I wondered if Elena, like Lana, had ever suggested to Grandmère that she wear Band-Aids on her boobs instead of a bra. If she had said this to Clarisse Renaldo, she was a far, far braver soul than I.
“And now,” Grandmère said, very sadly, “I have to tell her that my granddaughter doesn’t love me enough to put aside her new boyfriend for one single night.”
I realized, with a sinking heart, what I had to do. I mean, I knew how Grandmère felt. If there had been some way—any way at all—that I could have shown up Lana—you know, besides going out with her boyfriend, which I had already done, but that had ended up humiliating me way more than it had Lana—I’d have done it. Anything.
Because when someone is as mean and cruel and just downright nasty as Lana is—not just to me, either, but to all the girls at Albert Einstein High who weren’t blessed with good looks and school spirit—she fully deserves to have her nose rubbed in it.
It was so weird to think about someone like Grandmère, who seemed so incredibly sure of herself, having a Lana Weinberger in her life. I mean, I had always pictured Grandmère being the type of person who, if Lana flipped her long blonde hair onto her desk, would go all Crouching Tiger on her and deliver a Ferragamo to the face.
But maybe there was someone even Grandmère was a little bit afraid of. And maybe that person was Contessa Trevanni.
And while it is not true that I love Grandmère more than I love Michael—I do not love anyone more than I love Michael, except of course for Fat Louie—I did feel sorrier for Grandmère at that moment than I did for myself. You know, if Michael ended up dumping me because I canceled our date. It sounds incredible, but it’s true.
So I went, even as I said them not quite believing the words were coming out of my mouth, “All right, Grandmère, I’ll put in an appearance at your ball.”
A miraculous change overcame Grandmère. She seemed to brighten right up.
“Really, Amelia?” she asked, reaching out to grasp one of my hands. “Will you really do this for me?”
I was, I knew, going to lose Michael forever. But like my mother had said, if he didn’t understand, then he probably hadn’t been right for me in the first place.
I am such a pushover. But she just looked so happy. She flung off the cashmere throw—and Rommel—and rang for her maid to bring her a Sidecar and her cigarettes, and then we moved on to the day’s lesson—how to ask for the number of the nearest taxi company in five different languages.
All I want to know is: What.
Not about why I would ever need to call a taxi in Hindustani.
I mean what—WHAT????—am I going to tell Michael? I mean, seriously. If he doesn’t dump me now then there’s something wrong with him. And since I know there is nothing wrong with him, I know that I am about to be dumped.
For which all I can say is THERE IS NO JUSTICE IN THE WORLD. NONE.
Since Lilly has her breakfast meeting with the producers of the made-for-TV movie of my life tomorrow morning, I guess I will break the news to Michael then. That way he can dump me in time for Homeroom. Maybe then I will have stopped crying before Lana sees me in Algebra first period. I don’t think I’ll be able to take her mockery, after already having my heart ripped from my body and flung across the floor.
I hate myself.
Thursday, January 22, the loft
I saw the movie of my life. My mom taped it for me while I was in Genovia. She thought Mr. G recorded a Jets game over it, but it turned out he hadn’t.
The guy who played Michael was a total babe. In the movie, he and I end up together in the end.
Too bad that in real life, he is going to dump me tomorrow… even though Tina doesn’t think so.
This is very nice of her and everything, but the fact is, he is totally going to. I mean, it really is a matter of pride. If a girl with whom you have been going out for a full thirty-four days cancels your very first date, you really have no choice but to break up with her. I mean, I totally understand. I would break up with me. It is clear now that royal teens can’t be like normal ones. I mean, for people like me and Prince William, duty will always have to come first. Who is going to be able to understand that, let alone put up with it?
Tina says Michael can, and will. Tina says Michael won’t break up with me because he loves me. I said yes he will, because he only loves me as a friend.
“Clearly Michael loves you as more than just a friend,” Tina keeps saying into the phone. “I mean, you guys kissed!”
