Princess in Waiting by Meg Cabot

fell asleep in the
    limo on the
    way to Grandmere's, and Lars couldn't even wake me up for my princess lesson! He says that when he
    tried, I swatted
    him away and called him a bad word in French (that is Francois' fault, not mine).
    So he had Hans turn around and drive me back to the loft, then Lars carried me up three flights of stairs
    to my room
    (no joke, I weigh as much as about five Fat Louies) and my mom put me to bed.
    I didn't wake up for dinner or anything. I slept until seven this morning! That is fifteen hours straight.
    Wow. I must have been fried from all the excitement of being back home and seeing Michael, or
    something.
    Or maybe I really did have jet lag, and that whole I-am-a-talentless-bum thing from yesterday wasn't
    rooted in my low self-esteem, but was due to a chemical imbalance from lack of REM sleep. You know
    they say that people who are sleep deprived start suffering from hallucinations after a while. There was a
    DJ who stayed up for eleven days straight, the longest-recorded period of time anyone has ever gone
    without sleep, and he started playing nothing but Crosby, Stills and Nash, and that's how they knew it
    was time to call the ambulance.
    Except that even after fifteen hours of sleep, I still feel like a bit of a talentless bum. But at least today I
    don't feel like it's
    such a tragedy. I think sleeping for fifteen hours straight has given me some perspective. I mean, not
    everyone can be super-geniuses like Lilly and Michael. Just like not everyone can be a violin virtuoso like
    Boris. I have to be good at something. I just need to figure out what that something is. I askedMr. G
    today at breakfast what he thinks I am good
    at, and he said he thinks I make some interesting fashion statements sometimes.
    But that cannot have been what Lilly was referring to, as I was wearing my school uniform at the time she
    mentioned my mystery talent, which hardly leaves room for creative expression.
    Mr. G's remark reminded me that I still haven't found my Queen Amidala underwear. But I wasn't about
    to ask my
    stepfather if he'd seen them. EW! I try not to look at Mr. Gianini's underwear when it comes back all
    folded from the laundry-by-the-pound place, and thankfully he extends the same courtesy to me.
    And I couldn't ask my mom because once again she was dead to the world this morning. I guess
    pregnant women need
    as much sleep as teenagers and DJs.
    But I had seriously better find them before Friday, or my first date with Michael will be a full-on disaster,
    I just know it.
    Like he'll probably open his present and be all, 'Uh ... I guess it's the thought that counts.'
    I probably should have just followed Mrs. Hakim Baba's rules and got him a sweater.
    But Michael is so not the sweater type! I realized it as we pulled up in front of his building today. He was
    standing there, looking all tall and manly and Heath Ledger-like . . . except for having dark hair, not
    blond.
    And his scarf was kind of blowing in the wind, and I could see that part of his throat, you know, right
    beneath his Adam's
    apple and right above where his shirt collar opens, the part that Lars once told me if you hit someone
    hard enough, it would paralyse them. Michael's throat was so nice-looking, so pink and concave, that all
    I could thinkabout was Mr. Rochester standing out on the moor, brooding about his great love for Jane .
    . .
    And I knew, I just knew, I was right not to have gotten him a sweater. I mean, Jane would never have
    given Mr. Rochester
    a sweater. Ew.
    Anyway, then Michael saw me and smiled and he didn't look like Mr. Rochester any more, because Mr.
    Rochester never smiled, he just looked like Michael.
    And my heart turned over in my chest like it always does when I see him.
    Are you OK?' he wanted to know, as soon as he got into the limo. His eyes, so brown they are almost
    black — like the
    peat bogs Mr. Rochester was always striding past out there on the moor, because if you step into a peat
    bog,