The Princess & the Pauper Read online

  The Princess and the Pauper

  Kate Brian

  Prologue

  Night skies in L.A. seem to stretch out forever, sending their warmth out to the entire world, rolling above the ocean and reaching the countries on the opposite shore. I imagined the air I was breathing right then drifting into Vineland, a country I knew so much about but had never seen.

  I could barely believe I was really standing here on this balcony, looking up at the familiar night sky--the only familiar thing around me.

  My jeans were gone (with a floor-length black silk dress in their place), my hair was dyed (from ferret brown to shades of glossy gold), and my black plastic watch had been replaced by strands of glittering rubies. I could just imagine my mom's reaction if she saw them. "My God, Julia. Look at you," she'd say. "One of those bracelets is worth more than I make in five years."

  Of course, I wasn't Julia that day--I was someone else.

  And it wasn't even about the dress, the hair, or the bracelet.

  I glanced quickly at Markus Ingvaldsson, son of Vineland's minister of cultural affairs. He stood next to

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  me on the balcony and looked out toward the Pacific. His hair was messy from the wind and flopped in his face, and the arms of his tuxedo were a tiny bit too short. I looked down at his hands, beautiful hands with long, slim fingers. On his middle finger he wore the signet ring that had been handed down through the generations. Handed down through the generations.

  The closest I'd ever come to owning something with that much history was when I'd bought a pair of used Roller Blades at a garage sale.

  Markus caught my gaze and started to smile, revealing the adorable small dimple on his left cheek.

  That was it--I was turning to mush inside all over again. And it was all wrong. Foreign dignitaries' sons were supposed to be stuffy and boring and pretentious. They weren't supposed to have strong arms, and they weren't supposed to have dimples! Because ... well, because ...

  Because I wasn't supposed to fall for anyone.

  According to Mom, not to mention YM and all the shows on the WB, falling for a guy is exactly what sixteen-year-old girls are supposed to do. But when you're trying to maintain your grade point average while figuring out a way to make sure you and your mother don't get evicted, you don't really have a lot of extra time to spend stressing about the new hottie who works at the Circle K. So I had reached my age, sixteen, without ever having had a boyfriend, a serious crush, or even a guy to go to the movies with. And that was just how I'd wanted it.

  How I still wanted it... right?

  Markus's smile widened, the dimple got deeper, and I

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  blinked, then took a step back from him and returned my gaze to the view over the balcony.

  I could see the lights of the Palisades and almost make out the dark waves of the Pacific Ocean. I'd waded out in that ocean many times. I'd jogged along the bike path that ran along the beach. I'd lain in the sand and tried to get an even tan, never quite getting it right.

  Inside the French doors that led to the ballroom, people were dancing in Armani tuxedos and rich jewel-toned silk gowns to music played by a string quartet. The air smelled like a mix of fresh flowers and expensive perfume. Everyone was perfectly relaxed, perfectly calm. Everyone except for me. How could I be calm? I was in big trouble.

  Just a little while ago Markus and I had waltzed together inside that room. The other dancers had cleared the floor to watch us, admiring the graceful way we moved together. And even that was a lie. In my regular life I wasn't graceful at all. I was always running into lockers, tripping over curbs, and spilling coffee down the front of my shirts. But not tonight.

  Suddenly I shivered, even though the breeze against my face was warm and soft.

  "Are you cold?" Markus asked, moving closer to me.

  "No," I said, in a voice I'd practiced in front of my mirror, my cat staring at me in confusion as I struggled to get the slight tinge of an accent just right. "I'm fine."

  Markus stepped closer anyway and laid his hand over mine where it rested on the railing. His hand felt huge. I could barely breathe--I felt like fifty genetically altered butterflies were flying around inside my stomach.

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  Don't mess this up, I told myself, fighting to stay in control and get my heart rate back down. "It's--it's beautiful out here," I managed to choke out, my voice shaking slightly.

