Princess in Training

MEG CABOTPrincess In Training

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VI

For my niece,

Madison B. Cabot,

princess in training

“She will be more a princess than she ever was—

a hundred and fifty thousand times more.”

A LITTLE PRINCESS

Frances Hodgson Burnett

AEHS Albert Einstein High School

FALL SEMESTER COURSE SCHEDULE

Student: Thermopolis, HRH Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo

Sex: F

Yr: 10

Period:

Course:

Teacher:

Rm#:

Homeroom

Gianini

110

Period 1

PE

Potts

Gym

Period 2

Geometry

Harding

202

Period 3

English

Martinez

112

Period 4

French

Klein

118

Lunch

Period 5

Gifted and Talented

Hill

105

Period 6

U.S. Government

Holland

204

Period 7

Earth Science

Chu

217AEHS

Dear Students and Parents,

Welcome back from what I hope was a relaxing, yet intellectually stimulating, summer vacation. The faculty and staff of AEHS look forward to spending another exciting and fruitful academic year with you. With this in mind, we’d like to share these conduct reminders:

Noise

Please note that Albert Einstein High School is located in a residential—albeit vertical—community. It is important to remember that sound travels up, and that any excessive noise—especially on the steps of the front entrance of the school—that might be disruptive to our neighbors will not be tolerated. This includes shouting, screaming, shrill or explosive laughter, music, and ritualistic chanting/drumming. Please be respectful of our neighbors and keep the noise level to a minimum.

Defacement

Despite what is often cited as Albert Einstein High School “tradition” on the first day of classes, students are expressly forbidden from defacing, decorating, or otherwise tampering with the lion statue, frequently referred to as “Joe,” outside the East Seventy-fifth Street entrance of Albert Einstein High School. Twenty-four-hour surveillance cameras have been installed, and any students caught defiling school property in any way will be subject to expulsion and/or fines.

Smoking

It has been brought to the attention of this administration that last year, large numbers of cigarette butts were daily swept up from the front steps on the Seventy-fifth Street entrance. In addition to the fact that smoking is strictly prohibited on school grounds, cigarette butts constitute a visual eyesore, as well as a fire hazard. Please note that any students caught smoking—either by a staff member or on the new video surveillance cameras—will be subject to suspension and/or fines.

Uniforms

Please note that this year’s standard AEHS uniforms include:

Female students:

Male students:

Long- or short-sleeved white blouse

Long- or short-sleeved white shirt

Gray sweater or sweater vest

Gray sweater or sweater vest

Blue-and-gold plaid skirt or gray flannel trousers

Gray flannel trousers

Blue or white knee-highs or blue or black tights or nude-colored pantyhose

Blue or black socks

Blue-and-gold plaid tie

Blue-and-gold plaid tie

Navy blue jacket

Navy blue jacket

Please note that the wearing of shorts—including regulation gym shorts or athletic team uniform shorts—beneath skirts is prohibited.

Remember, classes commence the day after Labor Day, Tuesday, September 8, at 7:55 A.M. As always, tardiness will not be tolerated.

Welcome back!

Principal GuptaMonday, September 7, Labor Day

WOMYNRULE: Did you SEE it??? Did you get that hypocritical piece of garbage she sent out last week? Just who does she think she’s kidding with that? You so know that that part about ritualistic chanting was directed at ME. Just because I organized a few student rallies last year. Well, we’re going to show her. She might think she can stifle the voice of the people, but the student body of Albert Einstein High is NOT going to be intimidated.

FTLOUIE: Lilly, I—

WOMYNRULE: Did you see that part about the surveillance cameras???? Have you ever HEARD of anything so fascist? Well, she can install all the surveillance cameras she wants, but that’s not going to stop ME. It’s just another example of how she’s slowly turning this school into her own academic dictatorship. You know they used surveillance cameras in Communist Russia to keep the proletariat in line. I wonder what she’ll bring in next. Ex-KGB militia, perhaps, as hall monitors? I so wouldn’t put it past her. This is a total invasion of our right to privacy. That’s why this year, POG, we’re taking matters into our own hands. I have a plan—

FTLOUIE: Lilly—

WOMYNRULE: —that will totally undermine her attempts to strip us of our sense of selves and bend us to her will. Best of all, it’s in complete compliance with school ordinances. When we’re through, Mia, she won’t even know what hit her.

FTLOUIE: LILLY!!! I thought the whole point of Instant Messaging was so that we could TALK.

WOMYNRULE: Isn’t that what we’re doing?

FTLOUIE: YOU are. I’m TRYING to. But you keep interrupting.

WOMYNRULE: Fine. Then go ahead. What do you want to say?

FTLOUIE: I can’t remember now. You made me forget. Oh, here’s one thing: Stop calling me POG!

WOMYNRULE: SORRY. God. You know, ever since that little brother of yours was born, you have gotten way…sensitive.

FTLOUIE: Excuse me. I have ALWAYS been sensitive.

WOMYNRULE: You can say that again, BL. Don’t you want to hear my plan?

FTLOUIE: I guess so. Wait a minute. What’s BL?

WOMYNRULE: You know.

FTLOUIE: No, I don’t.

WOMYNRULE: Yes, you do…baby-licker.

FTLOUIE: STOP IT!!! I AM NOT A BABY-LICKER!!!

WOMYNRULE: R 2. Just like the red panda.

FTLOUIE: Just because I didn’t think it was appropriate for my mother to take her six-week-old newborn on a peace march across the Brooklyn Bridge does not make me a baby-licker!!!! ANYTHING could have happened during that march. ANYTHING. She could have tripped and accidentally dropped him and he might have bounced off the safety railing and fallen hundreds of feet into the East River and drowned…if the fall didn’t crush all his little bones to pieces first. And even if I dove in after him, we might both have been swept out to sea by the current…OH, THANKS, LILLY!!! Why did you have to remind me????

WOMYNRULE: Remember what the zookeeper had to do to the red panda?

FTLOUIE: SHUT UP!!!! NO ONE IS GOING TO TAKE AWAY MY BABY BROTHER BECAUSE I LICK HIM TOO MUCH!!! I HAVE NEVER ONCE LICKED ROCKY!!!!

WOMYNRULE: Yes, but you have to admit you are a little obsessive-compulsive about him.

FTLOUIE: Well, SOMEBODY has to worry about him! I mean, between my mother wanting to lug him around to all sorts of inappropriate venues such as antiwar rallies—sometimes even taking him there on the SUBWAY, which you know is just a breeding ground for germs—and Mr. G tossing him into the air and causing his head to smack against the ceiling fan, I frankly think Rocky is LUCKY to have a big sister like me who looks out for his welfare, since God knows no one else in the family is doing it.

WOMYNRULE: Whatever you say…baby-licker.

FTLOUIE: SHUT UP, LILLY. Just tell me your stupid plan.

WOMYNRULE: No. I don’t want to now. I think you’re better off not knowing. Baby-lickers like you, who worry too much, are probably better off not knowing things too far in advance, as they will just cause you to lick the baby harder.

FTLOUIE: Fine. I don’t have time to hear your stupid plan anyway. Your brother’s on the phone. I gotta go.

WOMYNRULE: WHAT? Tell him to hold on. THIS IS IMPORTANT, MIA!

FTLOUIE: This may come as a surprise to you, Lilly, but talking to your brother is important, too. At least to me. You know I’ve only seen him twice since I got back Friday—

WOMYNRULE: I’m sorry I called you a baby-licker. Just wait one minute while I tell you—

FTLOUIE: And once was dorm move-in day on Saturday and hardly counts since he was all sweaty from carrying that mini refrigerator up all those stairs after the elevators broke down—

WOMYNRULE: MIA!!! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME????

FTLOUIE: And your parents were there and so was his Resident Advisor. And then on Sunday we went out but I was still jet-lagged and I accidentally—

WOMYNRULE: I’M—

FTLOUIE: —fell asleep while he was showing me his—

WOMYNRULE: GOING—

FTLOUIE: —newest Magic deck since Maya dropped his last one—

WOMYNRULE: TO—

FTLOUIE: —and it got all mixed up with the decks he doesn’t use anymore—

WOMYNRULE: KILL YOU!

FTLOUIE: terminatedMonday, September 7, Labor Day, 10 p.m., the loft

Another school year. I know I should be excited. I know I should be thrilled at the prospect of seeing my friends again after having been on foreign soil for the past two months.

And I am. I am excited. I’m excited to see Tina and Shameeka and Ling Su and even—I can’t believe I’m saying this—Boris.

It’s just…well, it’s going to be so DIFFERENT this year, with no Michael to pick up on the way to school and sit with at lunch and have drop by before Algebra—ACK! No Algebra this year, either! Geometry! Oh, God. Well, I’ll just think about that one later. Although Mr. Gianini (FRANK. MUST REMEMBER TO CALL HIM FRANK.) says people who do badly in Algebra always do really well in Geometry. Please, please let that be true.

And okay, it’s not like Michael and I ever used to make out in front of my locker or anything, what with his lack of enthusiasm about PDA and my bodyguard and all.

But at least—because there was always a chance I could run into Michael in the hallway at any moment—I had something to look forward to at school.

And now, because Michael has graduated, there’s nothing to look forward to. Nothing.

Except for the weekends.

But how much time is Michael even going to have to spend with me on weekends? Because he’s in college now, and he has so much homework already there’s no way we can see each other on weeknights—not that, between princess obligations and my OWN homework, that was ever going to happen anyway. But still. It’s like—

God, what is WRONG with my mother? Rocky was just crying there for, like, FIFTEEN MINUTES while she did absolutely NOTHING. I went out into the living room and there she was with Mr. G, just sitting there watching Law and Order, and I was all, “Hello, your son is calling you,” and Mom, without even looking up from the TV, was like, “He’s just fussing. He’ll settle down and go to sleep in a minute.”

What kind of maternal compassion is THAT? Lilly can call me a baby-licker all she wants, but is it really any wonder I’m as maladjusted as I am if this is an example of how my mother treated me as a baby?

So then I went into Rocky’s bright yellow room and sang one of his favorite songs—“Behind Every Good Woman” by Tracy Bonham—and he calmed right down.

But did anyone thank me? No! I walked out of his room and my mom actually looked at me (only because there was a commercial) and went, very sarcastically, “Thanks, Mia. We’re trying to get him to understand that when we put him down for the night, he’s supposed to go to sleep. Now he’s going to think all he has to do is cry and someone is going to come in there and sing a song to him. I just got him over that while you were in Genovia this summer, and now we’re going to have to start all over again.”

Well, EXCUSE ME! I may be a baby-licker, but is it really such a crime to have a little compassion for my only sibling? JEESH!

Let’s see, where was I?

Oh, yeah. School. Without Michael.

Seriously, what is even the point? I mean, yeah, I know we’re supposed to be going to school to learn stuff and all of that. But learning stuff was so much more fun when there was a chance of spotting Michael by the water fountain or whatever. And now I fully have nothing like that to look forward to until Saturday and Sunday. I’m not saying that life without Michael isn’t worth living, or whatever. But I will say that when he’s around—or even when there’s just a chance that he MIGHT be around—EVERYTHING is a lot more interesting.

The only bright spot in what appears to be a school year otherwise completely devoid of them is English. Because it looks as if our teacher, Ms. Martinez, might actually be enthusiastic about the subject. At least if this note she sent around to all of us last month is any indication:AEHS

A letter to all members of Ms. Martinez’s tenth grade English class:

Hello!

I hope you don’t mind receiving a note from me before the new school year even starts, but as the newest teacher on the AEHS staff, I just wanted to introduce myself, as well as get to know all of you.

My name is Karen Martinez, and I graduated with a Master’s Degree in English Literature from Yale this spring. My hobbies include Rollerblading, tae bo, visiting the many wonderful sights of New York City, and reading (of course!) literary classics such as Pride and Prejudice.

I hope to get to know each and every one of you this year, and to aid me in doing so, I’m asking each of my students to come to our first class period prepared with a short biography as well as an expository writing sample (no longer than 500 words) on what you learned during your summer vacation. As you know, life’s lessons don’t stop during the summer months just because school is not in session!

I’m sorry to be assigning homework before classes even begin, but I assure you that this will aid me in helping you to become the best writer you can be!

Thanks very much, and enjoy the rest of your summer!

Yours truly,

K. Martinez

Clearly Ms. Martinez is extremely dedicated to her job. It’s about time AEHS finally got some teachers who actually care about their students—Mr. G excepted, of course.

Frank, I mean.

I am especially excited because Ms. Martinez is the new advisor to the school paper, on which I am a staff member. I really feel, judging by how much Ms. Martinez and I have in common—I really liked Pride and Prejudice, especially the version with Colin Firth—and I tried rollerblading once—that I’m going to benefit greatly from her teachings. I mean, being an aspiring author and all, it’s very important that my talent is appropriately molded, and I already feel confident that Ms. Martinez is going to be the Mr. Miyagi to my Karate Kid—writing-wise. Not, you know, karate-wise.

Still, it’s hard to figure out what to say in my bio, let alone my expository writing sample on what I learned this summer. Because what am I going to write? “Hello, my name is HRH Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo? You might have heard of me, on account of there’ve been a couple movies based on my life.”

Although to tell the truth, both of those movies took a lot of liberties with the facts. It was bad enough in the first one that they made my dad dead and Grandmère all nice and everything. Now, in the latest one, I supposedly broke up with Michael! Like that’s going to happen. That was entirely projection on the part of the movie studio, I guess to make the story more exciting, or something. As if my life isn’t exciting enough without any help from Hollywood.

Although I do have a lot in common with that Aragorn guy from The Return of the King. I mean, we’ve both had the mantle of sovereignty thrust upon us. I would much rather be a normal person than heir to a throne. I kind of got the feeling that Aragorn felt the same way.

Not that I don’t love the land over which I will one day rule. It’s just that it’s really boring to have to spend the better part of your summer with your dad and your grandma when you’d LIKE to be spending it with your new baby brother, not to mention your BOYFRIEND, who is starting COLLEGE in the fall.

Not that, you know, Michael is going AWAY to college or anything; he’s only going to Columbia, which is right in Manhattan, although it’s way uptown, way farther uptown than I usually go, except for that one time we went to Sylvia’s for fried chicken and waffles.

Anyway, I wrote the following bio for Ms. Martinez while I was still in Genovia last week. I hope that when she reads it she’ll recognize in my prose the soul of a fellow lover of writing:

From the Desk of

Princess Amelia Renaldo

MY BIO

by Mia Thermopolis

My name is Mia Thermopolis. I’m fifteen, a Taurus, heir to the throne of the principality of Genovia (population 50,000), and my hobbies include being taught how to be a princess by my grandmother; watching TV; eating out (or ordering in); reading; working for the AEHS newspaper, The Atom; and writing poetry. My future career aspiration is to be a novelist and/or a rescue dog handler (like when there’s an earthquake, to help find people trapped under rubble).

However, I will most likely have to settle for being Princess of Genovia (POG).

That was the easy part, really. The hard part was figuring out what to say about what I learned during my summer vacation. I mean, what DID I learn, anyway? I spent most of the month of June helping Mom and Mr. G adjust to having an infant in the house—which was a very difficult transition for them, since for so many years all inhabitants of our household were entirely bipedal (not counting my cat, Fat Louie). The introduction of a family member who will eventually—perhaps even for a year or more—get around mostly by crawling, made me acutely aware of the entirely unbaby-safe environment in which we live…although it didn’t seem to bother Mom and Mr. G so much.

Which is why I had to get Michael to help me install baby plugs in all of the outlets, and baby guards on all of our lower cabinet drawers—something Mom didn’t entirely appreciate, since she now has trouble getting out the salad spinner.

She’ll thank me one day though when she realizes that it’s entirely because of me that Rocky hasn’t gotten into any devastating salad spinner accidents.

When we weren’t busy baby-proofing the loft, Michael and I didn’t do much. I mean, there’s lots of things a couple deeply in love can do in New York City during the summer: boating on the lake in Central Park, carriage rides along Fifth Avenue, visiting museums and gazing upon great works of art, attending the opera on the Great Lawn, dining at outdoor cafés in Little Italy, et cetera.

However, all of these things can get quite expensive (unless you take advantage of student rates) except that whole opera-in-the-park thing, which is free, but you have to get there at like eight in the morning to stake out your place and even then those weird opera people are all territorial and yell at you if your blanket accidentally touches theirs. And besides, everyone in operas always dies and I hate that as much as the blanket thing.

And while it’s true that I am a princess, I am still extremely limited in the funds department, because my father keeps me on an absurdly small allowance of only twenty dollars a week, in the hopes that I will not become a party girl (like certain socialites I could mention) if I don’t have a lot of disposable income to spend on things like rubber miniskirts and heroin.

And although Michael got a summer job at the Apple Store in SoHo, he is saving all of his money for a copy of Logic Platinum, the music software program, so he can continue to write songs even though his band, Skinner Box, is on hiatus while its members scatter across the nation to attend various colleges and rehab clinics. He also wants a Cinema HD, a twenty-three-inch flat-panel display screen, to go with the Power Mac G5 he’s also hoping to buy, all of which he can get with his employee discount, but which all together will still cost as much as a single Segway Human Transporter, something I’ve been lobbying for my dad to buy me for some time now to no avail.

Besides, it’s no fun to go on a carriage ride through Central Park with your boyfriend and YOUR BODYGUARD.

So mostly when we weren’t at my place installing baby guards, we spent June just hanging out at Michael’s place, since then Lars could watch ESPN or chat with the Drs. Moscovitz, when they were not with patients or at their country home in Albany, while Michael and I concentrated on what was really important: making out and playing as much Rebel Strike as was humanly possible before being cruelly separated by my father on July 1 (which was at least an improvement over the June 1 DFG—departure for Genovia—date he’d tried to foist on me originally).

Sadly, that grim day rolled around all too quickly, and I was forced to spend the latter months of the summer in Genovia, where I saved the bay (at least, if all goes as planned) from being overrun by killer algae that were dumped into the Mediterranean by the Oceanographic Museum & Aquarium in next-door Monaco (even though they deny it. Just like they deny that Princess Stephanie was driving the car when she and her mom went over that cliff. Whatever.).

