Dear Diary,

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if New York hadn't become its own country. If, instead of fighting for independence and becoming a tiny, little nation, it had just stayed in the U.S.

I'm sure there would be more harmony between all the states because there wouldn't be another country smack-dab in the middle of all of them. I'm sure there would be a governor, not royalty.

And I wouldn't be the princess, soon-to-be queen of one of the smallest, little countries in the world.

Her Royal Highness Crown Princess Homily Fredericka Annette Cora Newmeer of New York. There are probably more names I don't remember. I know, I know. Who doesn't know their whole name? But I am a princess, so it's different.

In one month, on my eighteenth birthday, I will be queen. The crown will pass down from my mother to I, skipping my older brother, Farrow, because our line of succession states that the firstborn daughter is the heir.

And no, I don't know Farrow's whole name. I'm in enough trouble trying to memorize my own! Give me a break.

The first time I met my subjects that I can remember was at the age of four. I was dressed in a pink, fluffy dress that matched my shoes and tiara perfectly. A bunch of people pointed at me,

"She's the heir! Look, the heir! The crown princess is here!" I didn't get what it meant yet.

It means having to be perfect all the time. I can never let a smile falter on my face. I can never stop being graceful and beautiful. I have to be at my best constantly.

I can't get mad. I can't throw fits. I can't get my heart broken. I can't make any mistakes whatsoever.

It's a lot to live up to.

Soon, I have to stand up in front of all of New York and make a speech. The speech must be twenty minutes long, in which I must tell of how I will change our kingdom for the better.

Mother passed out during hers. I cannot make that same mistake. If I do, our family might lose the throne. Then, Farrow would tell me what a failure I am, just like every time I've messed up in public.

I don't need to hear that speech again.

I guess I'm really nervous, but I'm so numb to my own emotions that it isn't bothering me.

I still haven't written my speech, though.

I mean, what if I say the wrong thing, and Farrow is right?

My parents named him after the great leaders of ancient Egypt. They named me after the sermon the pastor gives during a wedding.

I really don't know why. Wouldn't it make more sense to name the heir after the great leaders of ancient times?

Instead I'm stuck with the name 'Homily'. Which isn't even a name, mind you! My parents just decided to name me that, which apparently makes it a name because we're royalty? I really don't know.

I've got to go. It's time for my dress fitting for the coronation.

Love, Ily

.....

Dear Diary,

Today was the coronation ceremony! Do you want the good news or the bad news first?

I'll go with the good news first. I didn't pass out during my speech. The bad news? Father did.

The doctors say his heart gave out. He died soon after.

I know I sound callous. I mean, shouldn't there be tear marks everywhere and smudged mascara? But I have to seem calm and controlled right now. For the people.

Farrow is crying. I told him he could cry for me, too, and I think he took my words to heart. I've been holding the tears in for hours, and the need to cry seems to have left me. I am now Her Royal Majesty Queen Homily Fredericka Annette Cora Newmeer of New York. That name comes with standards.

Like not crying when your father has a heart attack in the middle of your coronation speech.

The tears are coming back now. I guess since I'm in my quarters, I can let them fall. But I don't want to. I want to believe he's watching me from above, and that if I stay strong and composed, he will be proud.

I always knew I could be queen. I just never thought I'd have to start out without my father at my side.

Farrow is knocking. At least he doesn't barge in like he did before we were teenagers. I should probably go. I don't think Farrow's taking all this as well as I'm pretending to.

I probably won't write again. Queens don't keep diaries.

Love, Ily

THE END