“Feet on the floor, Amelia!” Grandmère shrieked, just because I’d rested one foot on the little shelf in the podium where you’re supposed to put your purse or whatever.
“And what about the issue of girls who wear their boyfriends’ team athletic shorts beneath their skirts?” I went on. I have to admit, I was kind of enjoying myself. The Plaza maids were totally paying attention to me. One of them even clapped when I said the thing about the security video possibly being used against us if we were appointed to the Supreme Court. “As sexist as I find the practice, is it the administration’s business what goes on beneath the skirts of its female student population? I say no! No! Don’t you dare mess with MY underwear!”
Whoa! This last part brought a standing O from the maids! They were on their feet, cheering for me, like I was…I don’t know. J. Lo, or somebody!
I had no idea I was such a brilliant orator. Really. I mean, the parking meter thing had been nothing compared to this.
But Grandmère wasn’t as impressed as everyone else.
“Amelia,” Grandmère said, exhaling a plume of blue smoke. “Princesses do not beat on the podium with their fists when they make a point.”
“Sorry, Grandmère,” I said.
But I didn’t really feel sorry. To tell the truth, I felt kind of stoked. I had no idea how fun it was to address a roomful of hotel maids. When I’d addressed the Genovian parliament on the parking meter issue, hardly any of them had paid attention to me.
But tonight at the hotel, I had those women in the palm of my hand. Really.
Although, it would probably be totally different if I really were addressing an audience of people my own age. Like, if I really were standing in front of Lana and Trisha and the rest of them, that might be a little different.
Like, I actually might throw up on myself.
But I’m not going to worry about it, because it’s not like that’s ever going to happen. I mean, that I’m actually going to be expected to debate Lana. Because no one said anything about a debate.
And even if there is one, I’m not going to end up having to do it anyway.
Because Lilly said so. She has a plan.
Whatever that means.
Wednesday, September 9, the loft
I walked in on utter chaos at the Thompson Street loft again. Since Mom and Mr. G are going to Indiana this weekend, Mom had to move Ladies’ Poker Night from Saturday to tonight. So, all of the feminist artists from Mom’s poker group were sitting around the kitchen table eating moo goo gai pan when I walked in.
They were being really loud, too. So loud that when I called Fat Louie, he didn’t come. I shook his bag of low-fat Iams and everything. Nothing. I actually thought for a minute that Fat Louie had run away—like he’d gotten out somehow in all the confusion of the feminists coming in. Because you know, he hasn’t been all that happy about sharing the loft with a new baby. In fact, we’ve had to chase him out of Rocky’s crib more than a few times, since he seems to think it’s a bed we put there just for him, since it IS kind of Fat Louie–sized.
And I’ll admit, I DO spend a lot of time with Rocky. Time I used to spend giving Fat Louie his kitty massages and all.
But I’m TRYING to be a good mother—a baby-licker to BOTH my brother AND my cat.
I finally found him hiding under my bed…but just his head, because he’s so fat, the rest of him wouldn’t fit, so his kitty butt was kind of sticking out in the air.
I didn’t blame him for hiding, really. Mom’s friends can be scary.
Mr. G agrees, apparently. He was hiding, too, it turned out, in the bedroom he and Mom share, trying to watch a baseball game with Rocky. He looked up all startled when I came in to give Rocky a kiss hello.
“Are they gone yet?” he wanted to know, his eyes looking kind of wild behind his glasses.
“Um,” I said. “They haven’t even started playing.”
“Damn.” Mr. G looked down at his son, who wasn’t crying for once. He is usually fine if there is a television on. “I mean, darn.”
I felt a spurt of sympathy for Mr. G. I mean, it is not easy being married to my mom. Aside from the whole crazy painter thing, there’s the fact that she seems to be physically incapable of paying a bill on time, or even of FINDING the bill when she finally does remember to pay it. Mr. G transferred everything to online banking, but it doesn’t help, on account of all the checks my mom gets sent for her art sales end up wadded up somewhere weird, like in the bottom of her gas mask container.
I swear, between my inability to divide fractions and her inability to assume any sort of adult responsibility—aside from attending political rallies and breast-feeding—it’s a wonder Mr. G doesn’t divorce us.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked Mr. G. “Some spare ribs? Shrimp with garlic sauce?”
“No, Mia,” Mr. G said, wearing a look of long suffering that I recognized only too well. “But thanks, anyway. We’ll be fine.”
I left the menfolk to themselves and went into the kitchen to scrounge some food up for myself before sneaking off to my bedroom to do all my homework. Fortunately, none of my mom’s friends paid any attention to me, because they were too busy complaining about how male musical artists like Eminem are responsible for turning a generation of young men into misogynists.
Really, I could not stand idly by and allow that kind of talk in my own home. Maybe it was the aftereffects of my powerful speech-giving experience in the empty conference room at the Plaza, but I put my plate of moo shu vegetable down and told my mom’s friends that their argument against Eminem was specious (I don’t even know what this word means, but I’ve heard Michael and Lilly use it a lot) and that if they would just take a moment to listen to “Cleaning Out My Closet” (one of Rocky’s favorites, by the way), they would know that the only women Eminem hates are his mom and the hos that be trippin’ on him.