Which is what I ended up writing about. For Ms. Martinez, I mean. You know, about how I surreptitiously ordered (and charged to the offices of the Genovian defense ministry) and then released ten thousand Aplysia depilans marine snails into the Bay of Genovia after reading on the Internet that they are the killer algae’s only natural enemy.

I honestly don’t know why everybody got so angry about it. The algae were strangling the sea kelp that supports hundred of species in that bay! And those snails are as toxic as the algae, so it’s not like anything down there is going to eat them and throw off the existing food chain. They’ll die off naturally as soon as their only source of nutrients—the algae—is gone. And then the bay will be back to normal. So what’s the big deal?

Seriously, it’s as if they think I didn’t consider all this before I did it. It’s almost as if people don’t realize that I am not like a normal teen, concerned solely with partying and Jackass, but am actually Gifted, as well as Talented. Well, sort of.

I left out the part in my writing sample about how everybody got so mad about the snails, though. Still, I just know Ms. Martinez is going to be impressed. I mean, I used a lot of literary allusions and everything. Maybe, with her support, I might even get to write something other than the cafeteria beat on the school paper this year! Or start a novel and get it published, just like that girl I read about in the paper who wrote that scathing tell-all about the kids in her school, and now no one will talk to her and she has to go to school online or whatever.

Well, actually, I don’t think I’d like that.

But I wouldn’t mind not having to write about buffalo bites anymore.

Oh no, Lilly is IMing me again. Doesn’t she realize it is past eleven? I need to get my sleep in order to look my best for—

Huh. I was going to say for Michael. But I won’t even be seeing him at school tomorrow.

So what do I even care about how I look?

FTLOUIE: What do you want?

WOMYNRULE: God, touchy much? Are you done talking to my brother yet?

FTLOUIE: Yes.

WOMYNRULE: You two make me sick. You know that, don’t you?

Poor Lilly. She and Boris went out for so long that she still isn’t used to not having a boyfriend who calls to say good night. Not that Michael was going to bed yet when he called, but he knew I was. Michael doesn’t have to get to sleep early because even though he is taking eighteen credit hours this semester—so that he can graduate in three years instead of four and take a year off before he starts graduate school and I start college so we can work together with Greenpeace at saving the whales—he purposely only chose classes that start after ten so he can sleep in.

You have to admire a man who is so good at planning ahead. I can barely even figure out what I’m going to have for lunch every day, so this is extremely impressive to me.

But Michael is an excellent planner. It would only have taken him about half an hour to move into his dorm at Columbia over the weekend (if the elevators hadn’t broken down), because he had everything so organized. I went with the rest of his family to help, and to see what his room was like, and to, you know, see him for the first time since getting back from Genovia, and all. I don’t know how much Columbia charges for its student housing, but I wasn’t very impressed. Michael’s room is very cinderblocky, with a view of an air shaft.

Not that Michael even cares. All he was concerned about was whether it had enough data jacks. He didn’t even look in the bathroom to see if it had one of those smelly vinyl shower curtains or the even smellier rubber ones (I looked for him: rubber one. Ew.).

Guys are so weird.

I didn’t meet his roommate because he hadn’t moved in yet, but the sign on the door said his name was Doo Pak Sun. I hope Doo Pak turns out to be nice and not allergic to cat hair or anything. Because I plan on being in their room a LOT.

Still, I felt bad for Lilly, on account of her not having a one true love and all, so I thought I’d try to cheer her up.

FTLOUIE: But it must be nice to have the apartment all to yourself now. I mean, isn’t that what you always wanted? No Michael to drink all the Sunny D and eat all the Honey Nut Cheerios?

WOMYNRULE: Whatever! Suddenly I have to do all MY chores AND Michael’s, too. And who do you think has to take care of Pavlov now?

FTLOUIE: Like Michael’s not paying you.

WOMYNRULE: Only twenty bucks a week. Hello, I worked it out, and that is only like a dollar a pooper-scooperful.

FTLOUIE: TMI!!!!!!!!!!!!

WOMYNRULE: Whatever. I suppose you LOVE scooping up after Fat Louie.

FTLOUIE: Fat Louie’s poops are cute, just like he is. Same with Rocky’s.

WOMYNRULE: Um, NOW who is giving TMI, baby-licker?

FTLOUIE: I am choosing to ignore that. Hey, do you think the part in Dr. Gupta’s letter about not wearing shorts beneath your school skirt is because Lana always wore Josh’s lacrosse uniform shorts under her skirt last year? You know, to show that Josh was her property?

WOMYNRULE: I don’t know and I don’t care. Listen, about tomorrow—

FTLOUIE: What?

WOMYNRULE: Never mind. Sleep tight.

FTLOUIE: ??????????????

WOMYNRULE: terminated

Seriously. I can already tell that being a sophomore is not exactly going to be a picnic.Tuesday, September 8, Homeroom

OH MY GOD.

So I thought it was going to be so depressing to be back here. I mean, because school totally sucks anyway, but without Michael, it’s REALLY going to suck.

And it WAS kind of sad to pull up in front of Lilly’s building this morning and not see Michael there waiting for me, his neck all pinkly shaved. Instead there was just Lilly, not wearing any makeup and with her hair in ten thousand barrettes and her glasses on instead of contacts. Because now that Lilly has lost her one true love to another, she barely bothers to Make an Effort. Grandmère would be APPALLED.

And, hello, I have even less reason than Lilly does to look good, but at least I washed my hair this morning. I mean, I still have a boyfriend, he’s just going to another school. Lilly’s the one who has yet to meet the man of her dreams.

Who is going to run from her the way people ran from Britney’s last album if she doesn’t at least TRY to look a little more attractive.

But I didn’t mention this to her, because it’s not the kind of thing anyone wants to hear first thing in the morning.

Besides, as Lilly put it, we both have PE first thing. Why shower BEFORE PE when you’re just going to have to shower again after?

Which is a good point.

Except that I think Lilly sort of regretted her decision not to bathe pre-PE when we stepped out of the limo in front of school and there was Tina Hakim Baba stepping out of HER limo. And Tina was all, “Oh, my God! It’s so good to see you guys!” tactfully not mentioning anything about Lilly’s glasses or hair, and we were hugging when this guy walked up and at first I was like, Whoa, hottie alert, because even though I’m taken, I’m not DEAD, you know, and he was so big and tall and blond and everything…

…until he reached out and took Tina’s hand and I realized he was BORIS PELKOWSKI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BORIS PELKOWSKI GOT HOT OVER THE SUMMER!!!!!!!

I know it sounds completely insane but there really is no other way to put it. Tina says Boris’s violin teacher told him he’d have more stamina and play better if he started lifting weights, and so he did, and he must have put on, like, thirty pounds of pure unadulterated muscle.

Plus, he had laser surgery to correct his myopia so he wouldn’t have to keep pushing up his glasses as he plays.

Also, he got rid of his bionater and must have grown, like, two inches or maybe more because now he’s as tall as Lars and almost as wide in the shoulders.

Plus, his hair has these blond highlights in it—Tina says from the sun in the Hamptons.

Seriously, it’s like he got one of those Queer Eye makeovers or something.

Except they left out the part about not tucking his sweater into his pants. That’s the only way I recognized him. Well, that, and he still breathes from his mouth. Seriously, I was all, “Hi, who are—BORIS?”

But MY astonishment was NOTHING compared to LILLY’S! She stared at him for, like, a whole minute after he was all, “Oh, hey, hi, you guys”—even his VOICE has changed. It’s sort of deeper now, like that kid’s who plays Harry Potter in the movies.

When Lilly heard it, then turned around and recognized him, she kind of sucked in her cheeks…

…and just headed into school without a word.

But then when I saw her in the Ladies’ just before the bell rang, she’d put on some lipgloss and had slipped her contacts in and taken some of the barrettes out.

As soon as Lilly was gone, I totally grabbed Tina and was all, “OH, MY GOD, WHAT DID YOU DO TO BORIS????” but in a whisper in her ear because I didn’t want Boris to hear.

But Tina swears she had nothing to do with it. Also, she said not to say anything in front of Boris about it, because he totally hasn’t realized yet that he’s hot. Tina is trying to keep him from finding out about his new hotness because she’s afraid that as soon as he does he’ll dump her for someone thin.

Except that Boris would never do anything like that because you can see the lovelight for Tina shining in his eyes every time he looks her way. Especially now that he doesn’t have those thick lenses.

Geez! Who knew someone could change so much in just a couple of months?

Although, come to think of it, Tina might have a point because with last year’s senior class gone, there are a LOT of totally gorgeous girls who are completely boyfriendless now. Like Lana Weinberger, for instance. Not that I think Boris would EVER go for Lana, but I totally saw her giving him the Hey! Come over here finger crook over by the water fountain before she figured out who he was and instead of crooking her finger, pretended to be sticking it down her throat like she was barfing at the sight of him.

So I guess SOME people haven’t changed over the summer.

Shameeka says she heard that Lana and Josh are totally over. Apparently their love could not withstand the test of distance, since Lana spent her summer at her family’s house in East Hampton and Josh was in Southampton and the four miles between the two was just too much, especially with him leaving for Yale in the fall and thong bikini bottoms being very popular in Long Island this summer.

Excuse me. Four miles is nothing. Try four THOUSAND. That’s how far Genovia is from New York, and Michael and I still managed to see each other over the summer.

Poor, poor Lana. I feel so sorry for her. NOT. For the first time in my life, I have a boyfriend and Lana doesn’t. It is unprincesslike to gloat over the misfortunes of others, but TEE HEE.

Another plus about Josh being gone is that I can actually get INTO my locker this year, since he and Lana aren’t splayed up against it with their tongues in each other’s mouths.

Although I do have to say that the guy who’s been assigned Josh’s old locker is pretty good-looking. He must be an exchange student because I’ve never seen him before. But he can’t be a freshman because he’s got razor stubble. At eight in the morning. Also, when he said, “So sorry,” after accidentally sloshing some of his grande latte onto my boot while he was wrestling a gym bag into his locker, he fully had a South American accent, like that guy Audrey Hepburn was going to run off with in that movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s before she came to her senses (or lost her mind, in Grandmère’s opinion).

This is so BORING, sitting here listening to announcement after announcement. There’s an assembly this afternoon, so we’ve got an abbreviated seventh period. Who cares? Mr. G (FRANK. FRANK.) looks as tired as I feel. I swear, I love Rocky with every fiber of my being—almost as much as I love Fat Louie, even—but the lungs on that kid! Seriously, he will NOT stop crying unless someone sings to him.

Which is okay during waking hours, because ever since I saw Crossroads I’ve been kind of worried, you know, about what I’m going to sing if I ever have to do karaoke to earn motel money on a road trip, and so Rocky’s obsession with song gives me a good opportunity to practice. I really think I’ve got “Milkshake” down pat, and I’m working on “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” by Shania Twain.

But when he starts up with the crying thing in the middle of the night…whoa. I love him, but even I, the baby-licker—which is SO not fair of Lilly to call me, because I have NOT licked all of Rocky’s fur off like that red panda on Animal Planet did to HER baby—just want to stuff a pillow over my head and ignore it.

Only I can’t. Because everyone else in the loft is doing that. Because Mom’s theory is that we’re just spoiling him, picking him up and singing every time he cries.

But my theory is that he wouldn’t cry if there weren’t something wrong. Like what if his blanket has gotten wrapped around his neck and he’s CHOKING???? If no one goes in to check, he could be DEAD by morning!

So, I have to drag myself out of bed and sing the fastest song I know to him—“Yes U Can” by Jewel—and then as soon as he dozes off dive back into my own bed and try to fall back asleep before he starts up again—

OOOOH! My cell phone just buzzed! It’s a text message from Michael!

GOOD LUCK 2DAY. LOVE, M

He got up early just to wish me luck!!!! Could there BE a better boyfriend?Tuesday, September 8, PE

I understand that obesity is epidemic in the U.S. and all of that. I know that the average American is ten pounds heavier than their BMI says they should be, and that we all need to walk more and eat less.

But, seriously, is any of that an excuse for forcing teenage girls to have to CHANGE CLOTHES, much less SHOWER, in front of one another? I so think not.

Like it’s not enough that I even have to TAKE physical education. And it’s not enough that I have to take it FIRST THING IN THE MORNING. And it’s not enough that I have to STRIP DOWN IN FRONT OF VIRTUAL STRANGERS.

No, I also have to do it in front of Miss Lana Weinberger. Who also happens to have first period PE.

And who took the liberty of pointing out in front of everyone, as we were changing into our gym clothes before class, that she “really liked” my Queen Amidala panties—which I only wore for good luck on my first day back to class, although evidently they don’t work anymore—in a tone that suggested she did not like them at all.

And then she wanted to know if Genovia was suffering from an economic crisis, since its royals seemed to be shopping for their underwear at Target. As if all of us can afford to get our underwear from Agent Provocateur like Lana and Britney Spears!

I hate her.

Lilly told me not to worry about it…that Lana will be “getting what she deserves” shortly.

Whatever that means.Tuesday, September 8, English

M—Could she be any cuter?—Tina

I know! When is the last time we had a teacher who wore anything that wasn’t corduroy?

Totally! And her hair! That flippy thing it does on the ends!

That is so how I want my hair. So Chloe on Smallville.

I know! And her glasses!

Cat’s-eye! With rhinestones! Could she be more Karen O?

Who’s Karen O?

Lead singer for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

Oh, right. I was thinking Maggie Gyllenhall.

I think it’s Gylenhaal.

I think maybe it’s Gellynhaal.

OH, MY GOD, YOU IDIOTS, IT’S GYLLENHAAL! WOULD YOU TWO STOP PASSING NOTES AND FREAKING PAY ATTENTION? DO YOU WANT TO ALIENATE THE ONE TEACHER WHO ACTUALLY MIGHT TURN OUT TO BE ABLE TO TEACH US SOMETHING USEFUL?????—L

What’s Lilly’s problem today?

Um. I don’t know, exactly. PMS?

Oh, sure. Anyway. So Maggie’s brother’s the one who went out with Kirsten Dunst, right?

RIGHT!

So cute!!!!!!!!!! Tuesday, September 8, Geometry

Okay.

I can do this. I can totally do this.

Converse:

The converse of a conditional statement is formed by interchanging its hypothesis and conclusion.

Contrapositive:

The contrapositive of a conditional statement is formed by interchanging its hypothesis and conclusion, then denying both.

Inverse:

The inverse of a conditional statement is formed by denying both its hypothesis and conclusion.

So:

Logically equivalent:

A conditional statement: a b

The contrapositive of the statement: not b not a

Logically equivalent:

The converse of the statement: b a

The inverse of the statement: not a not b

I’m sorry. WHAT?

Okay, once again, I have managed to prove to be the exception to the rule. If people who are bad at Algebra are supposed to be good at Geometry, then I should be the Stephen Freaking Hawking of Geometry, but guess what? I don’t understand a WORD of this.

Plus, Mr. Harding? Yeah, could he BE any meaner? He already made Trisha Hayes cry over her isosceles triangles, and that’s virtually impossible, since she’s one of Lana Weinberger’s cronies, and also I’m pretty sure she’s a female cyborg like in Terminator 3.

He’s being totally nice to me, but that’s just because one of his colleagues is my stepdad. Oh, and the princess thing, of course. Sometimes it actually doesn’t hurt to have a six-foot-five-inch Swedish bodyguard sitting behind you.

Euler diagram = relate two or more conditional statements to each other by representing them as circlesTuesday, September 8, French

Oh, well. At least I have ONE good teacher. Ms. Martinez is SO cool. It’s so nice to have a teacher who is still close enough to our age to know about stuff like rubber spike bracelets and The OC.

As Ms. Martinez was collecting our writing samples on how we spent our summers, she was like, “And I just want you guys to know that you can come to me with questions about anything, not just English. I really want to get to know all of you as PEOPLE, not just as my students. So if there’s anything—anything at all—you want to talk about, feel free to stop by. There is an open-door policy in my classroom, and I will always be here for you.”

Whoa! A teacher at Albert Einstein High who doesn’t disappear into the teachers’ lounge the minute class is over? Unbelievable!

Except I sort of wonder how long Ms. Martinez is going to hang on to her open-door policy, because as I was leaving I noticed, like, ten people scurrying up to her desk to talk to her about their personal problems. Lilly was totally the first one in line.

I hope Ms. Martinez counsels Lilly just to let the whole Boris thing go. I didn’t want to say anything to Tina, but her boyfriend’s summer transformation into a hottie is fully why Lilly is wigging out today, not PMS like I told Tina. It must totally suck to see the guy you dumped transformed into Orlando Bloom before your very eyes.

If Orlando Bloom had no fashion sense and breathed from his mouth, I mean.

I hope Lilly doesn’t wear Ms. Martinez out so much that she doesn’t have time to read our writing samples tonight. Because I’m sure that when she’s done with mine, she’s going to want to submit it to a literary agent or something and get me a book deal. I realize fifteen is pretty young to have a multi-book deal with a major publishing house, but I’ve handled the princess thing pretty well so far. I’m sure I could handle a couple of book deadlines.

Mia—The new kid, second row from door, three seats down. Boy or girl?—Shameeka

Boy. He’s wearing pants!

Hello. So am I. I forgot to shave my legs this morning.

Oh. OH.

Yeah. See what I mean?

Well, what’s his/her name?

Perin. At least that’s what Mademoiselle Klein said when she called roll.

Is Perin a boy’s name or girl’s name?

I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.

Wait, I wasn’t paying attention during roll. Did

Mademoiselle Klein say Per-ran or Per-reen? Because if she’s a girl, it would be Per-reen in French, right?

Yeah, but Mademoiselle Klein doesn’t call roll in French. She just said Perin in English with no accent.

So in other words…this is a mystery.

Totally. I just want to know whether or not to think he’s cute.

Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll keep an eye on him/her, and see which bathroom he/she goes into before lunch. Because everyone goes to the bathroom before lunch to put on lip gloss.

But not boys.

Exactly. If he doesn’t go to the bathroom, he’s a boy, and then you can like him.

But what if he’s a girl who just doesn’t wear lip gloss?

Argh! Mysteries are okay in books, but in real life, they kind of suck.Tuesday, September 8, Gifted and Talented

WHY? WHY WHY WHY did I think this year was going to be better—in spite of Michael not being around—than last year, just because at least Lana and Josh wouldn’t be making out in front of my locker?

Because the thing is, when Josh was around, Lana was DISTRACTED, and not actively seeking out targets to destroy.

But now that there’s no man in her life, she has ample free time to torture me again. Like today at lunch, for instance.

It was all my fault in the first place for being greedy and going back to the jet line for a second ice-cream sandwich. Really, one ice-cream sandwich ought to be enough for a girl my size.

But there was something wrong with the three-bean salad. You would think that with all the money the trustees invested in those surveillance cameras outside they’d have tossed just a LITTLE the cafeteria’s way so we could get something decent to eat in here besides frozen dairy products. But no. Lilly seems to have a point: Apparently finding out who is stubbing their cigarettes out on Joe’s head is more important than providing digestible sustenance for the student body.

So, I was standing there waiting to get my ice-cream sandwich when I heard this voice behind me say my name, and when I turned my head there were Lana and Trisha Hayes, who seemed to have recovered from Mr. Harding’s tongue-lashing—at least enough to join Lana in her quest to humiliate me publicly as often as possible.

“So, Mia,” Lana said, when I made the mistake of turning around. “Are you still going out with that guy? You know, that Michael guy, with the band?”

I should have known, of course. That Lana wasn’t trying to make up for all those years of being mean to me. I should have just put the ice-cream sandwich back and left the jet line then and there.

But I thought, I don’t know, that maybe she was sorry for the whole underwear remark from the locker room that morning. I thought—don’t ask me why—that maybe Lana really had changed over the summer, too, just like Boris. Only instead of changing on the outside, Lana had changed on the inside.

I should have known something like that would be impossible, since in order to have a change of heart, Lana would actually have to HAVE a heart in the first place, and she obviously does NOT, since when I said, cautiously, “Yeah, Michael and I are still going out,” she went, “Isn’t he in college now?”

And I said, “Yeah. He goes to Columbia,” kind of proudly, because, hello, at least MY boyfriend had chosen to go to a college in the same STATE as the one I live in, unlike Lana’s ex.

“Well, have you two done it yet?” Lana wanted to know, as casually as if she were asking me where I’d gotten my highlights done.

And I was like, “Done what?” because I SWEAR I had no idea what she was talking about. I mean, who ASKS people things like that????

And Lana went, “IT, you idiot,” and looked at Trisha and the two of them started laughing hysterically.

That’s when I realized what she meant.

I swear I could FEEL my face turning red. Seriously. It must have turned as red as Lana’s nail polish.

And then before I could stop myself I went, “NO, OF COURSE NOT!” in a very shocked voice.

Because I WAS very shocked. I mean, this is a topic I barely discuss with my best FRIENDS. I certainly never expected to be discussing it with my MORTAL ENEMY. In the JET LINE.

But before I had a chance to recover from my paralyzing astonishment, Lana went on.

“Well, if you want to hang on to him, you’d better hurry up,” she said, while Trisha giggled behind her. “Because guys in college expect their girlfriends to Do It.”

Guys in college expect their girlfriends to Do It.

That is what Lana said to me. In the JET LINE.

Then, as I stood there staring at her in total and complete horror, Lana poked me in the back and went, “Are you going to buy that, or are you just going to stand there?” and I realized the line had moved up so that I was standing in front of the cashier with my ice-cream sandwich melting in my hand.

So, I handed the cashier my dollar and went back to my table with Lilly and Boris and Tina and Shameeka and Ling Su and just sat there not saying anything until the bell rang.

And no one even noticed.

Guys in college expect their girlfriends to Do It.

Can this possibly be true? I mean, I have seen a lot of movies and TV shows where guys in college seem to expect their girlfriends to Do It. Such as MTV’s Fraternity Life and Spring Break. And Revenge of the Nerds.

But the guys in those movies and shows had girlfriends who were in college, too. None of them were going out with sophomores in high school. Who will shortly be flunking Geometry. Who happen to be princesses of small European principalities. Who have six-foot-five bodyguards.

Oh, my God, is Michael expecting to have SEX with me??? NOW????

Naturally, I assumed we would have sex ONE DAY. But I thought ONE DAY was way, way in the future. As far into the future as the day we go out to sea together to stop those whaling ships for Greenpeace. I mean, we have only been to second base ONCE and that was at the prom and I’m pretty sure now it wasn’t even on purpose and I didn’t even FEEL anything because of my strapless bra having way too much metal in it.

Am I supposed to believe that all this time I have been supposed to be getting ready to DO IT? But I am NOT ready to DO IT. I don’t think. I mean, I don’t even want Michael to see me in a BATHING SUIT let alone NAKED—

OH, MY GOD!!!! Last night he asked me to come over on Saturday to see how he and Doo Pak have set up their dorm room!!!!

WHAT IF THAT WAS REALLY AN INVITATION TO COME OVER AND DO IT AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW IT BECAUSE I AM SO UNSKILLED IN THE WAYS OF LOVE?????

What am I going to do about this? Clearly, I need to talk to someone. But WHO? I can’t talk to Lilly, because Michael’s her BROTHER. And I can’t talk to Tina, because she already told me the most precious gift a woman can give to a man is the flower of her virginity and that’s why she’s saving herself for Prince William, who is only allowed to marry a virgin.

She says she will settle for giving her flower to Boris if the Prince William thing doesn’t work out by the time our senior prom rolls around, though.

I can’t talk to my MOTHER about it, because she can barely concentrate on the things she’s SUPPOSED to be concentrating on—like raising my baby brother—as it is, without the added distraction of her teenaged daughter wanting to talk to her about sex.

Besides, I know what she’ll do: She’ll schedule an appointment for me with her gynecologist. Excuse me, but EW.

And obviously I can’t say a word to Dad, because he would just arrange to have Michael assassinated by the Royal Genovian Guard.

And Grandmère would just pat me on the head and then tell every single person she knows.

Who does that leave? I’ll tell you who:

MICHAEL. I am going to have to talk to MICHAEL about having sex with MICHAEL.

What am I, NUTS??? I can’t talk to a BOY about SEX!!!! Particularly not THAT BOY!!!!

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO????????????

Oh, my God, I think I’m having a heart attack. Seriously. My heart is beating, like, a million times a minute and practically exploding out of my chest. I think I have to go to the nurse. I think I have to—

Mrs. Hill just asked me if I’m all right. Since it’s the first day of class, she is pretending like she actually intends to supervise us this year. She made us all fill out a form stating what our goal for the semester is. You know, in this class. I peeked at Boris’s and he’d written, “To learn Antonin Dvorák’s Violin Concerto in A minor by heart and win a Grammy like my hero, Joshua Bell.”

Frankly, I don’t think that’s a very realistic goal. But Boris is almost as hot as Joshua Bell now, so maybe it really is doable. If hotness counts to the Grammy judges.

I tried to peek at Lilly’s goal, but she is being way secretive. She put her hand over her paper and went, “Back off, baby-licker,” to me in a very rude way.

I doubt she would be so mean if she knew the intense emotional maelstrom currently swirling within me concerning the future of my relationship with her brother.

Since I didn’t know what to put as my goal—I don’t even know why I’m IN this class this semester—I just wrote down, “To write a novel, and to not flunk Geometry.”

I can’t believe Mrs. Hill noticed that I was having a heart attack. She never used to notice anything we did. Well, that’s because she was always locked in the teachers’ lounge. But still.

I told her I’m fine.

But the truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever be fine again, thanks to Lana.Tuesday, September 8, U.S. Government

THEORIES OF GOVERNMENT: DIVINE RIGHT—Creation of gov. is divine intervention in human affairs. Religious and secular were interwoven. People were far less likely to criticize a government created by God.

In Christian civilization, kings maintained that with the blessing of the Church, the monarch was the legitimate ruler.

Um, hello, except in Genovia, where the king of Italy, not God, gave the throne to my ancestress Rosagunde because of her bravery in the field of battle. Or the bedroom, I guess, considering that’s where she killed her people’s mortal enemy, Alboin. It is good to know that at least one of my family members excelled in something bedroom-related, since I have a feeling I’m going to be sadly lacking in that area, as I don’t even like to look at MYSELF naked, let alone permit anyone ELSE to look at me.

John Locke, a 17th-century philosopher, opposed Divine Right. He and others said: Government is legitimate only to the extent that it is based on the consent of the people being governed.

Ha! Good for you, John Locke! Psych on all you kings and pharaohs, going around saying GOD put you on the throne! IN YOUR FACE!!!!Tuesday, September 8, Earth Science

Great. As if my day hasn’t been bad enough. Guess who I have to sit by in this class this semester? Well, let’s see, what letter of the alphabet comes right before T? That’s right, S. Kenny Showalter.

Seriously. Did I stumble into some bad karma today or WHAT?

Apparently, Boris isn’t the only one who grew over the summer. Kenny also sprouted up a couple more inches. Except that Kenny doesn’t appear to have been doing any sort of weight training. So he just looks like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz instead of Legolas.

Minus the pointy ears, of course.

Unlike the Scarecrow, though, Kenny actually has a brain. So he remembers all too well that the two of us used to go out. And that I dumped him for Michael. Well, technically, Kenny dumped ME. A fact of which he seems all too eager to remind me. He just went, “Mia, I hope you can put aside your personal feelings about me and allow us to work together in a professional manner this semester.”

I said I thought I could. The thing is, if I were still going out with Kenny, and Lana said something about him expecting me to DO IT with him, I’d have just laughed in her face.

But Michael is different.

The other thing is, what does Lana even know about college boys? I mean, she’s never even gone out with one! She could be totally wrong about Michael. TOTALLY WRONG.

I wish I had thought of saying this to her back in the jet line.

Kenny just asked me if I intended to spend this semester writing in my journal during class and then expect him to do all the work like I did when we were lab partners in Bio last year. Excuse me. I think someone is rewriting history here. I did NOT write in my journal during class last year.

Well, okay, maybe I did. But Kenny OFFERED to do all the lab work for me. And write it up afterward. I mean, he LIKES that kind of thing. And he’s good at it, too.

If everybody would just concentrate on their own personal strengths, the world would be a much better place.

I guess I’d better stop writing now or Kenny will think I’m taking advantage of him. And then maybe he will expect me to DO IT with him to make up for it.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ORBITAL MECHANICS—

SYSTEMATIC LONG-TERM CHANGES

1. Shape of orbit not constant circle—extreme ellipse over 100,000 years

2. Angle of tilt of axis varies—wobbles from 22 degrees to 24 degrees 30 over 48,400 years

3. Precession—21,000 years

HOMEWORK

PE: no assignment

Geometry: exercises, pages 11–13

English: pages 4–14, Strunk and White

French: écrivez une histoire

G&T: n/a

U.S. Government: What is the basis for Divine Right theory of gov?

Earth Science: section 1, define perigee/apogeeTuesday, September 8, Assembly

There really ought to be some kind of constitutional amendment to abolish high school convocations. Seriously.

Because not only are they a huge waste of school resources (How many times can you sit and listen to some paralyzed dude talk about how he wished he’d never driven drunk? Hello, we KNOW.), but I’m also beginning to think convocations are just an excuse for teachers to take a break from teaching. I fully saw Mrs. Hill sneaking a cigarette outside the gym doors just now. I guess the front of the school isn’t the only place where we need surveillance cameras.

And any time you get a thousand teens in one room together, you just know there’s going to be trouble. Principal Gupta already had to yell at the varsity girls’ lacrosse team for throwing Swedish fish at the kids from the Drama Club, who weren’t even doing anything, for once. Except, you know, looking weird, with their dyed black hair and facial piercings.

And I saw a couple members of the Computer Club sneak beneath the bleachers just now. They had expressions on their faces I can only describe as diabolical. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out they’re down there unpacking their killer robot and programming it to unleash a reign of terror upon the world.

Principal Gupta is telling us how happy she is to have us all back. Lilly’s hand just shot up. Principal Gupta said, “Not now, Lilly,” and just went right on talking. Lilly is now muttering to herself beside me.

Tina, on my other side, is playing hangman with Boris. So far she only has the letter E right and has already earned a head and body. The spaces are:

__ __ __ __ __ __ __ E __ __

I can’t believe she can’t figure it out. But I’m not helping. Because what she does with her boyfriend is her own business. Just like what I do with MY boyfriend is MY own business. Or at least it WOULD be my business if, in fact, I was doing anything with him. Which I’m not. Which is apparently a huge problem, bound to lead to his breaking up with me for some college girl who WILL Do It with him.

But why SHOULDN’T I Do It with him? People Do It all the time. I mean, I wouldn’t be here if my mom and dad hadn’t—

Oh, great, now I feel like barfing. Why did I have to think about that? My mom and dad Doing It. Ew. Ew ew ew ew ew ew. That’s even worse than the thought of my mom and Mr. G—

Okay, now I’m TOTALLY going to barf. EWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!

Now Principal Gupta is talking about the wonderful extracurriculars that exist at Albert Einstein High, and how we should all really try to take advantage of them. Lilly put her hand up again, but Principal Gupta just said, “Not now, Lilly.” Nobody else is paying any attention.

Tina got another letter. Now the spaces go:

__ __ __ __ __ A __ E __ __

But Boris has added two arms to his hangman. Why doesn’t Tina try the letter L? This is so aggravating.

Now Principal Gupta is introducing the different student groups to show how many extracurriculars AEHS has to offer. It turns out the other new guy, who got assigned Josh’s old locker and who spilled his latte on my boot, is an exchange student from Brazil named Ramon Riveras. He is going to be on the soccer team.

That ought to make all the soccer moms very happy. Especially if after he wins, he whips off his shirt and swings it around his head the way Josh used to.

Ramon is sitting with Lana and Trisha and all the rest of the popular people. How did he know? I mean, he isn’t even FROM this country. How could he know who the popular people even are, let alone that he’s one of them, and should sit with them? Is this something popular people are just born with? Something they know innately?

Now Principal Gupta is talking about student council, and how we should all be eager to join, and what a wonderful opportunity it is to show your school spirit, and how it also looks good on your transcript. She is almost making it seem as if anybody who wanted to could run for student council and win. Which is so bogus, because everyone knows only popular people ever win elections for student council. Lilly ran last year and didn’t win. The person who beat her wasn’t even smart. No, last year she got soundly defeated by Nancy di Blasi, captain of the varsity cheerleading squad (Lana Weinberger’s mentor in evil), a girl who spent way more time organizing bake sales so that the cheerleaders could get a well-deserved trip to Six Flags than she did lobbying for real student reforms.

“Do we have any nominations for student council president?” Principal Gupta wants to know. Lilly’s hand just shot up. Principal Gupta is ignoring it this time.

“Anyone?” Principal G keeps asking. “Anyone at all?”

Tina just said, to Boris, “Um, gee, let me see. Is there a Y?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I can no longer help myself. Maybe it’s the looming threat of defloration. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t get to play hangman during school hours with the love of my life anymore. In any event, I went, “It’s JOSHUA BELL, okay? JOSHUA BELL!”

Tina’s all, “Ooooooh! You’re right!”

Ramon Riveras is laughing at something Lana has whispered in his ear.

Lilly’s waving her arm around like a crazy person. Hers is the only hand in the air. Finally, Principal Gupta has no choice but to go, “Lilly. We discussed this last year. You can’t nominate yourself for student council president. Someone has to nominate you.”

Lilly stands up, and out of her mouth come the words, “I’m not nominating myself this year. I NOMINATE MIA THERMOPOLIS!!!”Tuesday, September 8, in the limo on the way to the Plaza Hotel

Seriously. Why am I even friends with her?Tuesday, September 8, the Plaza

First princess lesson of the new school year, and—thank God—Grandmère is tied up by a phone call. She just snapped her fingers at me and pointed at the coffee table in the middle of her suite. I went over there and found all these faxes all over it, letters of complaint from various members of the French scientific community and Monaco’s oceanographic institute.

Huh. I guess they’re kind of mad about the snails.

Whatever! Like I don’t have WAY bigger problems right now than a bunch of angry marine biologists. Hello, apparently, if I want to keep my boyfriend, I have to Do It. As if that’s not bad enough, I’ve been nominated for STUDENT COUNCIL PRESIDENT.

I honestly don’t know what Lilly was thinking. Could she REALLY have thought I’d just sit there and be all, “Student council president? Oh, okay. Sure. Because, you know, I’m the only heir to the throne of an entire foreign country. It’s not like I don’t have anything else to do.”

WHATEVER!!! I fully grabbed her arm and pulled it down and was all, “LILLY, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING????” under my breath, since, of course, every single head in the entire gym had swiveled in our direction and everyone was staring at us, including Perin and Ramon Riveras and the guy who hates it when they put corn in the chili who I thought had graduated. But I guess not.

“Don’t worry,” Lilly whispered back. “I’ve got a plan.”

Apparently, part of Lilly’s plan was to kick Ling Su in the shin very very hard until she squeaked, “Um, I do, Principal Gupta,” when Principal Gupta asked in a confused voice, “Does, uh, anyone second that nomination?”

I couldn’t believe this was even happening. It was like a nightmare, only worse, because that guy who hates corn in his chili is never in my nightmares.

“But I—” I started to protest, but then Lilly kicked ME really hard in the shin.

“Ms. Thermopolis accepts the nomination!” Lilly called down to Principal Gupta.

Who totally didn’t look as if she believed it. But who went, “Well. If you’re sure, Mia,” anyway, without waiting for any response from me.

