Since it would be Halloween, my mom decided that instead of a wedding dress, she would go to the courthouse dressed as King Kong. She wants me to dress up as the Empire State Building (God knows I am tall enough). She was trying to convince Mr. G to dress as Fay Ray when the phone rang, and she said it was Lilly, for me.
I was surprised, since I had just left Lilly’s, but I figured I must have left my toothbrush there, or something.
But that wasn’t why she was calling. That wasn’t why she was calling at all—as I found out when she demanded tartly, “What’s this I hear about you being interviewed on TwentyFour/Seven this week?”
I was stunned. I actually thought Lilly had ESP or something, and had been hiding it from me all these years. I said, “How did you know?”
“Because there are commercials announcing it every five minutes, dorkus.”
I switched on the TV. Lilly was right! No matter what station you put it on, there were ads urging viewers to “tune in tomorrow night” to see Beverly Bellerieve’s exclusive interview with “America’s royal, Princess Mia.”
Oh, my God. My life is so over.
“So why didn’t you tell me you are going to be on TV?” Lilly wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling like I was going to throw up all over again. “It just happened yesterday. It’s no big deal.”
Lilly started yelling so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
“NO BIG DEAL??? You were interviewed by Beverly Bellerieve and it was NO BIG DEAL??? Don’t you realize that BEVERLY BELLERIEVE IS ONE OF AMERICA’S MOST POPULAR AND HARDEST-HITTING JOURNALISTS, and that she is my all-time ROLE MODEL and HERO???”
When she finally calmed down enough to let me talk, I tried to explain to Lilly that I had no idea about Beverly’s journalistic merits, much less that she was Lilly’s all-time role model and hero. She just seemed, I said, like a very nice lady.
By that time, Lilly was totally fed up with me. She said, “The only reason I’m not mad at you is that tomorrow you are going to tell me every single little detail about it.”
“I am?”
Then I asked a more important question. “Why should you be mad at me?” I really wanted to know.
“Because you gave me exclusive first rights to interview you,” Lilly pointed out. “For Lilly Tells It Like It Is.”
I have no memory of this, but I guess it must be true.
Grandmère, I could see from the ads, had been right about the blue eyeshadow. Which was surprising, because she’s never been right about much else.
TOP FIVE THINGS GRANDMÈRE HAS BEEN WRONG ABOUT
1. That my dad would settle down when he met the right woman.
2. That Fat Louie would suck out my breath and suffocate me as I slept.
3. That if I didn’t attend an all-girls school, I would contract a social disease.
4. That if I got my ears pierced, they would get infected and I would die of blood poisoning.
5. That my figure would fill out by the time I hit my teens.
Sunday, October 26, 8 p.m.
You will not believe what got delivered to our house while I was gone. I was sure it was a mistake, until I saw the following attached. I am going to kill my mother.
Jefferson Market
The freshest produce—guaranteed
Fast, Free Delivery
Order no. 2803
1 package microwave cheese popcorn
1 case Yoo Hoo chocolate drink
1 jar cocktail olives
1 bag Oreos
1 container fudge ripple ice cream
1 package all-beef hot dogs
1 package hot-dog buns
1 package string cheese
1 bag milk chocolate chips
1 bag barbecue potato chips
1 container beer nuts
1 bag Milano cookies
1 jar sweet gherkins
Toilet paper
6-pound ham
Deliver to:
Helen Thermopolis, 1005 Thompson Street, #4A
Hasn’t she the slightest idea how adversely all this saturated fat and sodium will affect her unborn child? I can see that Mr. Gianini and I will have to be hypervigilant for the next seven months. I have given everything except the toilet paper to Ronnie, next door. Ronnie says she is going to hand out the junkiest stuff to any trick-or-treaters who might come by. She has to watch her figure since her sex-change operation. Now that she’s taking all those estrogen injections, everything goes right to her hips.
Sunday, October 26, 9 p.m.
Another e-mail from Jo-C-rox!
This one went:
JOCROX: Hi, Mia. I just saw the ad for your interview. You look great.
Sorry I can’t tell you who I am. I’m surprised you haven’t guessed by now. Now stop checking your e-mail and get to work on your Algebra homework. I know how you are about that. It’s one of the things I like best about you.
Your Friend
Okay, this is going to drive me insane. Who could it be? Who????
I wrote back right away:
FTLOUIE: WHO ARE YOU????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
I was hoping that would get the point across, but he so totally did not write back. I was trying to figure out who I know who knows that I always wait until the last minute to do my Algebra homework. Unfortunately, though, I think everyone knows it.
But the person who knows it best of all is Michael. I mean, doesn’t he help me every day with my Algebra homework in G and T? And he is always chastising me for not putting my carry-overs in straight enough lines and all of that.
If ONLY Jo-C-rox were Michael Moscovitz. If only, if only, if ONLY.
But I’m sure it isn’t. That would simply be too good to be true. And really excellent things like that only happen to girls like Lana Weinberger, never to girls like me. Knowing my luck, it will totally be that weird chili guy. Or some guy who breathes through his mouth, like Boris.