“Yes,” I say. “But Kenny and I kissed, and I did not like him as more than just a friend.”
“This is a completely different situation,” Tina says.
“How?”
“Because you and Michael are meant to be together!” Tina sounds exasperated. “Your star chart says so! You and Kenny were never meant for one another, he is a Cancer.”
Tina’s astrological predictions notwithstanding, there is no evidence that Michael feels more strongly for me than he does for, say, Judith Gershner. Yes, he wrote me that poem that mentioned the L word. But that was an entire month ago, during which period I was in another country. He has not renewed any such protestations since my return. I think it highly likely that tomorrow will be the straw that broke the hot guy’s back. I mean, why would Michael waste his time on a girl like me, who can’t even stand up to her own grandmother? I’m sure if Michael’s grandmother had been all, “Michael, you’ve got to go to Bingo with me Friday night, because Olga Krakowski, my childhood rival, will be there, and I want to show you off,” he’d have been all, “Sorry, Gram, no can do.”
No, I’m the spineless one.
And I’m the one who now must suffer for it.
I wonder if it is too late in the school year to transfer. Because I really don’t think I can take going to the same school as Michael after we are broken up. Seeing him in the hallway between classes, at lunch, and in G and T, knowing he was once mine, but that I’d lost him, might just kill me.
But is there another school in Manhattan that might take a talentless, spineless reject like me? Doubtful.
For Michael
Oh, Michael, my one true love
We had all new pleasures yet to prove
But I lost you due to my lack of spine
And now through the years, for you I will pine.
Friday, January 23, Homeroom
Well. That’s it. I told him.
He hasn’t dumped me. Yet. In fact, he was way nice about the whole thing.
“No, really, Mia,” was what he said. “I understand. You’re a princess. Duty comes first.”
Maybe he just didn’t want to dump me at school, in front of everyone?
I told him that I would try to get out of the ball early if I could. He said that if I did, I should stop by. The Moscovitzes’ apartment, I mean.
I know what this means, of course:
That he is going to dump me there.
OH, MY GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME????? I have known Michael for years and years. He is NOT the type of boy who would dump a girl just because she has a family obligation that must take precedence over a date with him. HE IS NOT LIKE THAT. THAT IS WHY I LOVE HIM.
But why can’t I stop thinking that the only reason he didn’t dump me right then and there is because he couldn’t do it in my own limo, in front of my bodyguard and driver? I mean, for all Michael knew, Lars might be trained to beat up boys who try to dump me in front of him.
I HAVE GOT TO STOP THIS. MICHAEL IS NOT DAVE FAROUQ EL-ABAR. He is NOT going to dump me because of this.
Except why do I feel like I know now how Jane Eyre must have felt when she learned the truth about Bertha on her wedding day? No, Michael doesn’t have a wife, that I know of. But it’s entirely possible that my relationship with him, like Jane’s with Mr. Rochester, is coming to an end. And I can think of no earthly way it can ever be repaired. I mean, it’s possible that tonight, when I go by the Moscovitzes’ place, it will be in flames, and I will be able to prove m
yself worthy of Michael’s love by selflessly saving his mother, or perhaps his dog, Pavlov, from the fire.
But other than that, I don’t see us getting back together. I will of course give him his birthday present, because I went to all the trouble of stealing it.
But I know it won’t do any good.
What is WRONG with me???? This better be PMS. Because if this is what love is like all the time, I don’t want to be in love anymore!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Friday, January 23, still Homeroom
They just announced the name of the newest member of the Albert Einstein High junior varsity cheerleading squad. It is Shameeka Taylor.
Great. Just great. So that’s it. I am now officially the only person I know who has absolutely no discernible talent.
I am a reject in every way.
Friday, January 23, Algebra
Michael did not stop by here between classes. It is the first day all week that he hasn’t slipped in to say hi on his way to AP English, three classrooms away from this one.