Next thing I knew, Trisha Hayes had jumped to her feet and was screaming, “I nominate Lana Weinberger for student council president!”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” Principal Gupta said, when Ramon Riveras seconded Trisha’s nomination of Lana—but only after Lana elbowed him…pretty hard, it looked like, from where I was sitting. “Do any members of the junior or senior classes care to enter a nomination? No? Your apathy is duly noted. Fine then. Mia Thermopolis and Lana Weinberger are your nominees for student council president. Ladies, I trust you’ll run a good clean election. Voting will be next Monday.”

And that was that. I’m running for student council president. Against Lana Weinberger.

My life is over.

Lilly kept saying it’s not. Lilly kept saying she has a plan. Lana running against me wasn’t part of that plan—“I can’t believe she’s doing that,” Lilly said as we were filing out of school after Assembly. “I mean, she’s only doing it because she’s jealous.”—but Lilly says it doesn’t matter, because everyone hates Lana, so no one will vote for her.

Everyone does NOT hate Lana. Lana is one of the most popular girls in school. Everyone will vote for her.

“But, Mia, you’re pure and good of heart,” Boris pointed out to me. “People who are pure and good of heart always beat out evil.”

Um, yeah. In books like The Lord of the Rings, for crying out loud.

And the fact that I’m so pure? That’s probably why I’m about to lose my boyfriend.

And I think there are many historical examples of people who are very clearly NOT good of heart winning more elections than not.

“You’re not going to have to lift a finger,” Lilly said, as Lars helped me into the limo to Grandmère’s. “I’ll be your campaign manager. I’ll take care of everything. And don’t worry. I have a plan!”

I don’t know why Lilly thinks her constant assurances that she has a plan are in any way comforting to me. In fact, the opposite is true.

Grandmère just hung up the phone.

“Well,” she says. She’s already on her second Sidecar since I got here. “I hope you’re satisfied. The entire Mediterranean community is up in arms about that little stunt you pulled.”

“Not everybody.” I found two very supportive faxes in the pile and showed them to her.

“Pfuit!” was all Grandmère said. “Who cares what some fishermen have to say? They aren’t exactly experts on the matter.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but they happen to be Genovian fishermen. My countrymen. And isn’t my first obligation to protect the interests of my countrymen?”

“Not at the expense of straining diplomatic relations with your neighbors.” Grandmère’s lips are pressed so tightly together, they’re practically disappearing. “That was the prime minister of France, and he—”

Thank God the phone rang again. This is pretty awesome. I’d have dumped ten thousand snails into the Bay of Genovia a long time ago if I’d had any idea doing so would get me out of having princess lessons.

Although it kind of sucks that everyone is so mad.

Geez. I knew all about the French, of course. But who knew marine biologists were so TOUCHY?

But seriously, what was I supposed to do, sit around and LET killer algae destroy the livelihoods of families who for centuries made their living off the sea? Not to mention innocent creatures such as seals and porpoises whose very survival depends on ready access to the kelp beds the Caulerpa taxifolia are totally strangling? Could anyone really imagine that I would allow an environmental disaster of those proportions to occur under my very nose, in my own bay—me, Mia Thermopolis?—when I knew of a way (albeit only theoretical) to stop it?

“That was your father,” Grandmère said after slamming down the phone. “He is extremely distraught. He just heard from the Oceanographic Museum & Aquarium in Monaco. Apparently, some of your snails have drifted over to their bay.”

“Good.” I kind of like this environmentalist rebel thing. It keeps my mind off other stuff. Like that my boyfriend is going to dump me if I don’t put out. And that I am currently running against the most popular girl in school for student council president.

“Good?” Grandmère jumped up out of her seat so fast, she totally dumped Rommel, her toy poodle, off her lap. Fortunately Rommel is used to this kind of treatment and has trained himself to land on his feet, like a cat. “Good? Amelia, I don’t pretend to understand any of this—all of this fuss over a little plant and some snails. But I would think you of all people would know that”—she picked up one of the faxes and read aloud from it—“‘When you introduce a new species into a foreign environment, total devastation can occur.’”

“Tell that to Monaco,” I said. “They’re the ones who dumped South American algae into the Mediterranean in the first place. All I did was dump South American snails in after it to clean up THEIR mess.”

“Have you learned NOTHING from what I’ve tried to teach you this past year, Amelia?” Grandmère wants to know. “Nothing of tact, or diplomacy, or even SIMPLE COMMON SENSE?”

“I GUESS NOT!!!!”

Okay, I probably shouldn’t have screamed that quite as loudly as I did. But seriously, WHEN is she going to GET OFF MY BACK????? Can’t she see I have WAY BIGGER THINGS to worry about than what a bunch of stupid FRENCH MARINE BIOLOGISTS have to say????

Now she’s giving me the evil eye. “Well?”

That’s what she said. Just “Well?”

And even though I know I’m going to regret it—how can I not?—I go, “Well…what?”

“Well, are you going to tell me what’s got you so frazzled?” she wants to know. “Don’t try denying it, Amelia. You are as bad at hiding your true feelings as your father. What happened at school today that’s got you so upset?”

Yeah. Like I’m really going to discuss my love life with Grandmère.

Although I have to say that the last time I did this—with the whole prom thing—Grandmère gave me some pretty kick-ass advice. I mean, it got me to the prom, didn’t it?

Still, how can I tell my GRANDMOTHER that I’m afraid if I don’t have sex with my boyfriend, he’s going to dump me?

“Lilly nominated me to be student council president,” I said, because I had to say SOMETHING, or she’d hound me into an early grave. She’s done it before.

“But that’s wonderful news!”

For a minute, I thought Grandmère was actually going to kiss me or something. But I totally ducked and she pretended like instead she was going to lean down and pat Rommel on the head. Which is maybe what she meant to do all along. Grandmère is not a very kissy person. At least with me. Rocky, she kisses all the time. And she is not even technically related to him.

I keep antibacterial wipes around for this very reason. To wipe Grandmère’s kisses off Rocky, I mean. There is no telling where Grandmère’s lips have been on any given day.

Anyway.

“It’s not wonderful!” I yelled at her. Why am I the only person who sees this? “I’m going to be running against Lana Weinberger! She’s the most popular girl in the whole school!”

Grandmère swirled the swizzle stick in her Sidecar.

“Really,” she said, thoughtfully. “Interesting turn of events. There’s no reason, however, that you shouldn’t be able to defeat this Shana person. You’re a princess, remember! What is she?”

“A cheerleader,” I said. “And it’s Lana, not Shana. And believe me, Grandmère, in the real world—such as high school—being a princess is NOT an advantage.”

“Nonsense,” Grandmère said. “Being a royal is ALWAYS beneficial.”

“Ha!” I said. “Tell that to Anastasia!” Who, you know, got shot for being royal.

But Grandmère was totally not paying attention to me anymore.

“A student election,” she was muttering to herself, looking far away. “Yes, that might be just the thing….”

“I’m glad you’re happy about it,” I said, not very graciously. “Because, you know, it’s not like I don’t have other things to worry about. Like I’m pretty sure I’m going to flunk Geometry. And then there’s the whole thing with dating a college boy…”

But Grandmère was totally off in her own little world.

“What day are votes cast?” Grandmère wanted to know.

“Monday.” I narrowed my eyes at her. I’d wanted to throw her off the Michael scent, but now I wasn’t so sure this had been such a good idea. She seemed WAY too into the election thing. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” Grandmère leaned over, scooped up all the snail faxes, and dropped them into the ornate gilt trash can by her desk. “Shall we proceed with your lesson for the day, Amelia? I believe a little brushing up on our public speaking techniques might be in order, given the circumstances.”

Seriously. Is it not enough I am burdened with a psychotic best friend? Must my grandmother be losing her mind AT THE EXACT SAME TIME????Tuesday, September 8, the loft

So as if this day hasn’t been long enough, when I got home just now, it was to find utter chaos reigning. Mom was bouncing a screaming Rocky in her arms, tearfully singing “My Sharona” to him, while Mr. G sat at the kitchen table, yelling into the phone.

I could tell right away something was wrong. Rocky hates “My Sharona.” Not that I would expect a woman who took her three-month-old to a protest rally where someone ended up throwing a trash can through a Starbucks window would remember which songs he likes and doesn’t like. But the “M-m-m-my” part actually makes him spit up, if you accompany it with jiggling, as my mom was doing, and she seemed oblivious to the white stuff all over her shoulder.

“What’s going on, Mom?” I asked.

Boy, did I get an earful.

“My mother,” Mom shouted, above Rocky’s screams. “She’s threatening to come here, with Papaw. Because she hasn’t seen the baby.”

“Um,” I said. “Okay. And that’s bad because…”

My mom just looked at me with her eyes all wide and crazy.

“Because she’s my MOTHER,” she shouted. “I do not want her coming here.”

“I see,” I said, as if this made sense. “So you’re—”

“Going there,” my mom finished, as Rocky’s screaming hit new decibels.

“No,” Mr. G was saying into the phone. “Two seats. Just two seats. The third person is an infant.”

“Mom,” I said, reaching out and taking Rocky from her, careful to avoid the spit-up still spewing from his mouth like lava from freaking Krakatoa. “Do you really think that’s such a good idea? Rocky’s a bit young for his first plane ride. I mean, all that recycled air. Someone with Ebola or something could sneeze and next thing you know, the whole plane could come down with it. And what about the farm? Didn’t you hear about all those school kids who got E. coli from that petting zoo in Jersey?”

“If it will keep my parents from coming here,” Mom said, “I’m willing to risk it. Do you have any idea what kind of minibar bill they racked up the time your father put them up at the SoHo Grand?”

“Okay,” I said, between verses of “Independent Woman,” which always has a soothing effect on Rocky. He is much more into R & B than rock. “So when are we going?”

“Not you,” Mom said. “Just Frank and me. And Rocky, of course. You can’t go. You have school. Frank’s taking a vacation day.”

I knew it had sounded too good to be true. Not the potential risks to my little brother’s health but, you know, that I might get to escape to Indiana, instead of facing election hell back at school and the potential breakup with my boyfriend.

Which reminded me.

“Um, Mom,” I said, as I followed her into Rocky’s room, where she’d apparently been engaged in putting away his clean laundry before Mamaw’s blow fell. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure.” Although my mom didn’t exactly sound like she was much in the mood to talk. “What?”

“Uh…” Well, she HAD told me once that I could talk to her about ANYTHING. “How old were you the first time you had sex?”

I fully expected her to say “I was in college,” but I guess she was so busy trying to cram all of Rocky’s MY MOMMY IS MAD AS HELL AND SHE VOTES onesies into his tiny dresser, that she didn’t think about what she was saying beforehand. She just went, “Oh, God, Mia, I don’t know. I must have been, what, about fifteen?”

And then it was like she realized what she’d just said and she sucked in her breath really fast and looked at me all wide-eyed and went, “NOT THAT I’M PROUD OF IT!!!”

Because she must have remembered at the same time I did that I am fifteen.

The next thing I knew, she was blathering a mile a minute.

“It was Indiana, Mia,” she cried. “It’s not like there was so much else to do. And it was, like, twenty years ago. It was the eighties! Things were different back then!”

“Hello,” I said, because I’ve fully seen every episode of I Love the 80s, including I Love the 80s Strikes Back. “Just because people wore leg warmers all the time—”

“I don’t mean that!” Mom cried. “I mean, people actually thought George Michael was straight. And that Madonna would be a one-hit wonder. Things were DIFFERENT then.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. Except, moronically, “I can’t believe you and Dad Did It for the first time when you were FIFTEEN.”

And then, noticing my mother’s expression, I was like, “Oh, my God. That’s right!” Because she didn’t even meet Dad until she was in college. “MOM!!! Who WAS it?”

“His name was Wendell,” my mom said, her eyes going all dreamy, either because Wendell had been a total hottie, or because Rocky had finally quit crying, and was instead drooling all over the lion patch on my uniform blazer, so that for once, the loft was filled with blissful silence. “Wendell Jenkins.”

WENDELL???? The man my mom gave the precious flower of her virginity to was named WENDELL????

I seriously would NOT have sex with someone named Wendell.

But then, I am having grave reservations about having sex with anyone, so my opinion probably isn’t worth much.

“Wow,” my mom said, still looking dreamy. “I haven’t thought of Wendell in ages. I wonder whatever happened to him.”

“You don’t KNOW?” I cried, loudly enough that Rocky kind of gave a little start in my arms. But he calmed down after a quick verse of Pink’s “Trouble.”

“Well, I mean, I know he graduated,” my mom said, quickly. “And I’m pretty sure he married April Pollack, but—”

“Oh, my GOD!” This was shocking. No wonder Mom is the way she is! “He was two-timing you????”

“No, no,” my mom said. “He started going out with April after he and I broke up.”

I nodded knowingly. “You mean he loved you and left you?” Just like Dave Farouq El-Abar and Tina Hakim Baba!

“No, Mia,” my mom said, with a laugh. “Good grief, you have an uncanny ability to turn everything into a country western song. I mean he and I went out, and it was great, but I eventually realized…well, I wanted out of Versailles, and he didn’t, so I left, and he stayed. And married April Pollack.”

Just like Dean married that other girl on Gilmore Girls!

“But…” I stared at my mom. “You loved him?”

“Of course I loved him,” my mom said. “Gosh, Wendell Jenkins. I haven’t thought of him in ages.”

GEEZ! I can’t believe my mother is not still in contact with the boy who relieved her of her virginity! What kind of school did she GO to back then, anyway?

“Why are you asking me all these questions, Mia?” my mom finally wanted to know. “Are you and Michael—”

“No,” I said, hastily shoving Rocky back into her arms.

“Mia, it’s perfectly all right if you want to talk to me about—”

“I don’t,” I said, fast. Real fast.

“Because if you—”

“I don’t,” I said again. “I have homework. Bye.”

And I went into my room and locked the door.

There must be something wrong with me. I’m serious. Because you could totally tell when Mom was remembering having sex with Wendell Jenkins, that she’d had a good time. Doing It. Everyone seems to have a good time Doing It. Like in movies and on TV and everything. Everyone seems to think Doing It is just, like, the pinnacle of experiences.

Everyone except for me. Why am I the only person who, when she thinks about Doing It, feels nothing but…sweaty? And not in a good way. This can’t be a normal reaction. This has to be yet another genetic anomaly in my makeup, like absence of mammary glands and size-ten feet. I am totally lacking in the Do It gene.

I mean, I WANT to Do It. I mean, I guess that’s what I want, you know, when Michael and I are kissing, and I smell his neck, and I get that feeling like I want to jump on him. Surely this is an indication that I want to Do It.

Except that to Do It you actually have to take your CLOTHES OFF. In FRONT OF THE OTHER PERSON. I mean, unless you’re one of those Orthodox Jews who do it through a hole in the sheet like Barbra Streisand in Yentl.

And I do not think I am ready to TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF in front of Michael. It is bad enough taking them off in front of Lana Weinberger in the locker room first thing in the morning. I don’t think I could ever take them off in front of a BOY. Especially not a boy I am actually in love with and hope to marry someday, if he ever asks me and if I ever get over this whole spastic not-wanting-to-take-my-clothes-off-in-front-of-him thing.

Although, I definitely wouldn’t mind seeing Michael with HIS clothes off.

Is this a double standard?

I wonder if my mom felt the same about Wendell Jenkins. She MUST have, or she wouldn’t have Done It with him.

And yet here she is, more than twenty years later, and she doesn’t even know where he IS now.

Wait, I bet I could find him. I could do a Yahoo! People search!

OH, MY GOD!!! HERE HE IS!!!! WENDELL JENKINS!!! I mean, there’s no picture, but he works for…OH, MY GOD, HE WORKS FOR THE VERSAILLES POWER COMPANY!!!! HE IS THE GUY WHO FIXES THE POWER LINES WHEN YOUR LIGHTS GO OUT BECAUSE OF A TORNADO OR WHATEVER!!!!

I cannot believe my mom gave the flower of her virginity to a guy who now works for the VERSAILLES POWER COMPANY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Not that there is anything wrong with someone who works for the power company. It is no different than being a high school Algebra teacher, I guess.

But at least Mr. G doesn’t have to wear a JUMPSUIT to work.

I wonder if April Pollack, the girl who became Mrs. Wendell Jenkins instead of my mom, is on here.

OH, MY GOD! She is!!!! APRIL POLLACK WAS ELECTED CORN PRINCESS OF VERSAILLES, INDIANA, IN 1985!!!!!!!!!!!

My mom Did It with a guy who later went on to marry a corn princess.

Which is very ironic, considering my mom later went on to have the illegitimate child of a prince! Hello, I wonder if Wendell even knows this. That his ex, Helen Thermopolis, is the mother of the heir to the throne of GENOVIA. I bet he wouldn’t feel so good about having dumped her for Miss Corn Princess April if he knew THAT, would he????

Although, I guess he didn’t really dump her, if it’s true what my mom said about her and Wendell wanting different things.

Could this happen to me and Michael? Could we want different things someday? In twenty years, will Michael be married, not to the princess of Genovia, but to some CORN PRINCESS????

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! SOMEONE IS IMing ME!!!! Who could it be NOW?

Help! It’s Michael!

SKINNERBX: Hey!

Since going Mac, Michael’s changed his IM address. It used to be LinuxRulz.

SKINNERBX: How was your first day back?

Oh, my God. He hasn’t heard. Well, how WOULD he? It’s not like he was there. Or like Lilly would tell him. Since they don’t live together anymore.

FTLOUIE: It was…the usual.

Well, it WAS. My life is a constant roller coaster…joy followed by crushing disappointments, with occasional patches where nothing at all happens and I just admire the scenery.

I figured I should change the subject.

FTLOUIE: How was YOUR first day?