WHY ME?
Monday, October 27, G & T
Unfortunately, it appears that Lilly is not the only one who noticed the ads for tonight’s broadcast.
Everybody is talking about it. I mean, EVERYBODY.
And everybody says they are going to watch it.
Which means by tomorrow, everyone will know about my mom and Mr. Gianini.
Not that I care. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all. Pregnancy is a beautiful and natural thing.
Still, I wish I could remember more about what Beverly and I talked about. Because I am sure my mom’s impending marriage is not all we discussed. And I am totally worried I said other stuff that will come off sounding stupid.
I have decided that I should look more closely into that home-schooling idea, just in case. . . .
Tina Hakim Baba told me that her mother, who was a supermodel in England before she married Mr. Hakim Baba, used to get interviewed all the time. Mrs. Hakim Baba says that as a courtesy the interviewers would send her a copy of the tape before it aired, so if she had any objections, she could straighten them out before the thing was broadcast.
This sounded like a good idea, so at lunch I called my dad in his hotel suite and asked him if he could get Beverly to do that for me.
He said, “Hold on,” and asked her. It turns out Beverly was right there! In my dad’s hotel room! On a Monday afternoon!
Then, to my utter mortification, Beverly Bellerieve actually got on the phone and said, “What’s the matter, Mia?”
I told her I was still pretty nervous about the interview, and was there any chance I could see a copy of it before it aired?
Beverly said a bunch of stuff about how adorable I was and how that wouldn’t be necessary. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember exactly what she said, but I just got this overwhelming feeling that everything would be just fine.
Beverly is just one of those people who make you feel good about yourself
. I don’t know how she does it.
No wonder my dad hasn’t let her out of his hotel room since Saturday.
Two cars, one going north at 40 mph and one going south at 50 mph, leave town at the same time. In how many hours will they be 360 miles apart?
Why does it matter? I mean, really.
Monday, October 27, Bio
Mrs. Sing, our Biology teacher, says it is physiologically impossible to die of either boredom or embarrassment, but I know that isn’t true, because I am experiencing heart failure right now.
That is because after G and T, Michael and Lilly and I were walking down the hall together, since Lilly was going to Psych and I was going to Bio and Michael was going to Calc, which are all right across the hall from one another, and Lana Weinberger walked right up to us—RIGHT UP TO MICHAEL AND ME—and held up two of her fingers and waggled them at us, and went, “Are you two going out?”
I could seriously die right now. I mean, you should have seen Michael’s face. It was like his head was about to explode, he turned that red.
And I’m sure I wasn’t all that pale myself.
Lilly didn’t help by letting out this giant horse laugh and going, “As if!”
Which caused Lana and her cronies to burst out laughing, too.
I don’t see what’s so funny about it. Those girls obviously haven’t seen Michael Moscovitz with his shirt off. Believe me, I have.
I guess because the whole thing was so ridiculous and everything, Michael just kind of ignored it. But I’m telling you, it’s getting harder and harder for me not to ask him if he is Jo-C-rox. Like I keep trying to find ways to work Josie and the Pussycats into the conversation. I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help it!
I don’t know how much longer I can stand being the only girl in the ninth grade who doesn’t have a boyfriend.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: problems on pg. 135
English: “Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
Write feelings about this quote in journal
World Civ: questions at the end of Chapter 9
G&T: N/A
French: plan an itinerary for a make-believe trip to Paris
Biology: Kenny’s doing it
Remind Mom to make appointment with licensed geneticist. Could she or Mr. G be a carrier for the genetic mutation Tay-Sachs? It is common in Jews of Eastern European origin and in French Canadians. Are there any French Canadians in our family? FIND OUT!
Monday, October 27, After school
I never thought I would say this, but I am worried about Grandmère.
I am serious. I think she has officially lost it.
I walked into her hotel suite for my princess lesson today—since I am scheduled to have my official introduction to the Genovian people sometime in December, and Grandmère wants to be sure I don’t insult any dignitaries or whatever during it—and guess what Grandmère was doing?
Consulting with the royal Genovian event planner about my mother’s wedding.
I am totally serious. Grandmère had the guy flown in. All the way from Genovia! There they sat at the dining table with this huge sheet of paper stretched in front of them, on which were drawn all these circles, and to which Grandmère was attaching these tiny slips of paper. She looked up when I came in and said, in French, “Oh, Amelia. Very nice. Come and sit down. We have much to discuss, you and Vigo and I.”
I think my eyes must have been bulging out of my head. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was totally hoping what I was seeing was, you know . . . not what I was seeing.
“Grandmère,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Grandmère looked at me with her drawn-on eyebrows raised higher than ever. “Planning a wedding, of course.”
I swallowed. This was bad. WAY bad.
“Um,” I said. “Whose wedding, Grandmère?”
She looked at me very sarcastically. “Guess,” she said.
I swallowed some more. “Uh, Grandmère?” I said. “Can I talk to you a minute? In private?”
