“Correct.”
I shrugged. “Easy. He doesn’t want to go to the prom. Because it’s lame.”
“No. That is what Michael doesn’t want. What does he want ?”
I had to think about that one.
“Um,” I said, watching Rommel as he, seeing that Grandmère was otherwise occupied, leaned over and surreptitiously began licking the fur off one of his paws. “I guess… Michael wants to play in his band?”
“Bien,” Grandmère said, which means “good” in French. “But what else might he want?”
“Um,” I said. “I don’t know.” I was still thinking about the band thing. It is the duty of the freshman, sophomore, and junior classes to put on the prom for the seniors, even though we ourselves do not get to go, unless invited by a senior. I tried to remember what the prom committee had reported in The Atom, so far as the arrangements they’d made for music at the prom. I think they’d hired a DJ or something.
“Of course you know what Michael wants,” Grandmère said sharply. “Michael wants what every man wants.”
“You mean… ” I felt stunned by the rapidity with which my grandmother’s mind worked. “You mean I should ask the prom committee to let Michael’s band play at the prom?”
Grandmère started to choke for some reason. “Wh-What?” she demanded, hacking up half a lung, practically.
I sat back in my seat, completely at a loss for words. It had never occurred to me before, but Grandmère’s solution to the problem was totally perfect. Nothing would delight Michael more than an actual, paying gig for Skinner Box. And I would get to go to the prom… and not just with the man of my dreams, but with an actual member of the band. Is there anything cooler in the world than being at the prom with a member of the band playing at the prom? Um, no. No, there is not.
“Grandmère,” I breathed. “You’re a genius!”
Grandmère was slurping up the last of the ice in her Sidecar. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Amelia,” she said.
But I knew that, for the first time in her life, Grandmère was just being modest.
Then I remembered that I was supposed to be angry with her, on account of Jangbu. So I went, “But, Grandmère, be serious a minute. This thing with the busboys… the strike. You’ve got to do something. It’s all your fault, you know.”
Grandmère eyed me through all the blue smoke coming out of the new cigarette she’d just lit.
“Why, you ungrateful little chit,” she said. “I solve all of your problems, and this is the thanks you show me?”
“I’m serious, Grandmère,” I said. “You’ve got to call Les Hautes Manger and tell them about Rommel. Tell them it was your fault that Jangbu tripped, and that they’ve got to hire him back. It isn’t fair, otherwise. I mean, the poor guy lost his job!”
“He’ll find another,” Grandmère said dismissively.
“Not without references,” I pointed out.
“So he can go back to his native land,” Grandmère said. “I’m sure his parents miss him.”
“Grandmère, he’s from Nepal, a country that has been under Chinese oppression for decades. He can’t go back there. There are no jobs. He’ll starve.”
“I no longer care to discuss this,” Grandmère said loftily. “Tell me the ten different courses traditionally served at a royal Genovian wedding.”
“Grandmère!”
“Tell me!”
So I had no choice but to rattle off the ten different courses traditionally served at a Genovian wedding—olives, antipasto, pasta, fish, meat, salad, bread, cheese, fruit, dessert (note to self: when Michael and I get married, remember not to do it in Genovia, unless the palace’ll do an all-vegetarian meal).
I don’t understand how someone who has embraced the dark side as fully as Grandmère can come up with brilliant stuff like getting Michael’s band to play at the prom.
But I guess even Darth Vader had his moments. I can’t think of any right now, but I’m sure he had some.
Monday, May 5, 9 p.m., the loft
Bad news:
I spent the whole evening poring over back issues of The Atom , trying to figure out who was head of the prom committee, so I could e-mail him/her with my request that Skinner Box be approached as a possible live entertainment alternative to the DJ I know they’ve got lined up. So you can only imagine my surprise and disappointment when I finally stumbled across the article I was looking for, and saw the horrifying answer right there in black and white:
Lana Weinberger.
LANA WEINBERGER is head of this year’s prom committee.
