The Princess Diaries by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online Page A

Friday. Friday is my favorite day, besides Saturday and Sunday. Fridays always mean two days—two glorious, relaxing days—of NO Algebra are coming my way.
    And then I walked out into the kitchen and there was all this pink light coming down through the skylight right on my mom, who was wearing her best kimono and making French toast using Egg Beaters instead of real eggs, even though I’m no longer ovo-lacto since I realized eggs aren’t fertilized so they could never have been baby chicks anyway.
    And I was all set to thank her for thinking of me, and then I heard this rustle.
    And there was my DAD sitting at the dining room table (well, really it’s just a table, since we don’t have a dining room, but whatever), reading The New York Times and wearing a suit.
    A suit. At seven o’clock in the morning.
    And then I remembered. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten it:
    I’m a princess.
    Oh my God. Everything good about my day just went right out the window after that.
    As soon as he saw me, my dad was all, "Ah, Mia."
    I knew I was in for it. He only says " Ah, Mia" when he’s about to give me a big lecture.
    He folded his paper all carefully and laid it down. My dad always folds papers carefully, making the edges all neat. My mom never does this. She usually crumples the pages up and leaves them, out of order, on the futon couch or next to the toilet. This kind of thing drives my father insane and is probably the real reason why they never got married.
    My mom, I saw, had set the table with our best Kmart plates, the ones with the blue stripes on them, and the green plastic cactus-shaped margarita glasses from Ikea. She had even put a bunch of fake sunflowers in the middle of the table in a yellow vase. She had done all that to cheer me up, I know, and she’d probably gotten up really early to do it, too. But instead of cheering me up, it just made me sadder.
    Because I bet they don’t use green plastic cactus-shaped margarita glasses for breakfast at the palace in Genovia.
    "We need to talk, Mia," my dad said. This is how his worst lectures always start. Except this time he looked at me kind of funny before he started. "What’s wrong with your hair?"
    I put my hand up to my head. "Why?" I thought my hair looked good, for a change.
    "Nothing is wrong with her hair, Phillipe," my mom said. She usually tries to ward off my dad’s lectures, if she can. "Come and sit down, Mia, and have some breakfast. I even heated up the syrup for the French toast, the way you like it."
    I appreciated this gesture on my mom’s part. I really did. But I was not going to sit down and talk about my future in Genovia. I mean, come on. So I was all, "Uh, I’d love to, really, but I gotta go. I have a test in World Civ today, and I promised Lilly I’d meet her to go over our notes together—"
    " Sit down."
    Boy, my dad can really sound like a starship captain in the Federation when he wants to.
    I sat. My mom shoveled some French toast onto my plate. I poured syrup over it and took a bite, just to be polite. It tasted like cardboard.
    "Mia," my mom said. She was still trying to ward off my dad’s lecture. "I know how upset you must be about all of this. But really, it isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be."
    Oh, right. All of a sudden you tell me I’m a princess, and I’m supposed to be happy about it?
    "I mean," my mom went on, "most girls would probably be delighted to find out their father is a prince!"
    No girls I know. Actually, that’s not true. Lana Weinberger would probably love to be a princess. In fact, she already thinks she is one.
    "Just think of all the lovely things you could have if you went to live in Genovia." My mom’s face totally lit up as she started listing the lovely things I could have if I went to live in Genovia, but her voice sounded strange, as if she were playing a mom on TV or something. "Like a car! You know how impractical it is to have a car here in the city. But in Genovia, when you