I am totally trying not to take it personally, but there is this little voice inside of me going, That’s it! It’s over! He’s dumping you!
I’m sure Kate Bosworth doesn’t have a voice like this that lives inside her. WHY couldn’t I have been born Kate Bosworth instead of me, Mia Thermopolis?
To make matters worse—as if I can even care about something so trivial—Lana just turned around to hiss, “Don’t think just because your little friend made the squad that anything is going to change between us, Mia. She’s as much of a pathetic geekette as you are. They only let her on the squad to fill our freak quota.”
Then she whipped her head around again—but not as fast as she should have. Because a lot of her hair was still draped across my desk.
And when I slammed my Algebra I–II text closed as hard as I could—which is what I did next—a lot of her silky, awapuhi-scented locks got trapped between pages 210 and 211.
Lana shrieked in pain. Mr. G, up at the chalkboard, turned around, saw where the screaming was coming from, and sighed.
“Mia,” he said, tiredly. “Lana. What now?”
Lana stabbed an index finger in my direction. “She slammed her book on my hair!”
I shrugged innocently. “I didn’t know her hair was in my book. Why can’t she keep her hair to herself, anyway?”
Mr. Gianini looked bored. “Lana,” he said. “If you can’t keep your hair under control, I recommend braids. Mia, don’t slam your book. It should be open to page two eleven, where I want you to read from Section Two. Out loud.”
I read out loud from Section Two, but not without a certain primness. For once, vengeance on Lana had been mine, and I had NOT been sent to the principal’s office. Oh, it was sweet. Sweet, sweet vindication.
Although I don’t even know why I have to learn this stuff, it isn’t as if the Palais de Genovia isn’t full of dweeby staffers who are just dying to multiply fractions for me.
Polynomials
term: variable(s) multiplied by a coefficient
monomial: Polynomial w/ one term
binomial: Polynomial w/ two terms
trinomial: Polynomial w/ three terms
Degree of polynomial = the degree of the term with the highest degree
In my delight over the pain I had brought upon my enemy, I almost forgot about the fact that my heart is broken. Must keep in mind that Michael is dumping me after the black-and-white ball tonight. Why can’t I FOCUS???? Must be love. I am sick with it.
Friday, January 23, Health and Safety
Why do you look like you just ate a sock?
I don’t. How was your breakfast meeting?
You do, too. The meeting went GREAT.
Really? Did they agree to print a full-page letter of apology in Variety ?
No, better. Did something happen between you and my brother? Because I saw him looking all furtive in the hallway just now.
FURTIVE? Furtive like how? Like he was looking for Judith Gershner to ask her out tonight????
No, more like he was looking for a pay phone. Why would he ask out Judith Gershner? How many times do I have to tell you, he likes you, not J.G.
He used to like me, you mean. Before I was forced to cancel our date tonight due to Grandmère forcing me to go to a ball.
A ball? Really. Ugh. But excuse me. Michael isn’t going to ask some other girl to go out with him tonight just because you can’t make it. I mean, he was really looking forward to going with you. Not just for concupiscent reasons, either.
REALLY????
Yes, you loser. What did you think? I mean, you guys are going out.
But that’s just it. We haven’t. Gone out yet, I mean.
So? You’ll go out sometime when you don’t have a ball to go to instead.
You don’t think he’s going to dump me?
Uh, not unless something heavy fell on his head between now and the last time I saw him. Guys with cranial damage can’t generally be held responsible for their actions.
Why would something heavy fall on his head?
I’m being facetious. Do you want to hear about my meeting, or not?
Yes. What happened?
They told me they want to option my show.
What does that mean?
It means that they will take Lilly Tells It Like It Is around to the networks to see if anybody wants to buy it. To be a real show. On a real channel. Not like public access. Like ABC or Lifetime or VH1 or something.
Lilly!!!! THAT IS SO GREAT!!!!