Well, that’s it. I’m dead. There is NO WAY I’m going to get to go to the prom now. I mean, Lana would sooner go off her Zone diet than hire my boyfriend’s band. I mean, Lana hates my guts, and always has.
And I can’t say the feeling isn’t mutual.
What am I going to do NOW? I CAN’T miss the prom. I just CAN’T!!!!!!!!!
But I guess I don’t have the biggest problems in the world. I mean, there are people with worse ones. Like Boris, for instance. I got this e-mail from him just now:
JOSHBELL2: Mia, I just wanted to say thanks for what you did for me today. I don’t know why I behaved so stupidly. I guess I was just overcome with emotion. I love her so much! But it is clear to me now that we are not destined for each other, as I so long thought (erroneously, I realize at last).No, Lilly is like a wild mustang, born to run free. I see now that no man—least of all someone like me—can ever hope to tame her.
Treasure what you have with Michael, Mia. It is a rare and beautiful thing, to love, and be loved in return.
—Boris Pelkowski
P.S.My mother says she will get your sweater dry-cleaned so I can give it back to you at the end of this week. She says Star Cleaners think they can get the blood out without any permanent staining.
—B. P.
Poor Boris! Imagine thinking of Lilly as a wild mustang. Wild mushroom, maybe. But a mustang? I don’t think so.
I figured I’d better check on how she was doing, since last time I’d seen her, Lilly’d been looking kind of green around the gills. I sent her a totally non-accusatory, completely friendly e-mail, inquiring into her mental health after her ordeal earlier in the day.
You can imagine my outrage when this is what I got for my efforts:
WOMYNRULE: Hey, P.O.G!
(Pog is the nickname Lilly decided to give me a few weeks ago. It stands for Princess of Genovia. I have asked her repeatedly not to use it but she persists, probably because I made the mistake of letting her know it bugs me.)
Whazzap? Missed you at tonight’s SATWDOJPA press conference. Looks like we may actually get the hotel union behind our cause. If we can get hotels 2 strike, as well as the restaurant workers, we’ll bring the city 2 its knees! Finally, people will start realizing that service industry personnel are not to be trifled with! The common man deserves to be paid a living wage!
Wasn’t that wild about Boris this afternoon? I have to say, it gave me quite a scare. I had no idea he was such a psycho. Then again, he IS a musician. I should have known. That was pretty cool the way you and Michael handled the situation, tho. You two were just like Dr. McCoy and Nurse Chapel. Though you’d probably prefer it if I said you were like Dr. Kovac and Nurse Abby. Which I guess you kind of were.
Well, gtg. My mom wants me to put the dishes away.
—Lil
P.S. Jangbu did the sweetest thing after the press conference tonight: He bought me a silk rose from a booth on Canal Street. Soooo romantic. Boris never did stuff like that.
—L
I have to admit: I was shocked. Shocked by Lilly’s cavalier dismissal of poor Boris’s pain. Shocked by her whazzap and her reference to the original Star Trek… Lilly herself would have called it passé, especially since she is usually so on the cutting edge of pop culture. And REALLY shocked at her implication that all musicians are psychos. I mean, hello! Her brother Michael, MY BOYFRIEND, is a mu
sician! And yes, we certainly have our problems, but not because he is in any way a psycho. In fact, if anything, my problems with Michael have to do with the fact that he, as a Capricorn, has his feet planted TOO firmly on the ground, whereas I, a free-wheeling Taurus, want to bring a little more fun into our relationship.
I wrote back to her right away. I will admit I was so angry, my hands were shaking as I typed.
FTLOUIE: Lilly, it might interest you to know that Boris had to get two stitches AND a tetanus shot because of what happened in G and T today. Furthermore, he might even have a concussion. Perhaps you could tear yourself away from your tireless work on behalf of Jangbu, a guy YOU ONLY MET THREE DAYS AGO, and spare a little sympathy for your ex, whom you dated for EIGHT WHOLE MONTHS.
