HA! Was he joking? Me? Honest? Obviously, he did not have the slightest clue about my nostrils.
“That’s how I know how much this must be tearing you up inside. I just think you’d better tell Lilly soon,” Kenny said somberly. “I started to suspect, you know, at the restaurant. And if I figured it out, other people will, too. And you wouldn’t want her to hear it from somebody else.”
I had reached up to try to wipe some of my tears away with my sleeve, but paused with my hand only halfway there, and stared at him. “Restaurant? What restaurant?”
“You know,” Kenny said, looking uncomfortable. “That day we all went to Chinatown. You and he sat next to each other. You kept laughing. . . . You looked pretty chummy.”
Chinatown? But Michael hadn’t gone with us that day to Chinatown. . . .
“And you know,” Kenny said, “I’m not the only one who’s noticed him leaving you those roses all week, either.”
I blinked. I could barely see him through my tears. “W–what?”
“You know.” He looked around, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Boris. Leaving you all those roses. I mean, come on, Mia. If you two want to carry on behind Lilly’s back, that’s one thing, but—”
The roaring in my ears that had been there just after I’d read Michael’s poem came back. BORIS. BORIS PELKOWSKI. My boyfriend just broke up with me because he thinks I am having an affair with BORIS PELKOWSKI.
BORIS PELKOWSKI, who always has food in his braces.
BORIS PELKOWSKI, who wears his sweaters tucked inside his pants.
BORIS PELKOWSKI, my best friend’s boyfriend.
Oh, God. My life is so over.
I tried to tell him. You know, the truth. That Boris isn’t my secret love, but my Secret Snowflake.
But Tina darted forward, grabbed me by the arm, and went, “Sorry, Kenny, Mia has to go now.” Then she dragged me into the girls’ room.
“I have to tell him,” I kept saying, over and over, like a crazy person, as I tried to break free of her grip. “I have to tell him. I have to tell him the truth.”
“No, you do not,” Tina said, pushing me past the toilet stalls. “You two are broken up. Who cares why? You’re through, and that’s all that matters.”
I blinked at my tear-stained reflection in the mirror above the sinks. I looked awful. Never in your life have you seen anyone who looked less like a princess than I did just then. Just looking at myself made me break out into a fresh new wave of tears.
Of course Tina says she’s sure Michael wasn’t trying to make fun of me. Of course she says that he must have figured out that I was the one who was sending him those cards and was trying to let me know that he felt the same way about me.
Only of course I can’t believe that. Because if that were true—if that were true—why did he let me go? Why didn’t he try to stop me?
Tina has pointed out that he did try. But my shrieking when I read his poem, and then running in tears from the room, might not have seemed to him like a very encouraging sign. In fact, it might have actually looked to him like I was displeased by what I’d seen. Furthermore, Tina pointed out, even if Michael had tried to go after me, there’d been Kenny cornering me on my way out. It had certainly looked as if the two of us were Having A Moment—which we most certainly were—and didn’t wish to be disturbed.
All of which could be true.
But it could also be true that Michael had just been joking. It was a very mean joke, under the circumstances, but Michael doesn’t know that I adore him with every fiber of my being. Michael doesn’t know that I’ve been in love with him all my life. Michael doesn’t know that without him, I will never, ever achieve self-actualization. I mean, to Michael, I’m just his kid sister’s best friend. He probably didn’t mean to be cruel. He probably thought he was being funny.
It isn’t his fault that my life is over, and that I am never, ever leaving this bathroom.
I’ll just wait until everybody is gone, and then I’ll sneak out, and no one will see me again until next semester starts, by which time, hopefully, all of this will have blown over.
Or, better yet, maybe I’ll just stay in Genovia. . . .
Hey, yeah. Why not?
Friday, December 19, 5 p.m., the loft
I don’t know why people can’t just leave me alone.