Yes, I know. Oops, gotta go. Wheeton’s looking this way.
Note to self: Look up words concupiscent andfacetious .
Friday, January 23, G & T
Lunch was just one big celebration today. Everyone had something to be happy about:
Shameeka, for making the cheerleading squad and striking a blow for tall geeky girls everywhere (even though of course Shameeka looks like a supermodel and can wrap both her ankles around her head, but whatever).
Lilly, for getting her TV show optioned.
Tina, for finally deciding to give up on Dave but not on romance in general and get on with her life.
Ling Su for getting her drawing of Joe, the stone lion, into the school art fair.
And Boris for just, well, being Boris. Boris is always happy.
You will notice that I did not mention Michael. That is because I do not know what Michael’s mental state at lunch was, whether or not he was happy or sad or concupiscent or whatever. That is because Michael didn’t show up to lunch. He said, when he breezed by my locker just before fourth period, “Hey, I’ve got some things to do, I’ll see you in G and T, okay?”
Some things to do .
I should, of course, just ask him. I should just be like, “Look, are you going to break up with me over this, or what?” Because I would really like to know, one way or the other.
Except that I can’t just go up and ask Michael what the deal is between us, because right now he is busy with Boris, going over band stuff. Michael’s band is comprised of (so far) Michael (precision bass), Boris (electric violin), that tall guy Paul from the Computer Club (keyboards), this guy from the AEHS marching band called Trevor (guitar), and Felix, this scary-looking twelfth grader with a goatee that’s bushier than Mr. Gianini’s (drums). They still don’t have a name for the band, or a place to practice. But they seem to think that Mr. Kreblutz, the head custodian, will let them into the band practice rooms on weekends if they can get him tickets to the Westminster Kennel Show next month. Mr. Kreblutz is a huge bichon-frise fan.
The fact that Michael can concentrate on all this band stuff while our relationship is falling apart is just further proof that he is a true musician, completely dedicated to his art. I, being the talentless freak that I am, can of course think of nothingbut my heartbreak. Michael’s ability to remain focused in spite of any personal pain he might be suffering is evidence of his genius.
Either that or he never cared t
hat much about me in the first place.
I prefer to believe the former.
Oh, that I had some kind of outlet, such as music, into which to pour the suffering I am currently feeling! But alas, I’m no artist. I just have to sit here in silent pain, while around me, more gifted souls express their innermost angst through song, dance, and filmography.
Well, okay, just through filmography since there are no singers or dancers in fifth-period G and T. Instead we just have Lilly, putting together what she is calling her quintessential episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is , a show that will explore the seamy underbelly of that American institution known as Starbucks. It is Lilly’s contention that Starbucks, through the introduction of the Starbucks card (with which caffeine addicts can pay for their fix electronically) is actually a secret branch of the Central Intelligence Agency that is tracing the movements of America’s intelligentsia—writers, editors, and other known liberal agitators—through their coffee consumption.
Whatever. I don’t even like coffee.
Aw, crud. The bell.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: Who cares?
English: Everything sucks.
Bio: I hate life.
Health and Safety: Mr. Wheeton is in love, too. I should warn him to get out now, while he still can.
G & T: I shouldn’t even be in this class.
French: Why does this language even exist? Everyone there speaks English anyway.
World Civ: What does it matter? We’re all just going to die.
Friday, January 23, 6 p.m., Grandmère’s suite at the Plaza
Grandmère made me come here straight after school so that Paolo could start getting us ready for the ball. I didn’t know Paolo makes house calls, but apparently he does. Only for royalty, he assured me, and, of course, Madonna.
I explained to him about how I am growing out my hair on account of boys liking long hair better than short hair, and Paolo made some tut-tutting noises, but he slapped some curlers into it to try to get rid of the triangular shape, and I guess it worked, because my hair looks pretty good. All of me looks pretty good. On the outside, anyway.