  "Yes," Markus agreed. "It is."

  And then I did it, the stupidest thing I'd ever done in my life: I looked into his eyes.

  I knew it was a cliché, I knew it with every fiber of my being, but Markus's deep blue eyes were more amazing than the sky, the Pacific Ocean, and every other beautiful thing and person I'd seen tonight all rolled up into one.

  My knees actually felt weak.

  Markus met my gaze and smiled again, then reached his hand up to touch the side of my face. "And you," he said softly. "You're pretty beautiful yourself."

  Okay. I was going to vomit on him and pass out. But then, that probably wouldn't have been too princessy of me.

  Of course, princesses probably aren't supposed to blush, either. Unfortunately, I had a feeling that at that moment there wasn't an inch of my skin from my scalp down to my toes that wasn't bright red. Was this night the best night of my life or the worst?

  "Markus--" I started to say, then stopped myself.

  "Hmm?"

  "Nothing." I bit my lip.

  "Do you want to go back in?"

  "No," I blurted. Oh God. I'd said that way too quickly. Was it okay for a princess to sound so overeager?

  "Let's just stay out here for a couple more minutes," I added in what I hoped was a more casual tone.

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  He moved his hand across my face and brushed a few loose strands of hair behind my ear. I gripped the railing tighter.

  "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked. Then his mouth straightened into a line and his brow furrowed. "I know what this is about," he said, sounding more serious than he had all night.

  My breath caught. "You--you do?" I squeaked.

  He nodded. "It's because I was talking to that other woman earlier, isn't it?"

  I stared at him, wide-eyed, torn between a blast of relief that he was still clueless and total confusion about what he was talking about. What woman?

  "I assure you, Fröken Vandelkoff means nothing to me," Markus continued.

  Fröken who? I gave a slight nod, trying to look as solemn about the whole thing as he did.

  And then it was back--Markus's perfect, crooked grin. "Besides, she's what, sixty-five? And also, I think she might be a distant cousin."

  I couldn't help it--I started to giggle. I didn't care if princesses giggled or not; there was no way to stop.

  Markus laughed, too, and then before I knew it, his arms were around me and he was pulling me toward him.

  "You're so ... different tonight," he told me, his mouth so close I could feel his breath on my face.

  "Mmm," I agreed, not trusting myself to say anything more. "This whole night has been completely unreal," I murmured into his chest.

  "And is that so bad?" Markus asked gently.

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  Before I could answer, he leaned down and kissed me. The kind of kiss that ends all kisses. The kind in the movies. (The good movies, not the cheesy ones with Freddie Prinz, Jr.) The kind of kiss that makes you forget about strange hair and old shoes and eviction notices and everything else that doesn't mean anything.

  Finally the kiss ended, and we stood staring at each other.

  Oh, Markus, I thought. If you only knew who I was or what I've done to you, you would never kiss me again.

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  ***

&
nbsp; Chapter 1

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  So it's all set! I am coming to America in just one week! How great is that? I'll finally get to meet you and hear you play in person. I'm so excited, I almost can't believe it! :-)

  Love,

  C.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  c--

  girl--i so wish you would tell me your real name.... my band is reel excited about the festivel.... its' definitely going to rawk.... and it's so cool too meet a girl from another country!!! so does this mean your parents agreed to let you come to the concert???

  later babe!

  ribbit

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  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Ribbit

  Don't you worry. My friend Ingrid is going to America with me and she is very smart and she will find a way to get us there. So just count on us showing up! Can't wait to--

  The door swung open, and I looked up quickly from my laptop. Ugh. One of the main problems princesses have (besides tiara hair, which is worse than pillow hair, believe me) is queens. That is, mothers. Mine stood in the doorway, looking very tired in a lavender satin gown.