SKINNERBX: Fantastic! Today in my Economics of Sustainable Development class the professor talked about how in the next 10 to 20 years, petroleum, the cheapest and most effective fuel on the planet—you know, what we use in cars and to heat our homes and in ChapStick and all—will run out. See, 100 years ago, when petroleum was first discovered, the world population was only two billion. Now, with six billion people—a population explosion almost directly caused by more easily accessible fuel—the earth cannot maintain that many people with the amount of petroleum it has left. Since the population isn’t getting any smaller, oil consumption isn’t going to decrease, so in about two decades—maybe more, but probably less, at the rate we’re going—we’re going to run out, and if we don’t find a way to get at the petroleum buried deep beneath the seas—without destroying the environment—or start converting to nuclear or hydro or solar power, everyone will be plunged back into the dark ages, and people worldwide will starve and/or freeze to death.

FTLOUIE: So, in other words…in about ten to fifteen years, we’re all going to die?

SKINNERBX: Basically. How about you? What did YOU learn today?

Um, that you are going to dump me if I don’t put out.

But, of course, I couldn’t SAY that. So I just told Michael about how this weekend my mom and Mr. G are making an emergency trip to Indiana to introduce Rocky to his Hoosier grandparents. And how Lilly has stabbed me in the back ONCE AGAIN, this time by nominating me for student council president but how she’d said not to worry about it since she “has a plan”; also about how I hate Geometry already.

SKINNERBX: Wait…your parents are going to Indiana this weekend?

FTLOUIE: Not my parents. My mom and Mr. G.

I love Mr. G and all, I guess, but it still weirds me out when anyone refers to him as my parent or my dad. I already have a dad.

I forgive Michael for this common mistake, however, as he does not know—as I do—what it’s like to come from a broken home.

FTLOUIE: What do you think your sister could be up to, anyway? I mean, I would be the worst student council president EVER.

SKINNERBX: What day are they leaving?

Why is Michael fixated on the fact that Mom and Mr. G are going out of town? This is totally the LEAST of my problems.

FTLOUIE: I don’t know. Friday, I guess.

Which reminded me:

FTLOUIE: Do you still want me to come over on Saturday to meet Doo Pak?

SKINNERBX: Sure. Or if you want, I could come over there.

FTLOUIE: With Doo Pak?

SKINNERBX: No. I meant by myself.

FTLOUIE: Well, if you want to. But I don’t know why you would, nobody’s going to be here but me.

Oh, no. Rocky’s crying again.

I’m not a baby-licker. I’m NOT.

SKINNERBX: Mia? Are you still there?

But how can they just sit there and listen to him cry like that? It’s just WRONG.

SKINNERBX: Mia?

FTLOUIE: Sorry, Michael, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.

I wonder if there’s a Baby-lickers Anonymous I could join.Wednesday, September 9, Homeroom

Well, Lana certainly didn’t waste any time launching her campaign for student council president into overdrive.

When Lilly and I walked into school this morning, it was to find the hallways WALLPAPERED with giant full-color glossy posters of Lana with the words VOTE LANA written underneath them.

Some of the posters are just like headshots, showing Lana tossing her long shimmery golden hair back and laughing, or with her chin cupped in her hands, smiling with the angelic sweetness of Britney on her first album cover. In the pictures, Lana doesn’t look at all like someone who might grab the back of another girl’s bra and hiss, “Why do you bother to wear one of these when you have nothing to put in it?”

Or someone who might tell a girl in the jet line that college boys expect their girlfriends to Do It.

Some of the other posters show Lana in full-on action shots, like jumping into the air and doing the splits in her cheerleading uniform. One of them shows Lana in her prom dress from last year, standing at the bottom of some staircase. I don’t know where, since there was no staircase like it at the actual prom. Maybe her apartment? I wouldn’t know, of course, having never been invited there.

Lilly took one look at all the posters and then down at her own posters—yes, Lilly spent all last night, while I was learning about Wendell Jenkins, making campaign posters for me—and said a very bad word.

Because even though Lilly’s posters are very nice—they say MIA RULES and PICK THE PRINCESS—they are only glitter poured over Elmer’s on white foam core (for rigidity). Lilly didn’t exactly blow up any full-color glossy headshots of me and plaster the school with them.

“Don’t worry, Lilly,” I told her, very sympathetically. “I don’t want to be president anyway, so maybe this is for the best.”

Even Boris noticed how sad Lilly was and felt bad for her, which I thought was really nice of him, given how she’d ripped his heart out of his chest and stomped all over it just last May.

“Your posters are much nicer than Lana’s,” he told her. “Because they come from the heart, and not some photocopy shop.”

But Lilly ripped her posters in half and stuffed them into a trash can outside the administrative offices anyway. There was glitter everywhere by the time she was done.

She did say, kind of darkly, “She wants war? She’s got one.”

But Lilly may have been referring to the fact that they are serving brandade for lunch today in the caf. With cod, the main ingredient in brandade, being nearly extinct due to overfishing, Lilly’s been conducting a very vocal campaign on her public access show against its use in New York City restaurants.

I really wish those producers who optioned Lilly’s show would hurry up and find a studio to buy it already. Lilly really needs a new project. She has WAY too much time on her hands.

I have not heard from Michael since I signed off last night. I’m hoping this means he is busy with the whole petroleum-running-out thing, and not, you know, that he’s breaking up with me because he’s realized I’m not exactly the Do It type.Wednesday, September 9, PE

There should be a law against dodgeball.

Also, what did I ever do to HER? I mean, she’s clearly winning this stupid election.

What is the point of even HAVING a bodyguard if he is going to allow me to be pelted in the thigh with red rubber balls?

I think that’s definitely going to leave a mark.Wednesday, September 9, Geometry

“a if b” and “a only if b”

The phrase “if and only if” is represented by the abbreviations “if” and by the symbol

a b means both a b and b a.

Is the converse of a true statement necessarily true?

Excuse me, but

WHAT???????????????

There is a Euler diagram appearing on my thigh where Lana hit me with that ball.Wednesday, September 9, English

Don’t you LOVE that pink sweater thing Ms. M’s wearing? She looks so totally Elle Woods in it! If Elle Woods had black hair, I mean.—T.

Yes. It’s nice.

R U OK? R U mad about what Lilly did? I think you’d make a reallly good student council prez, 4 what it’s worth.

Thanks, Tina. Actually, I’d sort of forgotten about that. So much other stuff is happening.

What other stuff? That thing with the snails?

You KNOW about that????

It was on the news last night. I guess those people in Monaco are kind of mad.

They have no right to be mad! It’s all their fault!

Yeah, the reporter kind of mentioned that. Is that what’s bothering U?

No. Well, partly. I mean—can you keep a secret?

Of course!

I know, but like a REAL secret. You CANNOT tell Lilly.

Pinky swear.

OR BORIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PINKY SWEAR!!! I SAID PINKY SWEAR!!!!

Okay. Well. It’s just that yesterday in the jet line Lana told me that college boys expect their girlfriends to Do It and that means Michael must be expecting for ME to Do It, only I’m not sure I want to. I mean, I guess I WANT to, but not if it involves taking my clothes off in front of him. But I’m not sure there’s any way around that. Also, I thought college boys only Did It with college girls. But I’m not a college girl, I’m a high school girl. But then I talked to my mom about it and she said she Did It when she was 15 with this guy named Wendell Jenkins but then he married this corn princess named April and my mom hasn’t even seen him since. And what if that happens with me and Michael? Like, what if we Do It and then we break up because it turns out we want different things and he marries a corn princess? I think that might kill me. Although my mom says she hasn’t thought about Wendell in years. I don’t know. What should I do?

Just because things didn’t work out with Wend dell and your mom is no reason to think that you and Michael are also going to break up. And what kind of name is WENDELL, anyway?

So you’re saying…I should Do It?????

I don’t think Lana really knows what college boys do. She doesn’t know any college boys. Or if she does they’re probably frat boys. And Michael isn’t even in a frat. Besides, Michael really loves you. It’s obvious just in the way he looks at you. If you don’t want to Do It, don’t Do It.

Yeah, but what about what Lana said?????

Michael isn’t one of those guys who would dump you just for not Doing It with him. I mean, maybe the guys LANA knows would do this. Like Josh Richter, for instance. Or that Ramon guy. He looks kind of sketchy, But not Michael. Because he actually CARES about you. Besides, I really don’t think Michael expects you to Do It. At least, not right now.

REALLY??????

Really. I mean, it would be kind of presumptuous of him. You guys have not even been going out for a year. I don’t think anyone should Do It with a guy unless they’ve been going out for at least a year. And then they have to Do It for the first time on prom night. Because when you Do It for the first time, the boy should be wearing a tux. It’s only polite.

Tina, I barely managed to get Michael to take me to the prom once. I highly doubt I’m ever going to be able to get him to go again.

Hmmm. Well, coronations count. I’m sure it would be just as romantic to Do It for the first time after your coronation.

I’m not having a coronation until after my dad dies and leaves me the throne!!!! I could be as old as Prince Charles by the time that happens!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I do WANT to Do It, before I’m ANCIENT, you know. Just not, you know. NOW.

Well, then you just need to tell Michael that. You two really need to have The Talk. You need to get this all out in the open. Because communication is the key to success in a romantic relationship.

Have you and Boris had it? You know, The Talk. About DOING IT?

Of course!!!! I mean, providing things don’t work out between Prince William and me, Boris knows that if he ever hopes to be bestowed the gift of my flower, he will need to do it after the prom

on a king-sized bed with white satin sheets

in a deluxe suite with Central Park views

at the Four Seasons over on East 57th Street

with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries upon arrival

an aromatherapy bath for after

then waffles for two in bed the next morning.

Oh. Tina, I don’t know how to break this to you…but that sounds like a little more than Boris might be able to afford. I mean, he IS still in high school.

I know. That’s why I suggested he start saving his allowance now. Also, that he better have more than just that one condom he’s been carrying around in his wallet for the past two years.

Boris has a condom in his wallet???? Right NOW??????????

Oh, yes. He is very proactive. That is one of the reasons I love him.

WOULD YOU GUYS PLEASE QUIT PASSING NOTES AND PAY ATTENTION? THIS IS THE BEST TEACHER WE HAVE EVER HAD AND YOU TWO ARE TOTALLY EMBARRASSING ME WITH YOUR INABILITY TO PAY ATTENTION—

Wait. What’s this about a condom?

Nothing! Eyes front!

Who are you guys talking about, anyway?

No one, Lilly. Never mind. Look, she’s passing back our expository writing samples.

I suppose you think that’s going to distract me. I want to know who you guys are talking about. WHO carries around a condom??

Pay attention, Lilly!

Right! Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. What did you get, anyway? An A as usual, Miss I Always Get An A in English?

Well, I DID work really hard on it—

Ha! THAT’s not an A!!!! Told you. You really should be paying attention in this class if you’re serious about this writing thing. Wednesday, September 9, French

I don’t understand this. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS.

I am a talented writer. I KNOW I am. I have been TOLD I am. By more than one person.

I mean, I’m not saying I don’t have more to learn. I know I do. I know I’m no Danielle Steel. Yet. I know I have a lot of work to do before I can ever hope to win a Booker Prize or one of those other awards writers get.

But a B????

I have never gotten a B on an English assignment in my life!!!!

There must be some mistake.

I was in so much shock after I got my paper back that I think I just sat there with my mouth hanging open for a very long period of time…long enough for the line of people gathered around Ms. Martinez’s desk to thin out enough for her to finally notice me, and go, “Yes, Mia? Do you have a question?”

“This is a B,” was all I managed to choke out. On account of my throat had kind of closed up. And my palms were sweaty. And my fingers were shaking.

Because I have never gotten a B on an English assignment before. Never, never, never, never…

“Mia, you’re a very good writer,” Ms. Martinez said. “But you lack discipline.”

“I do?” I licked my lips. They had gotten all parched, just while I was sitting there, it seemed to me.

Ms. Martinez shook her head all sadly.

“I realize it isn’t entirely your fault,” Ms. Martinez went on. “You’ve probably been getting A’s in your English classes for years using the same cartoonish slapstick humor and slick popular culture references you used in your writing sample. I’m sure your teachers were too busy dealing with students who couldn’t write at all to deal with one who clearly can. But, Mia, don’t you see? This kind of self-conscious pseudo-zaniness has no place in a serious expositional work. If you don’t learn to discipline yourself, you’ll never grow as a writer. Pieces like this one you handed in to me only prove that you have a way with words, NOT that you are a writer.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. All I knew was, I had gotten a B. A B!!! IN ENGLISH.

“If I write a new one,” I asked, “will you accept it in the place of this one, and cancel out my B?”

“If it’s good enough,” Ms. Martinez said. “I don’t want you just dashing off something completely over the top again, Mia. I want you to put some thought into it. I want you to make me think.”

“But,” I protested weakly, “that’s what I tried to do in my piece about the snails—”

“By comparing your pouring ten thousand snails into the Bay of Genovia with Pink’s refusal to perform for Prince William because he hunts?” Ms. Martinez shuddered. “No, Mia. That didn’t make me think. It just made me sad for your generation.”

Thankfully, just then the warning bell went off, so I had to go.

Which is a good thing, because I was just about to throw up all over my desk, anyway.Wednesday, September 9, G&T

Michael called during lunch. AEHS students are not supposed to make or receive cell phone calls during class, but at lunch it’s okay.

Anyway, he was all, “What happened to you last night? We were IMing, and then you just disappeared!”

Me:

Oh, yeah. Sorry. Rocky woke up crying, and I had go sing him back to sleep.

Michael:

Oh. So everything’s okay?

Me:

Well, I mean, if you think the fact that two days into the school year I’m already flunking Geometry, I’m being forced to run for student council president against my will, and my new English teacher thinks I’m a talentless hack is okay, then yeah, I guess so.

Michael:

I don’t think any of those things are okay. Have you talked to—who do you have? Harding? He’s a decent guy—about getting some extra help in his class? Or if you want, we can go over the chapter together on Saturday, when I see you. And how could your English teacher think you’re a talentless hack? You’re the best writer I know. And as for the student council thing, Mia, just tell Lilly you don’t care WHAT her plan is, you have enough to worry about, and you don’t want to run. What’s the worst that could happen?

Ha. That is all so easy for Michael to say. I mean, he is not afraid of his sister—not even a little bit, like I am. And Mr. Harding? A decent guy? My God, he threw a piece of chalk at Trisha Hayes’s head today! Granted, I’d do the same if I thought I could get away with it. But still.

And how does Michael even know what kind of writer I am? Except for a couple of articles in the school paper last year, and my letters, e-mails, and Instant Messages to him, he has never read anything I’ve written. I certainly haven’t given him any of my poems to read. Because what if he doesn’t like them? My writer’s spirit would be crushed.

Even more crushed than it is right now.

Me:

I guess. How’s YOUR day going?

Michael:

Great. Today in my Principles of Geomorphology class we talked about how the ice cap has shrunk by two hundred and fifty million acres—that’s the size of California and Texas put together—in the past twenty years, and how if it continues to erode at the rate it’s going—about nine percent per decade—it could vanish altogether by the end of this century, which will, of course, have devastating consequences for life on Earth as we know it. Whole species will vanish, and anyone who owns seafront property is essentially going to own underwater property. Unless, of course, we do something to control pollutant emissions that are destroying the ozone layer and allowing this melt-off.

Me:

So, essentially, it doesn’t even matter what kind of grade I end up getting in Geometry, since we’re all going to die anyway?

Michael:

Well, not us, necessarily. But our grandkids, for sure.

Except, I was pretty sure Michael didn’t mean OUR grandkids, as in, the children of kids he and I might have if, you know, we Did It. I believe he was referring to grandkids in the general sense. Such as grandkids he might have with a corn princess he marries later, after he and I have grown apart and gone our separate ways.

Me:

But I thought we were all going to die in ten years anyway when easily accessible petroleum runs out.

Michael:

Oh, don’t worry about that. Doo Pak and I have decided to come up with a prototype for a hydrogen-powered car. Hopefully that ought to do the trick. If, you know, the auto industry doesn’t try to have us killed for it.

Me:

Oh. Okay.

It’s nice to know that smart people like Michael are working on this whole petroleum-running-out thing. That leaves the more easily handled problems like, you know, killer algae and student council governance to people like me.

Michael:

So, are we all set for Saturday?

Me:

You mean my coming over to meet Doo Pak? I think so.

Michael:

Actually, what I meant was—

This is when Lilly tried to wrestle the phone from me.

Lilly:

Is that my brother? Let me talk to him.

Me:

Lilly! Let go!

Lilly:

Seriously. I need to talk to him. Mom changed her password again and I can’t get into her e-mail.

Me:

You shouldn’t be reading your mother’s e-mail anyway!

Lilly:

But how am I going to know what she’s telling people about me?

Here is where I finally managed to wrench the phone out of her hands.

Me:

Uh, Michael. I’m going to have to call you back. After school. Okay?

Michael:

Oh. Okay. Hang in there. Everything’s going to be fine.

Me:

Yeah. Right.

It’s easy for HIM to say everything’s going to be all right. Everything IS going to be all right. For HIM. HE no longer has to be incarcerated in this hellhole for eight hours a day. He gets to take fun classes about how the polar ice cap is going to melt and we’re all going to die, while I get to walk down the hall with twenty million posters of Lana Weinberger beaming down at me, going, Loser! Loser! Princess of what? Oh yeah! Loserville!

As we left the cafeteria to go put on lip gloss before our next class, I saw Ramon Riveras, the handsome new exchange student, demonstrating Brazilian ball-handling technique to Lana and some fellow members of the AEHS varsity boys’ soccer team, all of whom were paying rapt attention (good thing, too, since last year they didn’t win one single game). Only instead of a ball, Ramon was using an orange, batting it back and forth between his feet. He was saying something, too, but I couldn’t understand a word, whatever it was. The other members of his team looked confused, too.

I saw Lana nodding like she understood, though. She probably did, too. Lana is very familiar with all things Brazilian. I know because I’ve seen her naked in the shower.Wednesday, September 9, still G&T

Mia. Let’s make a list.

No! Lilly, leave me alone! I have too many problems right now to make a list.

What problems? You don’t have any problems. You’re a princess. You’re not flunking Algebra. You have a boyfriend.