Seriously. I may be done with finals, but I still have a lot to do. I mean, I have to pack, don’t I? Don’t people know that when you are leaving for your royal introduction to the people over whom you will one day reign, you have to do a lot of packing?
But no. No, people keep on calling, and e-mailing, and coming over.
Well, I’m not talking to anybody. I think I have made that perfectly clear. I am not speaking to Lilly or Tina or my dad or Mr. Gianini or my mother and ESPECIALLY not Michael, even though at last count, he’d called four times.
I am way too busy to talk to anybody.
And with my headphones on, I can’t even hear them pounding on the door. It’s kind of nice, I have to say.
Friday, December 19, 5:30 p.m., the fire escape
People have a right to their privacy. If I want to go into my room and lock the door and not come out or have to deal with anyone, I should have a right to. People should not be allowed to take the hinges off of my door and remove it. That is completely unfair.
But I have found a way to foil them. I am out on the fire escape. It’s about thirty degrees out here, and snowing, by the way, but guess what? So far no one has followed me.
Fortunately I bought one of those pens that’s also a flashlight, so I can see to write. The sun went down a while ago, and I have to admit, my butt is freezing. But it’s actually sort of nice out here. All you can hear is the hiss of the snow as it lands on the metal of the fire escape, and the occasional siren or car alarm. It is restful, in a way.
And you know what I’m finding out? I need a rest. Big time.
Really. I need to like, go and lie on a beach somewhere, or something.
There’s a nice beach in Genovia. Really. With white sand, palm trees, the whole bit.
Too bad while I’m there, I’m never going to have time to visit it, since I’m going to be too busy christening battleships, or whatever.
But if I lived in Genovia . . . you know, moved there, and lived there full time . . .
Oh, I’ll miss my mom, of course. I’ve already considered that. She’s leaned out the window about twenty times already, begging me to come inside or at least put on a coat. My mom’s a nice lady. I’ll really miss her.
But she can come visit me in Genovia. At least up until her eighth month. Then air travel might be a little risky. But she can come after my baby brother or sister is born. That would be nice.
And Mr. G, he’s okay, too. He just leaned out and asked if I wanted any of the four-alarm chili he just made. He left out the meat, he says, just for me.
That was nice of him. He can come visit me in Genovia, too.
It will be nice to live there. I can hang out with my dad all the time. He’s not such a bad guy, either, once you get to know him. He wants me to come in off the fire escape, too. I guess my mom must have called him. He says he’s really proud of me, on account of the press conference and my B minus in Algebra and all. He wants to take me out to dinner to celebrate. We can go to the Zen Palate, he says. A totally vegetarian restaurant. Isn’t that nice of him?
Too bad he let Lars take my door down, or I might have gone with him.
Ronnie, our next door neighbor, just looked out her window and saw me. Now she wants to know what I’m doing, sitting out on the fire escape in December.
I told her I needed some privacy, and that this appears to be the only way I can get it.
Ronnie went, “Honey, don’t I know how that is.”
She said I was going to freeze without a coat though, and offered me her mink. I politely declined, as I cannot wear the skins of dead animals.
So she loaned me her electric blanket,
which she has plugged into the outlet beneath her air conditioner. I must say, this is an improvement.
Ronnie’s getting ready to go out. It’s nice to watch her put on her makeup. As she does it, she keeps up a running conversation with me through her open window. She asked me if I was having trouble at school, and if that was why I’m on the fire escape, and I said I was. She asked what kind, and I told her. I told her I am being persecuted: that I am in love with my best friend’s brother, but that to him it is apparently all this really big joke. Oh, and also that everyone apparently thinks I am having an affair with a mouth-breathing violinist who happens to be my best friend’s boyfriend.
Ronnie shook her head and said it was good to know things haven’t changed since she was in high school. She says she knows what it is like to be persecuted, because Ronnie used to be a man.