  I don't mean a gown like a ball gown. Princesses and queens don't wear those except for, well, balls, or ceremonies, or really important dinners. I mean gown as in nightgown. Yes, that's right. Royal people wear nightgowns and pajamas just like regular people. And sometimes we wake up in the morning with drool crusted around our mouths (of course, we have servants who make sure we never go out in public like that).

  My mother stood in the doorway. Her face was free of drool, but she had big dark circles under her eyes. For the past few months she'd been nursing my grandmother, who had diabetes and was apparently really sick. Lately my mother was exhausted pretty much all the time.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, leaning against the door frame.

  "Nothing." I minimized the e-mail window on my

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  screen, then shut the laptop and put it down on my mahogany night table.

  My mother frowned, then came in and sat down on my bed. California, my cat, meowed angrily and leapt onto the floor. California was a Pekinese and hideously spoiled. Like me, he had the best grooming a country of two million people could offer. Unlike me, he actually enjoyed it.

  "Your father has been delayed. As you know, he was supposed to return home from England tonight." My mother sighed, patted her ash blond bob, and looked around the room like she didn't know what else to say.

  "Delayed, wow," I said, rolling my eyes. "How totally shocking."

  There was an awkward pause.

  "Well, if you're bored, we could send someone out to Video International," she finally said. "I don't know if I could stay awake for a whole movie. But maybe if we got something short..."

  It used to be that when my father was away, my mother and I would spend the night hanging out together. We'd get the cook to make us chocolate milk shakes and we'd watch American TV shows on the satellite dish or get one of the staff to rent us an American film. We only did this when my father was out of town. He thought American movies "taught bad values." I thought America looked fabulous--it was obviously so different than Vineland, full of models and astronauts and gangsters and people trying to kidnap the president. A few months ago my mother and I would have been all set up in front of the projection screen, watching one of those movies together. But not anymore.

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  "Whatever. I don't feel like a movie," I said. "I was going to go to bed early anyway." I faked a yawn.

  "All right, dear. Whatever you say." She couldn't hide the relief in her eyes, and I felt a small, familiar twinge inside.

  It seemed like every day my mother and I grew farther apart. She'd been busy taking care of her mother, and I'd been busy writing e-mails. And feeling sorry for myself, which my mother completely did not understand. She'd married my father when she was my age, sixteen, and missed out on having any of the exciting adventures teenagers are supposed to have. But she didn't seem to mind. She thought the occasional Josh Hartnett movie should be enough excitement for any princess, and whenever I complained about being bored with my life, it was like she took it personally.

  So after a while I started keeping my thoughts a secret. My thoughts ... and my relationship with Ribbit.

  It was actually kind of cool--I was just like Buffy back when she had to hide her whole secret slayer life and the Angel thing from her mom (only I wasn't killing demons or anything).

  My mother cleared her throat. "Carina, your father really would have loved to be here with us tonight. I hope you know that."

  "Yeah. Just like he would have loved to have been here for pretty much my entire life."

  "Carina, it wasn't his fault. There was a storm coming in England, and it was unsafe for the jet to take off. He's staying at the queen's tonight, and he's been asked to

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  attend the queen's jubilee, so he won't be back until tomorrow night."

  "I wanted to go to the queen's jubilee! Skull Boiler is playing there!"

  "Is that the one with the devil-worshiping lead singer?"

  "Mother," I said, rolling my eyes. "Please. Everyone has pentagram tattoos these days. You're being ridiculous." A few months earlier my friend Ingrid had smuggled me some goth CDs in classical music cases. They were so intense I couldn't believe it. Imagine the freedom to be so loud and dark and say whatever you wanted.

  The Goth Princess of Vineland. I liked the way that sounded.

  I picked my biology textbook up off the floor and flipped through the pages, pretending to read something about the makeup of a cell while my mother stared off into the distance. I hoped she would go away soon so I could get back to my e-mail.

  But for once, she wasn't in a hurry to leave.