—M
Lilly’s response was almost instantaneous.
WOMYNRULE: Excuse me, P.O.G., but I can’t say I really appreciate your condescending tone.Kindly don’t pull your Royal Highness act on me. I’m sorry if you don’t happen to like Jangbu or the work I am doing to help him and people like him. However, that does not mean I need to be held hostage to my old relationship by the juvenile theatrics of a self-delusional narcissist like Boris. I did not make him pick up that globe and drop it on his head. He made that choice all on his own. I would think you, as a faithful viewer of the Lifetime Movie Channel for Women, would recognize manipulative behavior like Boris’s as classic stalker stuff.
But then, maybe if you stopped watching so many movies, and actually tried living life for a change, you might recognize this. You also might be writing something a little bit more challenging for the school paper than the cafeteria beat.
I could tell she was feeling guilty over what she’d done to Boris by how thoroughly she attacked him. That I could ignore. But her attack on my writing could not go unnoticed. I immediately fired back with:
FTLOUIE:Yeah, well, I may watch a lot of movies, but at least I don’t go around with my face glued to a camera lens, the way you do. I prefer to WATCH movies than invent drama FOR the movies. Furthermore, I will have you know that Leslie Cho asked me to cover a hard news story for the paper just the other day.
This is what I got in reply.
WOMYNRULE: Yeah, a story *I* made possible. You are so weak. Go back to pining over the fact that you have to spend your summer in a palace in Genovia (wah-wah-wah) and that my brother doesn’t want to go to the prom with you, and leave the REAL problem solving to people like me, who are better equipped intellectually to handle it.
Well, that’s the last straw. Lilly Moscovitz is no longer my best friend. I have taken all the abuse I can stand. I am thinking about writing back to her to tell her that.
But maybe that would be too childish, and not INTELLECTUAL enough.
Maybe I’ll just ask Tina if she’ll be my best friend from now on.
But no, that would be too childish, too. I mean, it’s not like we’re in third grade anymore. We’re practically women, like my mom said. Women like my mom don’t go around declaring who their best friend is and who isn’t. They just sort of… know. Without saying anything about it. I don’t know how, but they do. Maybe it is an estrogen thing, or something.
Oh, my God, I have such a headache.
Monday, May 5, 11 p.m.
I almost burst into tears just now when I checked my e-mail one last time before bed. That’s because this is what I found there.
LINUXRULZ: Mia, are you sure you aren’t mad at me about something? Because you hardly said three words to me all day. Except during the whole Boris thing. Did I do something wrong?
Then another one, a second later:
LINUXRULZ: Never mind that last e-mail. It was stupid. I know if I’d done something to upset you, you’d have told me. Because that’s the kind of girl you are. That’s one of the reasons we’re so good together. Because we can tell each other anything.
Then:
LINUXRULZ: It’s not that thing from your party, is it? You know, where I wouldn’t beat up Jangbu for making out with my sister? Because getting involved in my sister’s love life is never a good idea, as you might have noticed.
Then:
LINUXRULZ: Well, whatever. Good night. And I love you.
Oh, Michael! My sweet protector!
WHY WON’T YOU TAKE ME TO YOUR PROM??????????????????????????????
Tuesday, May 6, 3 a.m.
I still can’t believe the nerve of her. I have learned A LOT about writing from watching movies. For instance:
VALUABLE TIPS THAT I, MIA THERMOPOLIS,
HAVE LEARNED ABOUT WRITING
FROM THE MOVIES
Aspen Extreme: T.J. Burke moves to Aspen to become a ski instructor, but really he just wants to write. When he is done penning his touching tribute to his dead friend Dex, he puts it in an envelope and sends it to Powder magazine. A hot-air balloon and two swans fly by. Then you see a mail carrier put a copy of Powder magazine in T.J.’s mailbox. On the cover is a blurb about T.J.’s story! It’s that easy to get published!
Wonder Boys: Always keep a backup disk.
Little Women: Ditto.