I told Ronnie that it really doesn’t matter, because I’m moving to Genovia. Ronnie said she was sorry to hear that. She’ll miss me, as I have really improved conditions in the apartment building’s incinerator room since I insisted on installing separate recycling bins for newspapers and cans and bottles.
Then Ronnie said she has to go because she’s meeting her boyfriend for cocktails at the Carlyle. She said I could keep using the electric blanket, though, so long as I remember to return it when I’m done.
God. Even my next door neighbor, who used to be a man, has a boyfriend. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME????
Uh-oh. I hear footsteps in my room. Who’s coming now?
Friday, December 19, 7:30 p.m.
Well. You could knock me over with a feather.
Guess who just came out onto the fire escape and sat with me for half an hour?
Grandmère.
I’m not even kidding.
I was sitting here, feeling all depressed, when all of a sudden this big furry sleeve appeared out my window, and then a foot in a high-heeled shoe, and then a big blonde head, and next thing I knew, Grandmère was sitting there, blinking at me from the depths of her full-length chinchilla.
“Amelia,” she said, in her most no-nonsense tone. “What are you doing out here? It’s snowing. Come back inside.”
I was shocked. Shocked that Grandmère would even consider coming out onto the fire escape (it’s an indelicate thing for a princess to mention, but there is actually a lot of bird poop out here), but also that she would dare to speak to me, after what she did.
But she addressed that issue right away.
“I understand that you are upset with me,” she said. “And you have a right to be. But I want you to know that what I did, I did for you.”
“Oh, right!” Even though I swore I was never going to speak to her again, I couldn’t help myself. “Grandmère, how can you possibly say that? You completely humiliated me!”
“I didn’t mean to,” Grandmère said. “I meant to show you that you are just as pretty as those girls in the magazines you are always wishing you look like. It’s important that you know that you are not this hideous creature that you apparently think you are.”
“Grandmère,” I said. “That’s nice of you and all—I guess—but you shouldn’t have done it that way.”
“What other way could I do it?” Grandmère demanded. “You will not pose for any of the magazines that have offered to send photographers. Not for Vogue, or Harper’s Bazaar. Don’t you understand that what Sebastiano said about your bone structure is really true? You really are quite beautiful, Amelia. If only you’d just have a little more confidence in yourself, show off once in a while. Think how quickly that boy you like would leave the housefly girl for you!”
“Fruit fly,” I said. “And Grandmère, I told you, Michael likes her because she’s really smart. They have a lot of stuff in common, like computers. It has nothing to do with how she looks.”
“Oh, Mia,” Grandmère said. “Don’t be naive.”
Poor Grandmère. It really wasn’t fair to blame her, because she comes from such a different world. In Grandmère’s world, women are valued for being great beauties—or, if they aren’t great beauties, they are revered for dressing impeccably. What they do, like for a living, isn’t important, because most of them don’t do anything. Oh, maybe they do some charity work, or whatever, but that’s it.
Grandmère doesn’t understand, of course, that today being a great beauty doesn’t count for much. Oh, it matters in Hollywood, of course, and on the runways in Milan. But nowadays, people understand that perfect looks are the result of DNA, something the person has nothing to do with. It’s not like it’s any great accomplishment, being beautiful. That’s just genetics.
No, what matters today is what you do with the brain behind those perfect blue eyes, or brown eyes, or green, or whatever. In Grandmère’s day, a girl like Judith, who could clone fruit flies, would be viewed as a piteous freak, unless she managed to clone fruit flies and look stunning in Dior.
And even in this remarkably enlightened age, girls like Judith still don’t get as much attention as girls like Lana—which isn’t fair, since cloning fruit flies is probably way more important than having totally perfect hair.
The really pathetic people are the ones like me: I can’t clone fruit flies, and I’ve got bad hair.
But that’s okay. I’m used to it by now.
Grandmère’s the one who still needs convincing that I am an absolutely hopeless case.
