Meg Cabot - Third Time Lucky

Also by Meg Cabot

:

The Princess Diaries

The Princess Diaries: Take Two

The Princess Diaries: Third Time Lucky

The Princess Diaries: Mia Goes Fourth

All American Girl

Look out for more Meg Cabot books!

The Princess Diaries: Give Me Five

The Princess Diaries: Six Appeal

Nicola and the Viscount

Victoria and the Rogue

ISBN 0 330 48207 6 Copyright Meg Cabot 2001

ThePrincess Diaries:

Third Time Lucky

Meg Cabot

Many thanks to Beth Ader, Jennifer Brown,Barbara Cabot,

Sarah Davies, Alison Donalty, LauraLanglie, Abby McAden,

David Walton, and especially BenjaminEgnatz.

'One ofSara's "pretends"- is that she is a princess. She plays it

all the time - even in school. She wants Ermengarde to be one too,

but Ermengarde says she is too fat.'

'She is too fat,' saidLavinia. 'AndSara is too thin.'

'Sara says it has nothing to do with what you look like,

or what you have. It has only to do with what you think of,and what you do.'

ALittle Princess

Frances Hodgson Burnett

English Class

Assignment (Due December 8)

Here at Albert Einstein HighSchool we have a very diverse student population. Over one hundred andseventy different nations, religions and ethnic groups are representedby our student body. In the space below, describe the manner in whichyour family celebrates the uniquely American holiday, Thanksgiving.Please utilize appropriate margins. .

My Thanksgiving

by Mia Thermopolis

6:45 a.m.

Roused by the sound of mymother vomiting. She is well into her third month of pregnancy now.According to her obstetrician, all the throwing up should stop in thenext trimester. I can't wait. I have been marking the days off on

my 'NSync calendar. (I don't really like 'NSync. Athost, not that much. My best friend Lilly bought me the calendar

as a joke. Except that one guy really is pretty cute.)

7:45 a.m.

Mr. Gianini, my newstepfather, knocks on my door. Only now I am supposed to call himFrank. This is very difficult

to remember due to the fact that at school, where he is my secondperiod Algebra teacher, I am supposed to call him Mr. Gianini. So Ijust don't call him anything (to his face).

It's time to get up, Mr.Gianini says. We are having Thanksgiving at his parents' house on LongIsland. We have to leave now if we are going to beat the traffic.

8:45 a.m.

There is no traffic this earlyon Thanksgiving Day. We arrive at Mr. G's parents' house in Sagaponackthree hours early.

Mrs. Gianini (Mr. Gianini'smother, not my mother. My mother is still Helen Thermopolis because sheis fairly well-known as a painter under that name, and also because shedoes not believe in the cult of the patriarchy) is still

in curlers. She looks very surprised. This might not only be because wearrived so early, but also because no sooner had my mother entered thehouse than she was forced to run for the bathroom with her hand pressedover her mouth, on account of the smell of the roasting turkey. I amhoping this means that my future half-brother or sister is avegetarian, since the smell of meat cooking used to make my motherhungry, not nauseated.

My mother already informed mein the car on the way over from Manhattan that Mr. Gianini's parentsare very old-fashioned and are used to enjoying a conventionalThanksgiving meal. She does not think that they will appreciate hearingmy traditional Thanksgiving speech about how the Pilgrims were guiltyof committing mass genocide by giving their new Native American friendsblankets filled with the smallpox virus, and that it is reprehensiblethat we, as a country, annually celebrate this rape and destruction ofan entire culture.

Instead, my mother said, Ishould discuss more neutral topics, such as the weather.

I asked if it was all right ifI discussed the astonishingly high rate of attendance at the Reykjavikopera house in Iceland (over ninety-eight per cent of the country'spopulation has seen Tosca at least once).

My mother sighed and said, 'Ifyou must,' which I take to be a sign that she is beginning to tire ofhearing about Iceland.

Well, I am sorry, but I findIceland extremely fascinating and I will not rest until I have visitedthe ice hotel.

9:45 a.m. 11:45 a.m.

I watch theMacy's ThanksgivingDay parade with Mr Gianini Senior in what he calls the rec room.

They don't have rec rooms inManhattan.

Just lobbies.

Remembering my mother'swarning, I refrain from repeating another one of my traditional holidayrants that

the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade is a gross example of Americancapitalism run amok. I mean, using cute animal-shaped balloons to lurechildren into begging their parents to buy them products that theydon't need and

the manufacturing of which is contributing to the destruction of ourplanet?

I am sorry, but that is justsick.

Besides, at one point duringthe broadcast I caught sight of Lilly standing in the crowd outsideOffice Max on Broadway and Thirty-Seventh, her video camera clutched toher slightly squished-in face (so much like a pug) as a float carryingMiss America and William Shatner of Star Trek fame passed by.So I know Lilly is going to take care of denouncing Macy's on the nextepisode of her public access television show, Lilly Tells It LikeIt Is (every Friday night

at nine, Manhattan cable channel 67).

12:00 p.m.

Mr. Gianini Junior's sisterarrives with her husband, their two kids and the pumpkin pies. Thekids, who are my age, are twins a boy, Nathan, and a girl, Claire. Iknow right away that Claire and I are not going to get along, becausewhen we are introduced she looks me up and down the way thecheerleaders do in the hallway at school and goes, in a very snottyvoice, 'You're the one who's supposed to be a princess?' Andwhile I am perfectly aware that at five foot nine inches tall, with novisible breasts, feet the size of snowshoes, and hair that sits in atuft on my head like the end

of a cotton bud, I am the biggest freak in the freshman class of AlbertEinstein High School For Boys (made coeducational circa 1975), I do notappreciate being reminded of it by girls who do not even bother findingout that beneath this mutant facade beats the heart of a person who isonly striving, just like everybody else in this world, to findself-actualization.

Not that I even care what Mr.Gianini's niece Claire thinks of me. I mean, she is wearing a pony-skinminiskirt. And

it is not even imitation pony-skin. She must know that a horse had todie just so she could have that skirt, but she obviously doesn't care.

Now Claire has pulled out hermobile phone and gone out on to the deck where the reception is best(even though it

is thirty degrees outside, she apparently doesn't mind. She has thatpony-skin to keep her warm, after all). She keeps looking in at methrough the sliding glass doors and laughing as she talks on her phone.

I don't care. At least I amnot wearing the skin of a murdered equine. Nathan - who is dressed inbaggy jeans and has