This statement, which I felt was quite reasonable, was met by utter silence by the feminist artists. Then my mom went, “Is that the door? It must be Vern from downstairs. He gets so upset these days when he thinks we’re having a party and we haven’t invited him. I’ll be right back.”
And she scurried to the door even though I hadn’t heard the buzzer ring.
Then, one of the feminists went, “So, Mia, is your defense of Eminem the kind of thing your grandmother teaches you during your princess lessons?”
And all the other feminists laughed.
But then I remembered that I actually needed some advice on the feminist front so I was all, “Hey, you guys, I mean, women, do you know if it’s true that all college boys expect their girlfriends to Do It?”
“Uh, not just college boys,” said one of the women, while the rest of them laughed uproariously.
So, it IS true. I should have known. I mean, I’d kind of been hoping that Lana was just trying to make me feel bad. But now it looked as if she might actually have been telling the truth.
“You look worried, Mia,” commented Kate, the performance artist who likes to stand up onstage and smear chicken fat on herself to make a statement about the beauty industry.
“She’s always worried,” said Gretchen, a welder who specializes in metal replicas of body parts. Particularly of the male variety. “She’s Mia, remember?”
All the feminist artists laughed uproariously at that, too.
This made me feel bad. Like my mom’s been talking about me behind my back. I mean, I talk about HER behind HER back, of course. But it’s different when your own mother has been talking about YOU.
Clearly, Lilly is not the only one who thinks I’m a baby-licker.
“You spend way too much time freaking out about things, Mia.” Becca, the neon light artist, waved her margarita glass at me knowingly. “You should stop thinking so much. I don’t remember thinking half as much as you do when I was your age.”
“Because you were already on lithium when you were her age,” Kate pointed out.
But Becca ignored her.
“Is it the snails?” Becca wanted to know.
I just blinked at her. “The what?”
“The snails,” she said. “You know, the ones you dumped in the bay. Are you worried about how everyone is upset about them?”
“Um,” I said, wondering if she, like Tina, had seen this on the news. “I guess so.”
“That’s understandable,” Becca said. “I’d be worried, too. Why don’t you take up yoga?” she suggested. “That always helps me to relax.”
“Or watch more TV,” suggested Dee, who enjoys creating totem poles and then dancing around them with pieces of liver strapped beneath her arms.
I couldn’t believe this. I was being told by these intelligent women to watch MORE TV? Clearly, they’re not friends with Karen Martinez.
“Stop picking on Mia.” Windstorm, who happens to be one of my mom’s oldest friends AND a midwife AND a minister AND a professional choreographer, got up to put more ice in the blender. “She’s got a right to think too much and freak out if she wants to. There isn’t anything more stressful than being a fifteen-year-old, with the possible exception of being a fifteen-year-old princess.”
I had never thought of that before. DO I think too much? Do other people not think as much as I do? Except according to Ms. Martinez, I don’t think ENOUGH….
“I guess it must have been one of those delivery boys, slipping a menu under the door,” my mom said, coming back to the table. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” I said, taking my plate and hurrying off to my room. “Have fun, you guys! I mean, women!”
I wonder if Windstorm is right. About my thinking too much. Maybe that’s my problem. I can’t shut my brain off. Maybe other people can, but I can’t. I’ve never actually tried, of course, because who wants to have an empty head? Except for, you know, the Hilton sisters. Because it’s probably easier to party all the time if you aren’t worrying about killer algae or all the petroleum running out.
Still, maybe there’s something to it. I can hardly sleep at night, my mind is so busy whirring away up there, wondering what I’m going to do if aliens come in the night and take over everything, or whatever. I would LOVE to be able to shut my mind off, the way other people seem to be able to. If Windstorm is right, anyway.
Ooooo, Michael’s Instant Messaging me now!
SKINNERBX: So, are we still getting together on Saturday?
Right as Michael asked this, I got another Instant Message.
WOMYNRULE: BL, what are you doing Saturday?
Seriously. Why me? WHY?
FTLOUIE: I can’t talk to you right now. I’m IMing your brother.
WOMYNRULE: Tell him Mom’s turning his room into a shrine to the Reverend Moon.
FTLOUIE: LILLY! GO AWAY!
WOMYNRULE: Just keep Saturday free, okay? It’s important. It has to do with the campaign.
FTLOUIE: I already have plans with your brother on Saturday.
WOMYNRULE: What, are you two going to Do It then, or something?
FTLOUIE: NO WE ARE NOT GOING TO DO IT THEN. WHO TOLD YOU THAT?
WOMYNRULE: No one! Geez! Don’t get the princess panties in a royal twist. Why would you even get so mad about that unless—Wait—ARE YOU GUYS DOING IT???? AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME??????????
FTLOUIE: NO, FOR THE LAST TIME WE ARE NOT DOING IT!!!!
SKINNERBX: Doing what? What are you talking about?
OH, MY GOD.
FTLOUIE: Not you! I meant to send that to Lilly!
SKINNERBX: Wait, is Lilly IMing you right now, too?