That’s just it! I have a boyfriend, but apparently he expects me to—

To what?

Never mind. Let’s make a list.

LILLY AND MIA RATE THE REALITY SHOWS

Survivor:

Lilly: A sickening attempt by the media to draw viewers by pandering to the lowest common denominator and appealing to the public’s enjoyment of watching others being exploited and humiliated. 0/10

Mia: Yeah. And who wants to watch people eat bugs? Ew!!!! 0/10

Fear Factor:

Lilly: Ditto. 0/10

Mia: More bugs. Yuck. 0/10

American Idol:

Lilly: This show is entertaining—if your idea of being entertained is watching young people being ridiculed for attempting to share their talents with the world. 5/10

Mia: Having had my own dreams crushed all too recently, I am not a fan of watching other people get theirs stomped on. 2/10

Newlyweds:

Nick and

Jessica:

Lilly: If watching the pathetic ramblings of an uneducated chanteuse who doesn’t know the difference between chicken and tuna is your idea of a good time, please feel free to watch this show. I won’t try to stop you. 0/10

Mia: Jessica is not dumb, just inexperienced! She’s FUNNY. Also, Nick is hot. Best show EVA! 10/10

The Bachelor/ette:

Lilly: Who cares about two stupid people getting together? All they’ll end up doing is having kids, and then there’ll be more stupid people on this planet. And we’re encouraging them by watching this show! Disgraceful. 0/10

Mia: Harsh! They’re looking for love! What could be wrong with that? 5/10

Trading Spaces:

Lilly: I would so never let Hildi near my room. 10/10

Mia: Have to agree. What is wrong with her? But it would be cool to turn her loose on LANA’s room. 10/10

Real World:

Lilly: Perfection—if your idea of perfection happens to be watching young people cavort in hot tubs without parental supervision or any apparent morality. Which mine is. 10/10

Mia: Why do they all have to be so mean to one another? Still, it IS kinda good. 9/10

Queer Eye for the Straight Guy:

Lilly: Five homosexuals give makeovers to hetero men who can’t keep their rooms tidy and don’t know any better than to wear acid-washed jeans. Some proponents of equal rights for the same-sex-oriented fear this show will set their movement back decades. And yet…why WAS that guy wearing that hideous hairpiece for so long???? 10/10

Mia: Yeah, and I happen to know someone who could still use a little help from the Fab Five, who I’m sure frown on sweater-tucking-in. 10/10

The Simple Life with Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie:

Lilly: You’re joking, right? I’m supposed to be entertained by a human praying mantis and her drunk friend as they rudely mock the people who were kind enough to take them in? I don’t think so. 0/10

Mia: Um. I kind of have to agree here. Those girls need some MAJOR princess lessons. Maybe next time the Hilton sisters and little Nicole could spend a week with Grandmère! I bet SHE’D have something to say about their piercings. Now that’s a reality show I’d LOVE to see!!!!!!! 0/10Wednesday, September 9, U.S. Government

THEORIES OF GOVERNMENT (con’t)

SOCIAL CONTRACT THEORY: Thomas Hobbes, 17th-century English philosopher, wrote Leviathan, stating that:

Humans originally existed in a “state of nature.”

In other words, ANARCHY.

But anarchy is bad! With anarchy, people can just do whatever they want! With anarchy, for instance, a certain cheerleader, who shall remain nameless, could wear a pair of shorts that clearly belong to a member of the men’s soccer team under the skirt of her school uniform and make sure everyone notices that she’s wearing them by crossing and uncrossing her legs in a very athletic and flamboyant way during her U.S. Government class, as she might be doing RIGHT NOW in flagrant defiance of school regulations. And a certain other person, who shall remain nameless, might feel like telling on her, but will ultimately decide not to, because tattling is wrong unless someone’s life is at stake.

Hobbes maintained that the original contract between people and state was final, resulting in state’s absolutism.

Fortunately John Locke modified the theory to say that the contract could be renegotiated.

GO JOHN LOCKE!

GO JOHN LOCKE!

GO GO

GO JOHN LOCKE!Wednesday, September 9, Earth Science

Kenny just leaned over to me to remind me that he has a new girlfriend, Heather, whom he met at science camp this summer. Apparently, Heather is superior to me in every way (straight A’s, does gymnastics, doesn’t employ slapstick humor or popular culture references in her expositional essays, isn’t a princess, etc.), so despite what I might think, Kenny is completely over me, and that I can go around flashing my big baby blue eyes at him all I want, it won’t make any difference, he is NOT going to do my Earth Science homework for me this semester.

Whatever, Kenny. First of all, get your prescription checked: my eyes are gray, not blue. Second of all, I never asked you to do my Bio homework for me last year. You just started doing it on your own. I’ll admit it was wrong of me to LET you, seeing as how I knew I didn’t exactly like you in the same way you liked me. But rest assured that’s not going to happen again. Because I’m fully going to pay attention in class and do my OWN work. I won’t even NEED your help.

And I sincerely hope you and Heather will be happy together. Your children will probably be very very smart. In the event that you two end up Doing It, I mean. And forget to use birth control. Although that is highly unlikely in the case of two science whizzes.

Kenny is so weird.

No, you know what? Boys are weird. Seriously. Maybe that’s what I should write my makeup paper for Ms. Martinez on. Boys and how weird they are.

For instance, my current top five favorite movies include:

Dirty Dancing

Flashdance

Bring It On

The original Star Wars, and

Honey

all of which have a similar theme—girl must use her newly acquired talents (dancing) to save herself/relationship/team (well, okay, this is not the plot of Star Wars so much. Well, it is, but you have to substitute the word “girl” with “boy.” And dancing with the Force).

So, you can see why I like them so much.

But Michael’s top five movies—not including the original Star Wars, of course—are totally different from mine. There is no single underlying theme to them at all! They’re all over the place, themewise! And most of them, I don’t even know WHY he likes them. There is not even any dancing in them.

Here is a glimpse into the Weird World of Boys and the Movies They Like:

TOP FIVE MOVIES MICHAEL LIKES

(NONE OF WHICH I HAVE SEEN,

OR EVER WILL):

The Godfather

Scarface

Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Alien, Aliens, Alien Resurrection, etc.

The Exorcist

TOP FIVE MOVIES MICHAEL LIKES (THAT I HAVE SEEN, NOT INCLUDING THE ORIGINAL STAR WARS, OF COURSE):

Office Space

The Substitute

The Fifth Element

Starship Troopers

Super Troopers

I would just like to point out that none of the above movies have dance numbers in them. Not one. In fact, there is no common underlying theme in any of them, with the possible exception of the fact that the guys in them all have super-cute girlfriends.

Basically, men and women have entirely different expectations in their movie-viewing fare. Really, given all that, it is a wonder any of them get together to Do It at all.

On second thought, this is probably not a topic Ms. Martinez would care to read about. Although I find it educational, I doubt she will.

She probably never goes to the movies, because they are so pop culture-y. She probably only goes to films, like the ones they show at the Angelika. I bet she doesn’t even own a TV.

My God. No wonder she’s the way she is.

HOMEWORK

PE: n/a

Geometry: exercises, pages 20–22

English: don’t know, was too flipped out to write it down

French: écrivez une histoire

Also, figure out if Perin boy or girl!!!!!!

G&T: n/a

U.S. Government: What is basis of government acc. to social contract theory

Earth Science: ask KennyWednesday, September 9, limo on the way home from the Plaza

Today when I got to Grandmère’s for my princess lesson she announced that we were taking a field trip.

I told her I really don’t even have time for a princess lesson today—that my English grade was at stake, and that I needed to get home and write a new paper right away.

But Grandmère was completely unimpressed—even when I told her that my future career as an authoress was riding on it. She said royals shouldn’t write books anyway—that people only want to read books ABOUT royals, not BY them.

Grandmère so doesn’t get it sometimes.

I thought for sure our field trip was going to see Paolo—my roots are totally starting to show—but instead Grandmère took me downstairs to one of the Plaza’s many conference rooms. About two hundred chairs had been set up in this long room with just a podium in the front with a microphone and a pitcher of water on it.

Only the front row of chairs had people in them. And the people in them were Grandmère’s maid, her chauffeur, and various members of the Plaza hotel staff in their green and gold uniforms, looking very uncomfortable. Especially Grandmère’s maid, who was holding a trembling Rommel on her lap.

At first I thought I’d been set up and that it was a press conference about the snails or something. Except where were the reporters?

But Grandmère said no, it wasn’t a press conference. It was to practice.

For the debate.

For student council president.

“Uh, Grandmère,” I said. “There is no debate for student council president. Everybody just votes. On Monday.”

But Grandmère way didn’t believe me. She went, exhaling a long stream of cigarette smoke, even though there is a Smoking in Your Room Only policy at the Plaza, “Your little friend Lilly told me there’s a debate.”

“You talked to LILLY?” I could hardly believe it. Lilly and Grandmère HATE each other. With good reason, after the whole Jangbu Panasa incident.

And now Grandmère is telling me that she and my best friend are in CAHOOTS?

“WHEN DID LILLY TELL YOU THIS?” I demanded, since I didn’t believe a word of it.

“Earlier,” Grandmère said. “Just stand behind the podium and see how it feels.”

“I KNOW how standing behind a podium feels, Grandmère,” I said. “I’ve stood behind podiums before, remember? When I addressed the Genovian parliament on the parking meter issue.”

“Yes,” Grandmère said. “But that was before an audience of old men. Here I want you to pretend to be addressing an audience of your peers. Picture them sitting before you, in their ridiculous baggy jeans and backward baseball caps.”

“We wear uniforms to school, Grandmère,” I reminded her.

“Yes, well, you know what I mean. Picture them all sitting there dreaming of getting their own television show, like that horrible Ashton Kutcher. Then tell me how you would answer this question: What improvements would you implement to help make Albert Einstein High School a better learning facility, and why?”

Seriously, I don’t get her sometimes. It’s like she was dropped at birth. Only onto parquet, not onto a futon couch, like I dropped Rocky not too long ago. Except that that totally wasn’t my fault, on account of Michael walking in unexpectedly wearing a new pair of jeans.

“Grandmère,” I said. “What is the point of this? THERE IS NO DEBATE.”

“JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION.”

God. She is impossible sometimes.

Okay, all the time.

So just to placate her I went behind the stupid podium and said into the microphone, “Improvements I would implement to help make Albert Einstein High School a better learning facility would include incorporating more meatless entrees into the lunch service for vegan and vegetarian students, and, uh, posting homework assignments on the school website every night, so that students who might, er, have forgotten to write them down would know exactly what they have due the next day.”

“Don’t hunch so over the podium, Amelia,” Grandmère said, critically, from where she was standing, blowing her smoke into a large potted rhododendron (Grandmère is so lucky. Because in ten years, when all the petroleum runs out and the polar ice cap is completely melted, she’ll probably be dead already from lung cancer on account of all the cigarettes she smokes). “Stand up straight. Shoulders back. That’s it. You may proceed.”

I had totally forgotten what I was talking about.

“What about teachers?” called Grandmère’s chauffeur, trying to sound like a baggy-panted Ashton Kutcher wannabe. “Whaddya gonna do about them, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Teachers. Isn’t it their jobs to encourage us in our dreams? But I’ve noticed that certain teachers seem to feel that part of their job description includes crushing our spirit and…and…stifling our creative impulses! Just because they might, you know, be more entertaining than educational. Are those really the kinds of people we want molding our young minds? Are they?”

“No,” cried one of the maids.

“Damn straight,” yelled Grandmère’s chauffeur.

“Oh,” I said, feeling more confident on account of their positive feedback. “And the, er, video surveillance cameras outside. I can see how, as a security measure, they are very worthwhile. But if they are being used as—”

“Amelia!” Grandmère screamed. “Elbows off the podium!”

I took my elbows off the podium.

“As a tool with which to monitor student behavior, I have to say, should the administration have the right to essentially spy on us?” I was kind of getting into this debate thing. “What happens to the tapes in the video cameras after they’re full? Are they rewound and taped over, or are they stored in some fashion, so that the contents might be used against us at some future date? For instance, if one of us gets appointed to the Supreme Court, could a tape of our spraying Joe the Lion with Silly String be made available to reporters, and used to bring us down?”

“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?

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.

Lilly. Is there going to be a debate? Because Grandmère said something about a debate.

Shhhh. Pay attention. Hey, what’s going on with my brother, anyway? Are you two really Doing It?

STOP TRYING TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT! IS THERE GOING TO BE A DEBATE?????

LILLY!!!!

LILLY!!!!!!!!!!!! ANSWER ME!!!!!!

I don’t think Lilly’s going to answer you. Is there anything I can do?

Oh. Hi, Tina. No. Just…well, you wouldn’t be willing to get your bodyguard to shoot me, would you? Because I’d really appreciate it.

Um, Wahim’s not allowed too shoot anyone unless they’re trying to kidnap me. You know that.

I know. But I still wish I were dead.

I’m so sorry. The election thing?

That, and Michael, and everything else.

Did you and Michael have that talk like I told you to?

No. When could we have had a talk? I never get to see him anymore because he’s always in class, learning new ways we’re all going to die. And you can’t talk about Doing It—or, in this case, NOT Doing It—over the phone, or IMing. It’s kind of a face-to-face topic.

That’s true. So when are you going to talk about it?

Saturday, I guess. I mean, that’s the earliest we’re going to see each other.

Good! Don’t you love Ms. M in those totally adorable culottes! Who knew culottes could even BE adorable?

You know, someone could be wearing culottes and still not be…um, right.

What do you mean? Ms. Martinez is ALWAYS right. She loves Jane Austen, doesn’t she?

Um, yes. But maybe not for the same reasons we do.

You mean not because Colin Firth looks so hot every time he dives into that pond on A & E? But what other reason IS there to love Jane Austen?

Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.

Do you think Ms. M knows how in real life Emma Thompson had the guy who played Willoughby’s baby???? Because even though he played a bad guy in Sense and Sensibility, I’m sure he’s really nice in person. And besides, Emma needed to find love after that Kenneth Branagh left her for Helena Bonham-Carter.

Sometimes I wish I could live inside Tina’s head instead of mine. I swear. It must be very restful there.Thursday, September 10, ladies’ room, Albert Einstein High School

How do I always end up here? Writing in my journal in a stall of the ladies’ room, I mean? It is becoming like a ritual or something.

Anyway, it all started innocently enough. We were talking about last night’s episode of The OC when next thing I knew, Tina was going, “Hey, did you tell Lilly yet?”

And Lilly was all, “Tell me what?”

And I totally thought Tina meant the thing about Doing It with Michael and I mouthed, PINKY SWEAR at her until she went, “About your parents going away to Indiana this weekend, I mean,” which I must have mentioned to her in a moment of weakness, although I don’t remember doing so.

Lilly looked at me all excited. “They are? That’s great! We can have another party!”

Hello. You would think Lilly, of ALL people, wouldn’t want to come to another party at my place. Or at least be a little more sensitive about the fact that her ex, who she LOST FOREVER at my last party, was sitting right there.

But she totally didn’t seem to notice or care.

“So, what time can we come over?” she wanted to know.

“Just because my mom and Mr. G are going away does NOT mean I’ll be having a party,” I yelled, all panicky.

“Yeah,” Lilly said, looking thoughtful. “I forgot. You’re heir to the throne of Genovia. It’s not like they’re going to leave you there alone. But that’s okay. We can probably get Lars and Wahim to go off by themselves somewhere—”

“NO,” I said, “that’s not it. I’m not having a party because the last time I had one, it was a total disaster.”

“Yeah,” Lilly said. “But this time, Mr. Gianini won’t be there—”

“NO PARTIES,” I said, in my most princessy voice.

Lilly just sniffed and went, “Just because you got a B on an English paper, don’t take it out on me.”

Oh, okay, Lilly, I won’t. And just because YOUR parents don’t trust you enough to let you stay alone in the house on account of that one time you set off the sprinkler system in the building with your homemade lighter-and-Rave-hairspray flamethrower, don’t take it out on me.

Only, of course, I didn’t say that out loud.

“Wait,” Boris said. “YOU got a B on an English paper, Mia? How is that possible?”

So then I had no choice but to break the news to everyone at the lunch table. You know, about Ms. Martinez being a big huge uber-phony.

They were all shocked, of course.

“But she has such cute clogs!” Tina cried, her heart clearly breaking.

“It just goes to show,” Boris said, “that you can’t tell what’s in someone’s heart by the way he or she dresses.” He shot a very significant look at me while he said this.

But I don’t care. Tucking your sweater into your pants is not a good look for ANYONE.

“She probably means well,” Tina said, since she tries to find the good in everyone.

“There is never any justification for crushing the artistic spirit,” Ling Su said—and, since she can draw better than anyone in our whole school, she would know. “Lots of so-called critics and reviewers meant well when they ravaged the works of the Impressionists in the nineteenth century. But if artists like Renoir and Monet had followed their advice, some of the greatest works of art in the world would never have been created.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly compare my writing to a Renoir painting,” I felt obligated to say. “But thanks, Ling Su.”

“The thing is, even if Mia’s writing DOES stink,” Boris said, in his usual blunt fashion, “does a teacher really have the right to tell her so?”

“It does sort of seem antieducational,” Shameeka said.

“Something’s got to be done about this,” Ling Su said. “The question is, what?”

But before we could come up with anything, this dark shadow fell over our lunch table, and we looked up, and there was…

Lana.

Our hearts sank. Well, mine did, anyway.

Lana was accompanied by the new Grand Moff Tarkin to her Darth Vader, Trisha Hayes.

“Nice posters, PIT,” Lana said. Only, of course, she was being sarcastic. “But they aren’t going to do you any good.”

“Yeah,” Trisha said. “We took a random poll of the cafeteria, and if the election were today, you’d only get sixteen votes.”

“You mean there are sixteen people in this cafeteria,” Lilly said, mildly, as she peeled the chocolate coating off a Ho Ho, “who were willing to tell you to your face that they aren’t voting for you? God, I had no idea there were so many masochists in this school.”

