Free Princess on the Brink by Meg Cabot Page A

Intro to Creative Writing and eleventh-grade Chem, which I’m already flunking, not to mention Precalc, which, once again, I don’t even know why I have to learn, since we’ve got all those accountants….”
    “Now, now,” Dad said. “Everyone has to learn calculus in order to be a well-rounded individual.”
    “You know what would make me a well-rounded individual, and you a celebrated philanthropist and possibly even be named Time magazine’s Person of the Year?” I asked. “Well, I’ll tell you: if you founded your own robotics lab right here in New York City that Michael could build his robotic arm thingie in!”
    My dad got a good laugh out of that one.
    Which was nice. Except that I wasn’t joking.
    “I’m serious, Dad,” I said. “I mean, why not? It’s notlike you don’t have the money.”
    “Mia,” my dad said, sobering. “I don’t know anything about robotics labs.”
    “But Michael does,” I said. “He could tell you what he’d need. And then you could just, you know. Pay for it. And you’d totally get credit when Michael successfully completes his robotic arm thingie. They’d put you on Larry King , I’ll bet. Who cares about Vogue …think of how much Genovia would be in the press then. It would do WONDERS for tourism. Which you must admit has been on the wane since the dollar tanked.”
    “Mia,” Dad said, shaking his head. “It’s out of the question. I’m very pleased for Michael—I always thought he had potential. But I am not going to spend millions of dollars building some robotics laboratory so you can fritter away eleventh grade necking with your boyfriend instead of passing Precalculus.”
    I glared at him. “Nobody calls it necking anymore, Dad.”
    Well, I had to say SOMETHING. Also… fritter ?
    “Excuse me.” Grandmère stomped over until she stood in the middle of the room and could glare at both of us at the same time. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your very important discussion of THAT BOY. But I’m wondering if the two of you have noticed something about this room. Something that is very obviously MISSING.”
    Dad and I looked around. Grandmère’s 1,530-square-foot penthouse suite came complete with two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms—each of which contained a marble soaking tub with separate stall shower—two 12-inch flat-screen televisions (and those were just the TVs in the bathrooms ), exclusive Frédéric Fekkai and Côté Bastide bath amenities, Floris shaving kit and Frette candles, living room, dining room with seating for eight, separate pantry, library of books, DVD player, stereo, in-room selection of compact discs and DVDs, multiline cordless telephone with voice mail and data line capabilities, high-speed Internet access, and a floor-model telescope so she could look out at the stars or across the park into Woody Allen’s apartment.
    There was nothing Grandmère’s suite didn’t have. NOTHING.
    “AN ASHTRAY!” Grandmère shouted. “THIS IS A NONSMOKING SUITE!!!”
    Dad looked up at the ceiling. Then he sighed. Then he said, “Mia. If Michael, as you say, is intent on proving himself worthy of you to me, then he wouldn’t want my help anyway. I’m sorry you’re going to have to be separated from him for a year, but I think buckling down and concentrating exclusively on your studies might not be such a bad thing. Mother.” He looked at Grandmère. “You are impossible. But I will get you a suite at another hotel. Let me make a few phone calls,” he said and walked into the dining room to do so.
    Grandmère, looking very self-satisfied, opened her purse, plucked out the key card to her suite, and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.
    “Well,” she said. “What a shame. Looks like I’ll be moving. Again.”
    “Grandmère,” I said. She was making me SO MAD. “Do you know there are people who are still living inTENTS and FEMA TRAILERS because of all the hurricanes and tsunamis and earthquakes there’ve been in