III: Princess in Love Vol. IV: Princess in Waiting Vol. IV and a Half: Project Princess Vol. Mia's royal introduction to Genovia has mixed results: while her fashion sense is widely applauded, her position on the installation of public parking meters is met with resistance. 4 The Thermopolis-Renaldo Agreement. 22 Some of Meg Cabot's stories are: The Princess Diaries Goes Forth (), The Princess Diaries: Give Me Five. The Princess Diaries has 60 entries in the series. Mia Goes Fourth. The Princess Diaries (Series). Book 4. Meg Cabot Author (). cover image of Mia Goes.
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The fourth volume in the popular Princess Diaries series. Mia Thermopolis, the year-old princess of tiny Genovia, is having a hard time adjusting to. The Princess Diaries: Third Time Lucky The Princess Diaries: Give Me Five . 4. My best friend Lilly's brother, whom I have loved since the day I met him. 4. And I say that as a princess who is in love with a college student. The thing is, I finally get it now: Guys are different than we are. But that's not always a bad.
About the Book Never before has the world seen such a princess. Nor have her own subjects, for that matter. Mia's royal introduction to Genovia has mixed results: while her fashion sense is widely applauded, her position on the installation of public parking meters is met with resistance.
But the politics of bureaucracy are nothing next to Mia's real troubles. Excerpt "If I was a princess," she murmured, "I could scatter largess to the populace. But even if I am only a pretend princess, I can invent little things to do for people. Things like this. She was as happy as if it was largess.
I'll pretend that to do things for people is scattering largess. As if I don't totally get why everybody is so mad about the whole speech thing. I mean, I have already sworn I will never again veer from the prepared script while addressing the Genovian populace. But why am I the only one in this country who thinks pollution is an important issue? If people are going to dock their yachts in the Genovian harbor, they really ought to pay attention to what they are throwing overboard.
I mean, porpoises and sea turtles get their noses stuck in those plastic six-pack holders all the time, and then they starve to death because they can't open their mouths to eat.
All people have to do is snip the loops before they throw the holders out, and everything would be fine. Well, all right, not everything, since you shouldn't be throwing trash overboard in the first place.
That is why my dad fully had all those Grecian urn-shaped trash receptacles placed at convenient intervals all along the pier. You would think people would consider actually using them.
I mean, the ocean is not their garbage can. I cannot stand idly by while helpless sea creatures are being abused by trendy Bain de Soleil-addicts in search of that perfect St.
Tropez tan. Besides, if I am to be the ruler of Genovia someday, people need to realize I am not going to be merely a figurehead, like some royals I could mention. I intend to tackle serious issues during my reign, such as plastic six-pack holders in the bay, and the fact that all the foot traffic from the day-trippers coming off the cruise ships that dock out in the Genovian harbor is destroying some of our most historically important bridges, such as the Pont des Vierges Bridge of the Virgins , so named after my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother Agnes, who threw herself off it rather than become a nun like her father wanted her to be she was all right: the royal navy fished her out and she ended up eloping with the ship captain, much to the consternation of the house of Renaldi.
Gianini once told me that it is better to start off mean and get nicer as the semester goes by than start nice and have everybody think they can walk all over you. I wish I could call Michael, or even Lilly, but I can't because they are spending Winter Break at their grandmother's in Florida and I don't even know the number. They are not getting back until the day before I do!
How I have survived this long, without my boyfriend and best friend to talk to, is a mystery wrapped in an enigma. I am fully starting to hate it here. Everybody at school was all, Oh you are so lucky, you get to spend Christmas in a castle being waited on hand and foot. Well, let me tell you something: there is nothing so great about living in a castle. First of all, everything in it is really old. And yeah, it's not like it was built in 4AD or whenever it was my ancestress Princess Rosagunde first became princess or whatever.
But it was still built in like the s and let me tell you what they didn't have in the s: 1. Cable 2.