“Keep sucking on that Twinkie, fatty,” Lana said. “And we’ll see who’s the masochist.”

“It’s a Ho Ho,” Boris pointed out, because that is what Boris does.

Lana didn’t even look at him.

“And you know what else?” Lana said. “I’m going to trounce you at Monday’s debate during Assembly. Nobody at Albert Einstein wants a snail-dumper as president.”

Snail-dumper! That’s almost as bad as being called a baby-licker!

But before I had a chance to defend my snail-dumping ways, Lana had flounced away.

Since I didn’t want to humiliate Lilly by screaming at her in front of her ex, especially now that he’s hot, I just looked at her and went, “Lilly. Ladies’ room. NOW.”

Somewhat to my surprise, she followed me in here.

“Lilly,” I said, summoning all of the people skills Grandmère has taught me. Not, you know, that Grandmère has actually taught me any useful skills for dealing with people. It’s just so hard dealing with Grandmère that I have sort of acquired some along the way. “This has gone on long enough. I never wanted to run for student council president in the first place, but you kept telling me you had a plan. Lilly, if you really have a plan, I want to know what it is. Because I am sick of people calling me PIT—whatever that means. And there is NO WAY I’m going to debate Lana on Monday. NO FREAKING WAY.”

“Princess in training,” was all Lilly had to say to that.

I just looked at her like she’s a mental case. Which, I’m pretty sure, she is.

“Princess in training,” she said, again. “That’s what PIT stands for. Since you asked.”

“I told you,” I said, through gritted teeth, “not to call me that anymore!”

“No,” Lilly said. “You said not to call you baby-licker or POG—Princess of Genovia. Not PIT—Princess in Training.”

“Lilly.” My teeth were still gritted. “I do not want to be student council president. I have enough problems right now. I do not need this. I do not need to debate Lana Weinberger on Monday in front of the whole school.”

“Do you want to make this school a better place or not?” Lilly wanted to know.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do. But it’s hopeless, Lilly. I can’t beat Lana. She’s the most popular girl in school. No one is going to vote for me.”

At that moment, even though I’d thought we were alone in the ladies’ room, a toilet flushed. The next thing I knew, a tiny little freshman girl came out of a stall and over to the sinks to wash her hands.

“Um, excuse me, Your Highness,” she said to me, after Lilly and I had stared at her in dumbfounded silence for several seconds. “But I really admire that thing you did with the snails. And I’m planning on voting for you.”

Then she threw her paper towel in the trash and walked out.

“Ha!” said Lilly. “HA HA! See? I TOLD you! Something’s HAPPENING, Mia. It’s like a groundswell of resentment toward Lana and her ilk. The people are sick of the reign of the popular crowd. They want a new queen. Or princess, as the case may be.”

“Lilly—”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, and everything will be fine.”

“But, Lilly—”

“And keep Saturday during the day open. You can do whatever it is you’re doing with my brother at night. Just give me the day.”

“Lilly, I don’t WANT to be president,” I screamed.

“Don’t worry,” Lilly said, giving my cheek a pat. “You won’t be.”

“But I also don’t want to be humiliatingly beat by Lana in a student election, either!”

“Don’t worry,” Lilly said, adjusting one of her many barrettes in the mirror above the sinks. “You won’t be.”

“Lilly,” I said. “HOW CAN BOTH OF THOSE THINGS NOT HAPPEN???? IT’S IMPOSSIBLE!!!!”

But then the bell rang and she left.

I wonder if there’s a disorder in Yahoo! Health for whatever it is that’s wrong with my best friend.Thursday, September 10, U.S. Government

THEORIES OF GOVERNMENT, con’t

THEORY OF FORCE

Religion and economics play important roles in history. As a result, this theory says:

Governments have always forced the people within their reach to pay tribute or tax.

This became sanctioned by custom and people developed myths and legends to justify their rule.

Sort of like the way people accept that the jocks and the cheerleaders run this school, despite the fact that they don’t necessarily make the best grades, so it’s not like they’re the smartest group of people here, nor are they even very nice to those of us who don’t eat, drink, and breathe sports and partying. How are they even QUALIFIED to lead us? And yet their word is law and everyone pays tribute to them by not calling them on their cruelty to others or by not telling on them when they flagrantly disregard school policy, such as smoking on school grounds and wearing their boyfriends’ shorts beneath their skirts. This is just wrong. The misdeeds of a few are having a negative impact on the many, and that’s not fair. I wonder what John Locke would have to say about it.Thursday, September 10, Earth Science

Why won’t Kenny stop talking about his girlfriend? I’m sure she’s nice, and all, but really, does he HAVE to keep reciting every conversation he’s ever had with her to me?

Magnetic field

1. Not constant—varies in strength but hardly detectable

2. Poles wander—number of times poles have reversed

3. Reversal of magnetic field—during times poles reverse, field disappears, allowing ions to hit Earth, mutations, climactic ruin, etc.

Last major reversal, 800,000 years ago, magnetic particles that were pointing north about-faced to point south

HOMEWORK

PE: n/a

Geometry: exercises, pages 33–35

English: Strunk and White, pages 30–54

French: lisez L’Étranger pour lundi

G&T: n/a

U.S. Government: Define force theory of gov.

Earth Science: orbital perturbationsThursday, September 10, limo on the way home from the Plaza

So when I walked into Grandmère’s suite at the Plaza for my princess lesson this afternoon, what did I find?

A pop quiz about seating arrangements for heads of state at a diplomatic banquet? Oh, no.

A waltz I needed to learn for some ball? Uh-uh.

Because those would be the kinds of things you’d EXPECT at a princess lesson. And Grandmère likes to keep me on my toes, apparently.

Instead, I found about two dozen journalists gathered in her suite, all eager to discuss my student council presidency campaign with me and my campaign manager, Lilly.

That’s right. Lilly. Lilly was sitting, cool as a cucumber, on a blue velvet settee with Grandmère, answering the reporters’ questions.

When the journalists saw me come in, they all jumped up and shoved microphones in my face instead of Lilly’s, and went, “Your Highness, Your Highness! Are you looking forward to your debate on Monday?” and “Princess Mia, do you have anything you’d like to say to your constituents?”

I had one thing I wanted to say to one constituent. And that was, “LILLY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

That was when Grandmère sprang into action. She hurried up and draped an arm around my shoulder and went, “Your dear friend Lilly and I were just chatting with these nice reporters about your campaign for student council president, Amelia. But what they’d really like is a statement from you. Why don’t you be a darling and give them one?”

The minute Grandmère calls you darling, you know something is up. But, of course, I already knew something was up, because Lilly was there. How had she even gotten to the Plaza so fast? She must have taken the subway, while I’d been tied up in traffic in the limo.

“Yes, Princess,” Lilly said, reaching out to take my hand, then pulling me—none too gently—down onto the settee beside her. “Tell the nice reporters about all the reforms you’re planning to make at AEHS.”

I leaned over, pretending I was reaching for a watercress sandwich from the tray Grandmère’s maid had set out for the reporters, who are always hungry, and not just for a story. But then, as I grabbed one of the dainty little sandwiches, I hissed in Lilly’s ear, “Now you’ve gone too far.”

But Lilly just smiled blandly at me and said, “I think the princess would like some tea, Your Highness,” to which Grandmère replied, “But, of course. Antoine! Tea for the princess!”

The press conference went on for an hour, with reporters from all over the country peppering me with questions about my campaign platform. I was just thinking that it must be a REALLY slow news day if my running for student council president qualified as a decent story, when one of the reporters asked me a question that shed a little light on just why Grandmère was so keen on my making an ass of myself in front of Middle America, and not just my fellow AEHS students.

“Princess Mia,” a journalist from the Indianapolis Star asked. “Isn’t it true that the only reason you’re running for student council president—and the only reason we were invited here today—is that your family is trying to distract the news media from the real story currently hitting headlines in Europe—your act of ecoterrorism, concerning the dumping of ten thousand snails into the Bay of Genovia?”

Suddenly, two dozen microphones were shoved into my face. I blinked a few times, then went, “But that wasn’t an act of ecoterrorism. I did that to save the—”

Then Grandmère was clapping her hands and going, “Who wants a nice glass of grappa? Come now, real Genovian grappa. No one can resist that!”

But none of the reporters were falling for it.

“Princess Mia, would you like to comment on the fact that Genovia is currently being considered for expulsion from the EU, thanks to your selfish act?”

Another one cried, “How does it feel, Your Highness, to know that you’re single-handedly responsible for destroying your own nation’s economy?”

“Wh…What?” I couldn’t believe it. What were these reporters talking about?

For once, Lilly came to my rescue.

“People!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “If you don’t have any more questions about Mia’s campaign for school president, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave!”

“Cover-up!” someone yelled. “That’s all this is! A cover-up to keep us from the real story!”

“Princess Mia, Princess Mia,” someone else called, as Lars began herding—or, to put it more accurately, bodily removing—all of the reporters from the suite. “Are you a member of ELF, the Earth Liberation Front? Do you want to make a statement on behalf of other ecoterrorists like yourself?”

“Well,” Grandmère said, downing half a Sidecar in one gulp as Lars finally closed the doors on the last of the reporters. “That went well, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t believe it. I just sat there in total shock. Ecoterrorism? ELF? All because of some SNAILS????

Lilly picked up her Palm Pilot (when did she get one of those???) and strolled over to where Grandmère was standing.

“Right. So we’ve got Time magazine at six, and Newsweek at six thirty,” Lilly said. “I heard from NPR, and I definitely think we should squeeze them in this evening—drive time, you know. It can’t hurt. And we got a request from New York One for Mia to go on tonight’s broadcast of Inside Politics. I’ve gotten them to swear there won’t be any questions about the E word. What do you think?”

“Marvelous,” Grandmère said, taking another swig from her Sidecar. “What about Larry King?”

Lilly tapped the headset she’d slipped on and said, “Antoine? Have you gotten hold of Larry K yet? No? Well, get on it.”

Larry K? The E word? What was HAPPENING?

Which is exactly what I wailed.

Grandmère and Lilly looked at me as if only just realizing I was there at all.

“Oh,” Lilly said, taking off the headset. “Mia. Right. The ELF thing? Don’t worry about it. Par for the course.”

PAR FOR THE COURSE???? Since when has Lilly known anything about golf?

“We didn’t want to trouble you, Amelia,” Grandmère said coolly, as she lit a cigarette. “It’s nothing, really. Tell me, is that really how you’re wearing your hair these days? Wouldn’t you like it better if it were a little…shorter?”

“What is going on?” I demanded, ignoring her hair question. “Is Genovia REALLY going to get expelled from the EU for what I did with the snails?”

Grandmère exhaled a long plume of blue smoke.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she informed me, casually.

My heart seemed to twist inside my chest. It’s true!

“Can they do that?” I demanded. “Can the European Union really kick us out because of a few snails?”

“Of course not.” This came from my dad, who’d wandered into the room, a cell phone clutched to his ear. I felt a momentary relief, until I realized he wasn’t speaking to me. He was talking into his cell phone.

“No,” he yelled at whoever was on the end of the line, as he bent to scoop up a handful of leftover sandwiches from the tray, then head back to his own suite. “She was acting entirely on her accord, not in the name of any global organization. Oh, really? Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. Maybe when you have a teenaged daughter of your own, you’ll understand.”

He slammed the door on his way out.

“Well,” Grandmère said, stubbing out her cigarette and reaching for the rest of her Sidecar. “Shall we talk about Amelia’s platform, then?”

“Excellent idea,” Lilly said, and pressed some buttons on her Palm Pilot.

So, now at least I know why GRANDMÈRE is so behind this presidency thing. It’s the only thing she can think of to keep reporters distracted from the whole Genovia being kicked out of the EU for ecoterrorism thing.

But what’s LILLY’s excuse? I mean, she’s the LAST person I ever thought Grandmère could turn to the dark side.

Et tu, Lilly?

My dad came back into the room between my Time and Newsweek interviews. He looked way stressed. I felt really bad, and apologized to him about the whole snail-dumping thing.

He seemed to take it in stride.

“Don’t worry too much about it, Mia,” he said. “We’ll probably get through this, if I can manage to impress upon everyone the fact that you were acting on your own accord as a private citizen, and not as regent.”

“And maybe,” I added, hopefully, “when people see that the snails are only doing good and not anything bad, they’ll change their minds.”

“That’s just it,” my dad said. “Your snails aren’t doing anything at all. According to the latest reports I’ve had from the Royal Genovian Naval Scuba Squad, they’re all just sitting down there. They are not, as you so passionately assured me they would, eating that damned seaweed.”

This was very disheartening to hear.

“Maybe they’re still in shock,” I said. “I mean, they were flown in from South America. They’ve probably never been that far from home before. It might take a while before they get acclimated to the new environment.”

“Mia, they’ve been down there for almost two weeks. In two weeks, you’d think they’d get a little hungry, and eat something.”

“Yeah, but maybe they had a big meal on the plane,” I said, feeling desperate. “I mean, I requested that they be kept as comfortable as possible during transport—”

My dad just looked at me.

“Mia,” he says. “Do me a favor. From now on, if you come up with any more grand schemes to save the bay from killer algae, run them by me first.”

Ouch.

Poor Dad. It’s really hard, being a prince.

I left right after that. But Lilly stayed. LILLY STAYED WITH MY GRANDMA. Because she still hadn’t managed to get through to Larry. Lilly told me if she could get me on Larry King, I’d be a shoo-in to beat Lana on Monday.

But I disagree. If it were TRL, maybe. But no one at AEHS watches CNN. Except Lilly, of course.

Anyway. I get why Grandmère is so into the idea of my running for student council president.

But what’s LILLY getting out of it? I mean, you would think, mad as she is about the security camera thing, SHE’D be the one running for president. What’s up with that, anyway?Thursday, September 10, the loft

So, guess where I’m staying while my mom and Mr. G are out of town? Yeah. That’d be at the Plaza.

WITH GRANDMÈRE.

Oh, they’re getting me my own room. BELIEVE ME. No WAY am I sleeping in the same suite as Grandmère. Not after that time she stayed over at the loft. I barely slept a wink the whole time she was there, she snored so loud. I could hear her all the way out in the living room.

Not to mention that she’s a total bathroom hog.

I guess I kind of expected it. I mean, no way would Mom and Mr. G let me stay alone at the loft. Even if, like, the entire Royal Genovian Guard was positioned on the roof of our building, ready to take out any potential international princess hostage-takers. Not after what happened during my birthday party.

Not that I even care. Not now that I am responsible for making the country over which I will one day rule the most hated land in Europe. Which is pretty hard to do, considering, you know, France.

I didn’t actually think it was possible for me to get more stressed than I already was, considering that:

I think I might be flunking Geometry after only three days of it.

My best friend is making me run for student council president against the most popular girl in school, who is going to crush me like a bug in a humiliating defeat in front of the entire student body on Monday.

My English teacher—the one I was so excited about and who I was sure was going to help mold me into the kind of writer I know in my heart I have the potential to be—seems to think my prose is so bad it should never be unleashed upon the unsuspecting public. Well, more or less.

My boyfriend apparently expects me to Do It.

I’m a baby-licker.

Thank God to all of that I get to add that I had ten thousand snails flown from South America and dumped into the Bay of Genovia in the hopes that they would consume the killer algae currently destroying our delicate ecosystem, only to discover that South American snails apparently don’t like European food and that Genovia’s neighbors now want nothing to do with us. Yay!

Why can’t I do ANYTHING right?

Maybe Becca is right. Maybe I should take up yoga. Except that I tried it that one time with Lilly and her mom at the 92nd Street Y, and they made you stick your butt up in the air the whole time. How is sticking your butt up into the air supposed to make you feel less stressed? It just made me feel MORE stressed, because I kept wondering what everyone was thinking about my butt.

Ordinarily, to soothe my frazzled nerves, I might write a poem or something.

However, it is impossible for me to write poetry, knowing, as I do, that at this very moment, Karen Martinez is poring over the piece of my soul that I handed to her. I hope she is aware that she is currently holding all of my dreams of ever succeeding as a novelist—or at least a hard-hitting international journalist—in her black-nail-polished fingers. I sincerely hope she won’t squash them like a bug under Fat Louie’s massive paw.

I know, you know, that it’s pretty unlikely I’ll ever actually get to DO any writing once I take over the throne, since I’ll be too busy begging the EU to let us back into it, and all.

But I think I would have liked to see a book or even just a newspaper article with the words “by Mia Thermopolis” on it.

Now I have to go make sure my mom is up on all the plane safety regulations. I mean, it is not like they are buying a seat for Rocky. She is going to have to hold him the whole time. I hope, in the event that their plane goes down, she is prepared to use her body as a human shield to keep Rocky from being consumed in a fiery conflagration.

Also, that Mr. G knows he has to count the number of rows between his seat and the nearest emergency exit, so that in the event of a water landing and the plane sinks and the lights go out, he will still be able to lead my mom and Rocky to safety.Thursday, September 10, the loft, later

Geesh! Talk about touchy! I don’t know why they got so mad. It’s important to know plane safety. I mean, that’s why the airline companies print those cards they stick in the back of the seats. Hello. Good thing I have been collecting them for years, so I was able to use them as illustrations for my baby-safety talk just now.

You would think people would be a little more appreciative of my proactiveness.

Someone’s IMing me…

Ooooooooooooooo, it’s Michael!

SKINNERBX: Hey! You’re home! Saw you on New York 1.

FTLOUIE: You SAW that??? OMG, how embarrassing.

SKINNERBX: No, you were good. Is that really true about the EU, though?

FTLOUIE: Apparently. My dad says it will be all right, though. He thinks. He hopes.

SKINNERBX: They should all be ashamed of themselves. Don’t they know you were just trying to correct THEIR mistake?

FTLOUIE: Totally. How was your day?