Moulin Rouge: When writing a play, do not fall in love with your leading lady. Especially if she has consumption. Also, don’t drink anything green offered to you by a midget.
The Bell Jar: Don’t let your mother read your book until after it’s published (when there’s nothing she can do about it).
Adaptation: Never trust a twin.
Isn’t She Great: The Jacqueline Susann Story : Publishers don’t actually mind if you turn in a manuscript written on pink stationery. Also, sex sells.
How DARE Lilly suggest I’ve wasted my time watching TV?
And if I happen to choose a career in the medical profession, I am still golden, because I have seen practically every episode of ER ever made.
Not to mention M*A*S*H.
Tuesday, May 6,
Horrible day so far, in every way:
Mr. G gave us a pop quiz in Algebra that I flunked because I was too worked up over the whole Boris/Lilly/prom thing last night to study. You would think my own stepfather would be kind enough to drop me a hint or two when he’s going to give a pop quiz. But apparently this would violate some teacher code of ethics. As if. What about the stepfather code of ethics? Anyone ever thought about THAT?
Shameeka and I got caught passing notes again. Have to write a thousand-word essay on effects of global warming on ecosystems of South America.
I had no one to be my partner on the diseases and disorders project we are doing in Health and Safety because Lilly and I aren’t speaking. She is doing the full-on avoidance thing. She even took the subway to school today instead of riding with Michael and me in the limo. Not that I mind.
Plus, when we drew disorders, I got Asperger’s syndrome. Why couldn’t I have gotten a cool disease, like Ebola? It is so unfair, especially as I am now considering a career in the health field.
At lunch I accidentally ate some sausage that was mistakenly baked into my supposedly cheese-only Individual Pizza. Also, Boris spent the whole period writing Lilly over and over again on his violin case. Lilly didn’t even show at lunch. Hopefully she and Jangbu hopped a plane back to Nepal and won’t be bothering any of us anymore. Michael says he doesn’t think so, though. He says he thinks she had another press conference.
Michael did not change his mind about the prom. Not that I brought it up, or anything. Just that I happened to be walking with him past the table where Lana and the rest of the prom committee are selling tickets, and Michael went, “Sucka,” under his breath when he saw the guy who hates it when they put corn in the chili buying prom tickets for himself and his girlfriend.
Even the guy who hates it when they put corn in the chili is going to the prom. Everyone in the whole world is going to the prom. Except for me.
Lilly still isn’t back from wherever it is she went off to before lunch. Which is probably just as well. I don’t think Boris could take it if she walked in here right now.
He found some Wite-Out in the supply closet, and he is using it to make little curlicues around Lilly’s name on his violin case. I want to shake him and go, “Snap out of it! She’s not worth it!”
But I’m afraid it might loosen his stitches.
Plus Mrs. Hill, clearly due to yesterday’s events, is fully sitting at her desk, flipping through Garnet Hill catalogs and keeping an eagle eye on us. I bet she got in trouble over the whole violin-virtuoso-globe-dropping thing. Principal Gupta is really very strict about bloodshed on school grounds.
Since I have nothing better to do, I am going to compose a poem that expresses my true feelings over everything that is going on. I intend to call it “Spring Fever.” If it is good enough, I am going to submit it to The Atom. Anonymously, of course. If Leslie knew I wrote it, she’d never print it, since as a cub reporter, I have not Paid My Dues.
But if she just FINDS it slipped under the door to The Atom ’s office, maybe she’ll run it.
The way I see it, I have nothing to lose. It’s not like things can possibly get any worse.
Tuesday, May 6, St. Vincent’s Hospital
Things just got worse. Very, very worse.
It’s probably all my fault. All my fault because I wrote that before. About things not possibly being able to get any worse. It turns out things most definitely CAN get worse than
Flunking an Algebra quiz.
Getting in trouble in Bio for passing notes.
Getting Asperger’s syndrome as your Health and Safety project.
Your father trying to force you to spend most of your summer in Genovia.