But Grandmère just waved her hand and said, “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Vigo. He has been dying to meet you. Vigo, Her Royal Highness, the Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo.”
She left out the Thermopolis. She always does.
Vigo jumped up from the table and came rushing over to me. He was way shorter than me, about my mom’s age, and had on a gray suit. He seemed to share my grandmother’s penchant for purple, since he was wearing a lavender shirt in some kind of very shiny material, along with an equally shiny dark purple tie.
“Your Highness,” he gushed. “The pleasure is all mine. So delightful finally to meet you.” To Grandmère, he said, “You’re right, madame, she has the Renaldo nose.”
“I told you, did I not?” Grandmère sounded smug. “Uncanny.”
“Positively.” Vigo made a little picture frame out of his index fingers and thumbs and squinted at me through it.
“Pink,” he said, decidedly. “Absolutely pink. I do so love a pink maid of honor. But the other attendants will be in ivory, I think. So Diana. But then, Diana was always so right.”
“It’s really nice to meet you,” I said to Vigo. “But the thing is, I think my mom and Mr. Gianini were kind of planning on having a private ceremony down at—”
“City Hall.” Grandmère rolled her eyes. It is very scary when she does this, because a long time ago, she had black eyeliner tattooed all around her eyelids so she wouldn’t have to waste valuable time putting on makeup when she could be, you know, terrorizing someone. “Yes, I heard all about it. It is ridiculous, of course. They will be married in the White and Gold Room at the Plaza, with a reception directly afterward in the Grand Ballroom, as befits the mother of the future regent of Genovia.”
“Um,” I said. “I really don’t think that’s what they want.”
Grandmère looked incredulous. “Whyever not? Your father is paying for it, of course. And I have been very generous. They are each allowed to invite twenty-five guests.”
I looked down at the sheet of paper in front of her. There were way more than fifty slips of paper in front of her.
Grandmère must have noticed the direction of my gaze, since she went, “Well, I, of course, require at least three hundred.”
I stared at her. “Three hundred what?”
“Guests, of course.”
I could see that I was way out of my depth. I was going to have to call in for reinforcements if I hoped to get anywhere with her.
“Maybe,” I said, “I should just give Dad a call and run this by him. . . .”
“Good luck,” Grandmère said with a snort. “He went off with that Bellerieve woman, and I haven’t heard from him since. If he is not careful, he is going to end up in the same situation as your Algebra teacher over there.”
Except it’s totally unlikely Dad would be getting anybody pregnant, since the whole reason I was his heir, instead of some legitimately produced offspring, is that he is no longer fertile, due to the massive doses of chemotherapy that cured his testicular cancer. But I suppose Grandmère is still in denial about this, considering what a disappointing heir I’ve turned out to be.
It was at this point that a strange moaning noise came out from under Grandmère’s chair. We both looked down. Rommel, Grandmère’s miniature poodle, was cowering in fright at the sight of me.
I know I am hideous and all of that, but really, it’s ridiculous how scared that dog is of me. And I love animals!
But even St. Francis of Assisi would have a hard time appreciating Rommel. I mean, first of all, he recently has developed a nervous disorder (if you ask me, it’s from living in such close proximity to my grandmother) that made all his fur fall out, so Grandmère dresses him up in little sweaters and coats so he won’t catch cold.
Today Rommel had on a mink bolero jacket. I am not even joking. It was dyed lavender to match
the one slung across Grandmère’s shoulders. It is horrifying enough to see a person wearing fur, but it is a thousand times worse to see an animal wearing another animal’s fur.
“Rommel,” Grandmère yelled at the dog. “Stop that growling.”
Except that Rommel wasn’t growling. He was moaning. Moaning with fright. At the sight of me. ME!
How many times in one day must I be humiliated?
“Oh, you stupid dog.” Grandmère reached down and picked Rommel up, much to his unhappiness. You could tell her diamond brooches were poking him in the spine (there is no fat on him at all, and since he doesn’t have any fur, he is especially sensitive to pointy objects), but even though he wriggled to be free, she wouldn’t let go of him.
“Now, Amelia,” Grandmère said. “I need your mother and whatever-his-name-is to write their guests’ names and addresses down tonight so I can have the invitations messengered tomorrow. I know your mother is going to want to invite some of those more, ahem, free-spirited friends of hers, Mia, but I think it would be better if perhaps if they just stood outside with the reporters and tourists and waved as she climbed in and out of the limo. That way they’ll still have a feeling of belonging, but they won’t make anyone uncomfortable with their unattractive hairstyles and ill-fitting attire.”
“Grandmère,” I said. “I really think—”
“And what do you think about this dress?” Grandmère held up a picture of a Vera Wang wedding gown with a big poofy skirt that my mom wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Vigo went, “No, no, Your Highness. I really think this is more the thing.” Then he held up a photo of a slinky Armani number that my mom similarly wouldn’t be caught dead in.
“Uh, Grandmère,” I said. “This is all really nice of you, but my mom definitely doesn’t want a big wedding. Really. Definitely.”