  "So, the Ingvaldssons are going to be at that embassy ball they'll be holding in the States while you're there," she said. She tried to force a smile. It looked totally fake. "Markus will be there."

  Unbelievable. I was going all the way to America and I still couldn't get away from Markus.

  My parents and Markus's parents were good friends. Markus's father was the count of Vasta and minister of something-or-other in our government. And Markus and I had played together when we were, like, four. He'd really

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  liked the wooden blocks, while I was more partial to the glitter glue.

  Markus wasn't a bad guy or anything, but our parents had been trying to throw us together for years. Markus was exactly the kind of guy every mother wishes for for her daughter. He was respectful and well mannered and always laughed appreciatively whenever anyone made a bad joke. He was the kind of guy middle-aged women always describe as "a real catch."

  In other words, he was completely and totally boring.

  Especially when you compared him to Ribbit--Ribbit was so exciting and sexy and real. He sang songs with loud meaningful lyrics. And didn't worry so much about following the rules all the time.

  "I don't want to talk to Markus," I said.

  "Dear, he just wants to get to know you better."

  I hated it when my mother called me "dear." It just reminded me all over again how straight she was, how straight and stuffy my whole life was. I shook my head and started chewing on my nails.

  "Please stop biting your nails," my mother said. "It's an unbecoming habit."

  That was another thing. I was so sick of always having to be "becoming." I wanted to wear ripped jeans with safety pins in them. I wanted to snort when I laughed. I wanted to slouch.

  I stopped chewing. "I want to meet new people when I'm in the United States. There will be plenty of time to get together with Markus after I get back from L.A.," I said. I felt so cool, calling it L.A. instead of Los Angeles,

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  just like they did on TV I tried to keep my voice level. If my m
other knew how much I was looking forward to this trip, she'd get suspicious and make me stay home. She never wanted me to have any fun.

  "Dear, are you sure you're ready to do this goodwill tour on your own? Maybe I should go with you after all." She reached out and tried to stroke my hair, but I ducked out of the way.

  If Mother came, there was no way I'd ever be able to bend the rules and meet Ribbit.

  "I'll be fine," I said quickly. "And you can't leave Grandmama when she's so sick. Don't worry, Mother. You know I always do exactly what I'm supposed to do." Even when what I'm supposed to do is incredibly boring, I added silently. "Besides"--I rolled my eyes--"Killjoy will be around."

  "Carina, don't be cruel. Fröken Killroy has served the royal family with great dedication for many, many years. She cares deeply for you."

  Fröken Killroy was the palace "handler." She was just like a prison guard, but she got to wear better clothes. I had a lot of nightmares about her, where I was a parrot in a cage and she shoved food pellets through the wire. One time I got to bite her finger.

  "Mother, you know Ingrid and I will be with our delegation at all times. I don't know why Fröken Killroy even needs to be there."

  My mother sighed. "Dear, Los Angeles is a big, frightening city."

  "Frightening?" I snorted. "Frightening how?"

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  "Well..." She thought a minute, and California stared at her, like he was waiting for tales of ferocious dogs dropping out of the palm trees. "I hear there are gangs in Los Angeles that make signs with their hands"--my mother folded two fingers down and waved her hand around to demonstrate--"and I also hear that the cars go too fast and that there are crazy Roller Bladers on the beach. And I know all that smog is terribly unhealthy. Take shallow breaths."

  "That all sounds fabulous," I blurted. My mother's eyes widened, and I wished I'd kept my mouth shut.

  "You're only sixteen, dear. Try not to grow up all at once."

  "I just feel..."I trailed off.

  "Feel what?" she prodded, her voice softening.

  I sighed. "Never mind. Whatever. Just forget it." California crawled onto my lap and I threw him off the bed. He sent me a killer glare from the floor. I glanced up and my mother was giving me the same look.

  "Carina, I don't know what's happened to you lately. I really don't." My mother sighed, too, and stood up. "You haven't even asked about your grandmother."