“Look,” I said to Grandmère. “I told you. Michael is not the type of guy who is going to be impressed because I’m in a Sunday Times supplement in a strapless ballgown. That’s why I like him. If he were the kind of guy who was impressed by stuff like that, I wouldn’t want anything to do with him.”
Grandmère didn’t look very convinced.
“Well,” she said. “Perhaps you and I must agree to disagree. In any case, Amelia, I came over to apologize. I never meant to distress you. I meant only to show you what you can do, if you’d only try.” She spread her gloved hands apart. “And look how well I succeeded. Why, you planned and executed an entire press conference, all on your own!”
I couldn’t help smiling a little at that one. “Yes,” I said. “I did.”
“And,” Grandmère said, “I understand that you passed Algebra.”
I grinned wider. “Yes. I did.”
“Now,” Grandmère said, “there is only one thing left for you to do.”
I nodded. “I know. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I think it might be best if I extended my stay in Genovia. Like maybe I could just live there from now on. What do you think about that?”
Grandmère’s expression, I could see in the light coming from my room, was one of disbelief.
“Live in . . . live in Genovia?” For once, I’d caught her off guard. “What are you talking about?”
“You know,” I said. “They have schools there. I could just finish ninth grade there. And then maybe I could go to one of those Swiss boarding schools you’re always going on about.”
Grandmère just stared at me. “You’d hate it.”
“No,” I said. “It might be fun. No boys, right? That would be great. I mean, I’m kind of sick of boys right now.”
Grandmère shook her head. “But your friends . . . your mother . . .”
“Well,” I said, reasonably. “They could come visit.”
Then Grandmère’s face hardened. She peered at me from between the heavily mascaraed slits her eyes had become.
“Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo,” she said. “You are running away from something, aren’t you?”
I shook my head innocently. “Oh, no, Grandmère,” I said. “Really. I’d like to live in Genovia. It’d be neat.”
“NEAT?” Grandmère stood up. Her high heels went through the slots between the metal bars of the fire escape, but she didn’t notice. She pointed imperiously at my window.
“You get inside right now,” she ordered, in a voice I had never heard her use before.
I have to admit, I was so startled, I did exactly wh
at she said. I unplugged Ronnie’s electric blanket and crawled right back into my room. Then I stood there while Grandmère crawled back in, too.
“You,” she said, when she’d straightened out her skirt, “are a princess of the royal house of Renaldo. A princess,” she said, going to my closet, and rifling through it, “does not shirk her responsibilities. Nor does she run at the first sign of adversity.”
“Um, Grandmère,” I said. “What happened today was hardly the first sign of adversity, okay? What happened today was the last straw. I can’t take it anymore, Grandmère. I’m getting out.”
Grandmère pulled from my closet the dress Sebastiano had designed for me to wear to the dance. You know, the one that was supposed to make Michael forget that I am his little sister’s best friend.
“Nonsense,” Grandmère said.
That was all.
Just nonsense. Then she stood there, tapping her toes, staring at me.
“Grandmère,” I said. Maybe it was all that time I’d spent outside. Or maybe it was that I was pretty sure my mom and Mr. G and my dad were all in the next room, listening. How could they not be? There was no door, or anything, to separate my room from the living room.
“You don’t understand,” I said. “I can’t go back there.”
“All the more reason,” Grandmère said, “for you to go.”
“No,” I said. “First of all, I don’t even have a date for the dance, okay? And P.S., only losers go to dances without dates.”
“You are not a loser, Amelia,” Grandmère said. “You are a princess. And princesses do not run away when things become difficult. They throw their shoulders back, and they face what disaster awaits them head on. Bravely, and without complaint.”
I said, “Hello, we are not talking about marauding visigoths, okay, Grandmère? We are talking about an entire high school that seems to think that I am in love with Boris Pelkowski.”
“Which is precisely,” Grandmère said, “why you must show them that it doesn’t matter to you what they think.”
“Why can’t I show them that it doesn’t matter by not going?”