DSL 3. Toilets Which is not to say there isn't a satellite dish, but hello, this is my dad's place, the only channels he has got programmed are like CNN, CNN Financial News, and the golf channel. Where is MTV 2, I ask you? Where is the Lifetime Movie Channel for Women?
Not that it matters because I am spending all my time being run off my feet. It isn't as if I ever even get a free moment to pick up a remote and go, Ho hum, I wonder if there's a Tracy Gold movie on.
Like I didn't get it the first time she said it, or the nine hundredth time, or however many times it has been since Christmas Eve, when I supposedly ruined everything with my treatise on plastic six-pack holders. Well, not so simple, because guess what, castles built in the s simply aren't wired for the world wide web. And yeah, the Palais de Genovia audio-visual squad is trying, but you still have like three feet of sand stone or whatever the palace is made out of to bore through before you can even start installing any cable.
It is like trying to wire the Alamo. Oh, yeah, and the toilets? Let me just tell you that back in the s, they didn't know so much about sewage. So now four hundred years later, if you put one square too much toilet paper in the bowl and try to flush, you create a mini indoor tsunami. And technically he isn't even really my cousin anyway. Some ancestor of his was awarded a principality by the king of Italy way back in like AD, same as great-great-and-so-on Grandma Rosagunde.
So yes, I did mention this to him. 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 King and Queen of Liechtenstein. Who are totally nice people, but hello, it's Tuesday, I could totally 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 nineteen 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 favorite fictional character is Xena, Warrior Princess, and next thing you know, they are going on about how your favorite 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, nineteen 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 in a palace with her crazy grandma and a homeless Speedo-wearing prince and a freakish hairless miniature poodle?
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 Sandy 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.
Even more so than usual. Well, except for my cat, Fat Louie, of course. He is never far from my thoughts, because he is my heart's breath. 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.
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 regent of Genovia, Michael will of course have to take my name.
Not Thermopolis. Michael Renaldi. 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. 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. 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 back as more than just a friend--could be in Florida loving me as a friend and possibly at this very minute actually falling in love with somegirl named Sandy? 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? 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 auto-dial the 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 send 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 pedophiles 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 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 okay to call her because: 1 it is only six o'clock where she is, and 2 she got her own cell 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. 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 okay 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 Tori Spelling portrays a young woman struggling to pay for her college education with money earned working as an escort--based on a true story.
At first it was very difficult to get Tina to focus on the situation at hand. All she wanted to know about was what Prince William was like. I tried to explain to her that beyond commenting that it was hot on the Cote d'Azure for December, Prince William and I hardly spoke to one another, I because my heart of course belongs to another, and he because apparently he found my treatise on the plight of the giant sea turtle less than scintillating.
This was extremely disappointing to Tina. I mean, even Britney Spears has that, and she's not even royalty. So even though Tina claims Dave is her Romeo in cargo pants, she has been keeping her eyes open for a nice boy willing to make a commitment.
Although I think Prince William is too old for her. I suggested she try for Will's little brother Harry who is actually very cute as well, but Tina said then she'd never get to be queen, a sentiment I guess I can understand, although believe me, being royal loses a lot of its glamour once it actually happens to you. I mean, this is my winter break. I am supposed to be having fun, mentally recharging for the coming semester, which is not going to be easy, as I will be moving on to Algebra II, not to mention Health and Safety class.
Everybody at school was all, Oh, you are so lucky, you get to spend Christmas in a castle being waited on hand and foot. Well, first of all, there is nothing so great about living in a castle. Because guess what? Castles are totally old. Where is MTV 2, I ask you? Where is the Lifetime Movie Channel for Women? Not that it matters because I am spending all my time being run off my feet. So now, four hundred years later, if you put one square too much toilet paper in the bowl and try to flush, you create a mini indoor tsunami.
That is my life in Genovia. Every other kid I know is spending his or her winter break in Aspen skiing, or in Miami getting tanned. But me? What am I doing for my winter break?