather nice nest egg, with which I plan to retire. I'm thinking Saint Tropez."
"And what does this have to do with me?" I asked, trying the tea. It tasted faintly of apricots.
"You come in here," she said. "Your mother told me all about your preoccupation with strategy games and politics. She's also told me that you've participated in several protests."
Which was true. In second grade, I protested dodgeball by throwing the foam balls at the gym teacher. In fourth grade, I scribbled on the blackboard with permanent marker after the teacher refused to let me spell "color" with a U, which is, let me stress, a perfectly acceptable way of spelling it in Europe, and up until that time, most of the books I had read were by English authors. In seventh grade, I protested the substandard cafeteria food by dumping a vat of the highlighter-yellow mucous they try to pass off as gravy into the toilet. And in high school, when the principal refused to let me form a Gay/Straight alliance group on the grounds that "it wasn't appropriate", I stood outside his office with a few of my friends for a week straight, holding up signs and chanting.
I nodded. "And?"
Queenie set down her cup and leanred toward me. "I need you to create a revolution."