WOMYNRULE: I can’t believe you’re Doing It with my brother. That is so gross. You know, he has hair growing out of his toes. Like a hobbit.
FTLOUIE: Lilly! SHUT UP!
SKINNERBX: Is Lilly giving you a hard time? Tell her if she doesn’t cut it out I’ll tell Mom about the time she did the “gravitational experiment” with Grandma’s Hummel figurines.
FTLOUIE: BOTH OF YOU! STOP IT!!!! YOU’RE DRIVING ME INSANE!!!!
FTLOUIE: terminated
Seriously. I’m GLAD I’m a baby-licker if it means Rocky and I will never end up like those two.
Thursday, September 10, Homeroom
Oh.
My.
God.
That is all I have to say.
Thursday, September 10, PE
They’re even in the gym. I don’t know how she did it. But they’re even HANGING FROM THE ROPES IN THE GYM.
Seriously.
They’re in the showers, too. Encased in plastic sheets, so they won’t get wet.
I know we learned in Health and Safety that it’s physically impossible to die from embarrassment, but I might turn out to be the exception to the rule.
Thursday, September 10, Geometry
THEY ARE EVERYWHERE.
GIANT FULL-COLOR HEADSHOTS OF ME IN MY TIARA. WITH MY SCEPTER. From when I got formally introduced to the people of Genovia last December.
And underneath my photo, it says:
VOTE FOR MIA.
Then underneath that:
PIT.
PIT. What does that even MEAN?????
Everyone is talking about them. EVERYONE. I was just sitting here, innocently going over my homework, when Trisha Hayes came in and was all, “Nice try, PIT. But it won’t make any difference. You may be a princess, but Lana is the most popular girl in school. She’s going to decimate you on Monday.”
“Somebody’s been studying up on their vocab,” is what I said to Trisha. Because of her use of the word “decimate.”
But that’s not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was, “IT WASN’T ME!!!! I DIDN’T DO IT!!!! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT PIT MEANS!!!!!”
But I couldn’t. Because everyone was looking at us. Including Mr. Harding. Who took five points off Trisha’s homework for not being in her seat by the time the bell rang.
“You can’t do that,” Trisha had the bad judgment to say to him.
“Uh,” Mr. Harding said. “Excuse me, Miss Hayes, but yes, I can.”
“Not for long,” Trisha said. “When my friend Lana is student council president, she’s going to abolish tardy demerits.”
“And what do you have to say about that, Miss Thermopolis?” Mr. Hardy wanted to know. “Is abolishing tardy demerits part of your campaign strategy, as well?”
“Um,” I said. “No.”
“Really?” Mr. Harding looked way interested. Except that I think he was only interested because he found the whole thing vaguely hilarious. On some weird teacher level. “And why is that?”
“Um,” I said, feeling my ears starting to turn red. That’s because I could tell that everyone in the entire class was staring at us. “Because I thought I might concentrate on stuff that actually matters. Like the lack of choice in vegetarian entrées in the cafeteria. And the cameras they’ve installed outside by Joe, which are a violation of our right to privacy. And the fact that some of the teachers around here don’t grade objectively.”
And to my VERY great surprise, some of the people in the back of the room started to clap. Really. Like that slow clap they do in the movies, the kind where everybody eventually joins in, until it turns into fast clapping.
Only Mr. Harding nipped it in the bud before it ever turned to fast clapping by going, “All right, all right, that’s enough of that. Turn to page twenty-three and let’s get started.”
Oh, my God. This presidential thing has gotten WAY out of hand.
Syllogism = argument of the form a b (first premise) b c (second premise)
Therefore: a c (conclusion)
WHATEVER. Why did she have to use the one of me with my SCEPTER??? I look like a total freak in that one.
Note to self: Look up “decimate.”
Thursday, September 10, English
LILLY!!! WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE POSTERS????
Where do you think I got them? And stop yelling at me!
I’m not yelling. I’m very calmly asking…Did you get those posters from my grandmother? r />
Yes, of course I did. What do you think, I paid for them myself? Do you have any idea how much full-color posters that size cost? I could have used up the entire annual budget for Lilly Tells It Like It Is on the copy setting alone!
But I thought you hated Grandmère! Why would you do something like that? Like let my grandmother be involved in this?
Because in case you haven’t noticed, this election is important to me, Mia. I REALLY want us to win. We HAVE to win. It’s the only way we’re going to save this school from becoming a completely fascist state under the tyrannical reign of Gutless Gupta.
But, Lilly. I DON’T WANT TO BE STUDENT COUNCIL PRESIDENT.
Don’t worry. You won’t be.
THAT MAKES NO SENSE! I mean, Lilly, I know everyone just assumed Lana is going to win because she wins everything, but things are getting really weird. In Geometry today, I said something about those cameras outside being a violation of our right to privacy, and someone started CLAPPING for me.
It’s happening. Just like I KNEW it would!
What’s happening?????
Never mind. Just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s great. It’s so NATURAL. I could never be that natural.
BUT I’M NOT DOING ANYTHING!
That’s what’s so great about it. Now come on, pay attention to this. You need to know this stuff, if you’re going to be a writer, and all.