SKINNERBX: Great. Today in my Policymaking Under

Uncertainty seminar we talked about how satellite imaging has revealed that Yellowstone National Park is actually a massive caldera, or supervolcano, which is basically an underground reservoir for magma that has blown every 600,000 years, and is now about 40,000 years late for eruption. Also, that when it does blow, volcanic ash from the explosion would travel as far away as Iowa and the explosion would be 2,500 times more forceful than that of Mount St. Helens, killing tens of thousands immediately, and then millions more in the resulting nuclear winter. Unless, of course, we can figure out a way to relieve some of the pressure now and prevent what could be a global disaster.

Okay, I HAVE to say it. What kind of school is Michael going to, anyway?

SKINNERBX: Anyway. So are your mom and Mr. G still going away this weekend?

FTLOUIE: Yes. They’re making me stay with GRANDMÈRE.

SKINNERBX: Harsh. Your own room?

FTLOUIE: Of COURSE! Same floor, though. I hope I won’t still be able to hear her snore through the walls.

SKINNERBX: Does your dad have bodyguards posted in the actual hallway on that floor? Or are they just in neighboring rooms?

God, he asks the strangest questions sometimes. Boys are so WEIRD.

FTLOUIE: Lars and those guys stay on the floor below.

SKINNERBX: Are there security cameras?

The Moscovitz family is totally security camera paranoid these days.

FTLOUIE: No, there are no security cameras. Well, I mean, the hotel probably has them. Like in Maid in Manhattan. But not the RGG.

RGG is short for Royal Genovian Guard, which is what Lars is a member of.

FTLOUIE: What’s with all the questions, anyway? You planning on sneaking up there to steal the crown jewels? You already have a moon rock. What more do you want? Ha ha.

SKINNERBX: Ha ha. Yeah, no, I was just wondering. So, you’re still coming over Saturday, right?

FTLOUIE: It is the only thing I have to look forward to in my WHOLE LIFE RIGHT NOW.

SKINNERBX: I know. I miss you, too.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww. I mean, seriously. It may not be very feminist of me, but I love it when he says—or writes—stuff like this. Actually, writing is better because then I have actual proof, you know. That he loves me.

Then I heard a familiar sound.

FTLOUIE: Michael, I have to go. Rocky patrol.

SKINNERBX: Gotcha. Over and out.

You know, I really think Lana is wrong. Not ALL college boys expect their girlfriends to Do It. Because Michael hasn’t said a SINGLE word to me about it.

And once, after he paid for a couple of slices at Ray’s Pizza, he left his wallet on the table and I looked all through it—while he was in the men’s room—because I was curious about what boys keep in their wallets, and here is what I found:

Forty-eight dollars

MetroCard

Hayden Planetarium membership card

School ID

Driver’s license

Forbidden Planet Comic Superstore discount card

NYC Public Library card

But no condom.

Which just goes to show, my boyfriend clearly has other things on his mind than sex.

Such as the future energy crisis. And potential global disasters caused by supervolcanoes.

Which is a lot more than Lilly can say about Boris.

I mean, Tina.

Whoever.

Maybe Michael and I won’t ever even HAVE to have The Talk.Friday, September 11, PE

I hate her so much.Friday, September 11, Geometry

Seriously, where does she get off?

Theorem = statement that is proved by reasoning deductively from already accepted statements.

She only said it to get under my skin.

Right?

Because it can’t be true. It CAN’T be.

Can it?Friday, September 11, English

What was THAT about?????

What? Oh, the pom-pom squeezy thing? What do I want with a stupid squeezy thing shaped like a pom-pom that says VOTE FOR LANA on it? I hate Lana. Do you have any idea what she said to me today in PE? IN FRONT OF LILLY????

What?????

She said college boys whose girlfriends won’t Do It with them dump them for girls who will.

SHE DID NOT.

Oh, yes, she did. Right there in the shower. Right in front of everyone. In front of Lilly. Who’ll tell Michael now.

She won’t! Why would she?

Because he’s her brother.

She won’t. Some things you don’t tell your brother. Believe me, Mia, I have a brother. I know.

Tina. Your brother is three years old.

Okay, but whatever. Lilly won’t tell Michael. Anyway…what did she say when she heard?

She told Lana to cram it up her gym shorts.

See??? I told you.

Still!!!! You know what ELSE she said? Lana, I mean. She said boys HAVE to Do It, because if they don’t, it all backs up in there, and they go crazy.

Wait…what backs up in where?

YOU KNOW. Think Health and Safety. Last year.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!! And it doesn’t. Back up, I mean. Or Mr. Wheeton would have said so.

But it would explain why boys whose girlfriends don’t Do It have to dump them and find girls who will. Tina, what if it’s true???? What if Lana knows something we don’t know????

There’s a simple way to find out. Did you talk to Michael about it?

NOT YET!!! I TOLD YOU!!!!

Well, when you see him tomorrow, you’ll talk about it, and you’ll realize—

CAN YOU BELIEVE SHE IS STANDING OUT THERE, GIVING AWAY THESE STUPID THINGS???? She must have spent a FORTUNE on them. And look how cheap they are, you can scrape the VOTE FOR LANA part right off. It’s probably lead-based paint, too. I should give OSHA a call. Anyway, Mia, don’t feel inadequate. I put a call in to your grandmother, and it’s all under control. We’re going to find something for you to give away, too.

LILLY!!! I DON’T WANT TO GIVE ANYTHING AWAY!!! I DON’T EVEN WANT TO BE PRESIDENT!!!

Don’t worry, you won’t be.

YOU KEEP SAYING THAT, LILLY, AND YET EVERY TIME I TURN AROUND YOU’RE DOING SOMETHING ELSE TO HELP ME WIN, LIKE CALLING MY GRANDMOTHER AND GETTING HER TO GIVE AWAY FREE THINGS TO KIDS TO GET THEM TO VOTE FOR ME!!!!

Oooh, could you get Mia’s grandma to give away free tiaras? Because I would totally take one!

We can’t give away tiaras, Tina. It’s not in the budget. I’m looking into tiara-shaped squeezy things like Lana has, though.

WOULD YOU PLEASE LISTEN TO ME, LILLY???? I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!!!! THE MADNESS HAS GOT TO STOP!!!!!!!!

Calm down, PIT. Everything’s going to be all right. My brother’s not going to dump you for not Doing It with him. At least, not if he wants to keep his stupid dog alive.

!

Whatever. Lana’s on crack. Don’t worry about it. You know Michael’s not like that.

But he’s in COLLEGE now, Lilly. He’s CHANGING. Every time I talk to him he’s learned some new, heinous thing. And what about…you know. THE BACKUP.

Hello. It’s the Ivy League. No one is having sex there. Believe me. Did you SEE those girls the day we went to help him move in? Um, hello, it’s called shampoo. Try some.

It’s true, Mia. You’re MUCH cuter than all those genius Ivy League girls. Remember Elle’s study group in Legally Blonde?

Can we please focus on what’s important here? Tiara-shaped squeezy things. Yay or nay?

Oh, my God. She’s handing back my paper…and it’s…

…covered in little red marks. Oh, Mia. I’m so sorry. Mia? MIA? Friday, September 11, nurse’s office

I am lying here with a cool cloth over my forehead. Although, it is very hard to write in your journal AND keep a cool cloth on your forehead, I am finding out.

The nurse says to try to keep still and not think so much. Ha! Who does this nurse think she’s dealing with? It’s ME, Mia Thermopolis! It is impossible for me not to think so much. Thinking is all I ever do.

Fortunately, she can’t see me disobeying her orders because she went into her cubicle to fill out some forms. Hopefully, they’re forms to have me committed. I can’t debate Lana on Monday if I’m in a mental institution.

Nurse Lloyd says I’m not crazy, though. She says everybody has their breaking point, and when I walked out into the hallway after receiving another B in English, and saw my grandmother standing there in her tiara and ermine cape, handing out pens that say PROPRIÉTÉ DU PALAIS ROYAL DE GENOVIA to everyone walking by, I reached mine.

Nurse Lloyd says it’s not my fault I went mental, grabbed the box of pens out of Grandmère’s hands, and threw it at the security camera hanging outside the door to Principal Gupta’s office.

The camera’s not even broken. I mean, there are PENS all over the place.

But the camera is just fine.

I don’t know why they had to call my mom and dad.

Nurse Lloyd says I should just rest quietly until they get here. She is keeping Grandmère out at my request. Not that it’s Grandmère’s fault, really. I mean, she was just trying to help. Lilly must have called her and told her about Lana’s pom-pom-shaped squeezy things. So Grandmère felt obligated to rush over here with something she thought I could hand out.

Because who DOESN’T want a pen that says PROPRIÉTÉ DU PALAIS ROYAL DE GENOVIA on it?

Really, none of this is anyone’s fault. Except my own. I should never have handed that paper in to Ms. Martinez. What was I THINKING? How could I for ONE MINUTE have thought that she would appreciate a paper comparing Romeo and Juliet’s forbidden love with that of Britney Spears and Jason Allen Alexander? I mean, yeah, I poured my HEART and SOUL into it. I wanted the reader to feel Britney’s pain at the way she and Jason were torn apart by the media and her management and record company, so much that she had no choice but to rebound with Kevin. It’s so clear to me that these two childhood sweethearts were meant for each other….

I should have known Ms. Martinez wouldn’t share my concern for Britney. It’s quite clear she’s never REALLY listened to “Toxic.”

Oh, no.

SOMEONE’S COMING!!! MUST GET CLOTH BACK ON HEAD!!!!Friday, September 11, nurse’s office, later

It was just my dad. I asked him how he got here so fast, and he said because he’d been on his way to the French mission to argue with them about voting Genovia out of the EU.

This just made me feel worse. Because it reminded me of how I’d let my own people down so very badly with the whole snail thing.

Dad said not to worry about it, that if anyone should be voted out of the EU it should be Monaco for letting Jacques Cousteau dump South American seaweed into the Mediterranean in the first place, and also France, for sitting on their hands about it for a decade afterward. But, as he pointed out, that’s what France is best at, after all.

I apologized to Dad for interrupting his busy day of politicking, but he just patted my hand and said everyone is entitled to a “crying jag” now and then. I asked him if that was Nurse Lloyd’s clinical diagnosis of what had happened to me, and he said, “Not exactly,” but that he’s seen a lot of crying jags in his day. But never in someone who hadn’t had more Genovian prosecco than was good for her.

It’s very embarrassing to blubber like a big baby in front of the whole school, not to mention doing it later, in front of your dad. Especially when, you know, there’s no Kleenex whatsoever around because I had used it all up already. So, I had to blow my snot into my dad’s silk show-hanky. Not that he looked like he minded too much. He’ll probably just throw it away and buy a new one, like Britney Spears does with her underwear. It’s nice to be a prince. Or a pop star.

Anyway, Dad was way concerned and kept asking me what was wrong. What’s wrong, Dad? Oh, you mean other than everything?

Of course, the only thing I could TELL him about was the Ms. Martinez thing. Because I knew if I told him about how much the whole election thing was bumming me out, he wouldn’t understand, and he’d just say something all fathery like, “Oh, Mia, don’t put yourself down. You know you’ll do great.”

And God knows I couldn’t tell him about the Michael thing. I mean, I love my dad. I don’t want to cause his head to explode.

At first my dad totally didn’t believe me. You know, that I could get a B on an English paper. I had to pull out my paper and SHOW him.

And then his eyes got all squinty—but I think mostly because he’d left his reading glasses back in the limo—and he cleared his throat a bunch of times.

Then he said some stuff about how this was what he was getting for his twenty thousand dollars a year and what kind of world was it where a little girl’s dream could get shot down like so much skeet and that if this Ms. Martinez person thinks she can get away with this, she has another think coming.

So, you know. That was kind of entertaining for awhile, watching him hop around, all mad.

Finally, the nurse heard him, and she came in and shooed him out.

While Nurse Lloyd was shooing my dad out, though, my mom managed to sneak in, looking all flustered, with Rocky strapped to her. So I sat up and smelled his head for a while, because Rocky’s head smells almost as good as Michael’s neck, but in a much different way, of course.

Although, the smell of Rocky’s head cannot soothe my fractious soul the way the smell of Michael’s neck can.

While I smelled Rocky’s head, my mom said, “Mia, this is a really bad time for you to have a breakdown. Our flight to Indiana leaves in two hours.”

I assured my mom that I wasn’t having a breakdown, that it was just a crying jag. I didn’t mention what had brought it on. You know, the part about what Lana had told me about college boys. And then Ms. Martinez shooting down my dreams of being a writer. Instead, I just said maybe I still had jet lag from my summer in Genovia, and all.

“This isn’t jet lag,” my mother said, scornfully. “This has Clarisse Renaldo written all over it.”

Well, I hadn’t wanted to say so out loud. At least, not to my mom, who has enough reasons not to like Grandmère.

But it IS true that the straw that broke the camel’s back was seeing Grandmère passing out pens in the hallway.

“She means well,” I pointed out to my mom.

“Does she?” Mom looked dubious.

But I assured my mom that this time, Grandmère had only the good of the crown at heart. After all, if my student electoral campaign kept the press away from the story about Genovia being voted out of the EU, it was totally worth it.

Sort of.

Mom didn’t look like she believed this, though.

“Mia, if you want to quit this election thing, just say the word. I’ll make it happen.”

My mom can look pretty fierce when she wants to—even with a baby as adorable as Rocky strapped to her chest. Really, if I had to make a choice between debating Lana and debating my mom about something, I’d pick Lana every time.

“No, Mom, it’s okay,” I said. “I’m okay. Really. So…are you going to look up Wendell when you get back to Versailles?”

My mom was busy fussing with Rocky’s foot, which had gotten all tangled up in the Tibetan prayer flags she had hanging from his carrier. “Who?”

“Wendell Jenkins.” God! I can’t believe she doesn’t even remember the man to whom she gave the gift of the flower of her virginity. “He still lives there. He and April. He works for the power company. And did you know April was a corn princess?”

Mom looked amused. “Really? How do you know all this, Mia?”

“Yahoo! People Search,” I said. “If you run into April, be sure to tell her, you know, how you’re the mother of the princess of Genovia. That’s a lot better than being a corn princess, even if we ARE about to be thrown out of the EU.”

“I’ll be sure to,” Mom said. “You’re positive you’re going to be okay? Because I won’t go to Versailles if you don’t want me to.”

I assured Mom I would be fine. At which point Nurse Lloyd came back in and, finding my mother there, basically assured her of the same thing. Then, after letting Nurse Lloyd coo over Rocky for a while—because he is the cutest baby there ever was, and no one who sees him can HELP but coo over him—Mom left, and I was all alone with Nurse Lloyd again.

Which, you know, reminded me that there was something I needed to know. And a member of the health profession was the perfect person to ask, since I couldn’t go to Yahoo! Health as there wasn’t a computer handy.

“Nurse Lloyd,” I said, from around the thermometer she’d shoved under my tongue, to make sure I was well and truly cured, and could be sent back to class.

“Yes, Mia?” She was looking at her watch as she took my pulse.

“Is it true that if college boys don’t Do It, it backs up?”

Nurse Lloyd snorted. “Is that one still really going around? Mia, you should know better. You took Health and Safety, didn’t you?”

“Then…it’s not true?”

“It most certainly is not.” Nurse Lloyd let go of my wrist and took the thermometer out of my mouth. “And don’t let any of them try to tell you differently. And PS, any condom that’s been in a wallet for an extended period of time should be discarded and replaced with a new one. Friction from movement while carrying the wallet in a pocket can cause tiny holes to develop in the latex.”

I just stared at her with my mouth hanging open. HOW HAD SHE KNOWN ABOUT THIS?

Nurse Lloyd just looked down at the thermometer and said, “I’ve been in this job a long time. Oh, look, ninety-eight point six. You’re cured. You can go now, if you want. But before you do, Mia, just one more thing.”

I looked at her expectantly.

“You must stop bottling things up inside,” she said. “I know you like to write a lot in your diary—yes, I saw you—and that’s great. But you’ve got to VERBALIZE your feelings as well. Especially if you’re angry or upset with someone. The more you keep it buried inside, the more something like what happened today is going to happen. I know princesses are told to keep a stiff upper lip and all of that, but the truth is, if anyone shouldn’t be letting things get backed up, it’s you. Do you understand me?”

I nodded. Nurse Lloyd may be the smartest person I have ever met. And that includes all the geniuses I happen to be best friends with or date.

“Fine. Just let me write you a hall pass,” said Nurse Lloyd.

Which is what she’s doing now.

Do you know what?

NURSE LLOYD IS THE BOMB!!!!!

Note to self: Tell Tina to make Boris buy a new condom before they Do It on Prom Night.Friday, September 11, third-floor stairwell

When I came out of the nurse’s office, Lilly was sitting there in the hallway waiting for me. She had three detention slips in her hand, because hall monitors had come around and found her there and written her up.

But she says she doesn’t care, because she HAD to make sure I was all right. She says she HAD to see me.

Remembering what Nurse Lloyd had said about not keeping things bottled up inside, I told Lilly I HAD to see her, too.

So we escaped up here, where no one will find us, unless someone needs to get to the roof. But the only time anyone needs to go to the roof around here is if some kid from the building next door has thrown his Pikachu or whatever out the window, onto the school’s rooftop, and the custodian or the doorman from next door has to come up here to get it.

Anyway, at first I have to admit I was kind of distant to Lilly, because, hello, she is at least partially responsible for my crying jag. I mean, pens from the palace????

“But people love them,” was her big excuse. “Seriously, Mia, people are, like, keeping them as souvenirs. Not everyone gets to go live in a palace every summer like you do, Mia.”

“That’s not the point.” I can’t believe that, even though Lilly is a genius and all, she needs to have stuff like this explained to her. “The point is that you promised me I wouldn’t have to go through with this.”

Lilly just blinked at me. “When did I say that?”

“LILLY!” I couldn’t believe it. “You swore I wouldn’t end up having to be student council president!”

“I know,” Lilly said. “And you won’t.”

“But you also promised me Lana wouldn’t crush me in a humiliating defeat in front of everyone!”

“I know,” Lilly said. “She won’t.”

“LILLY!” I felt like the top of my head was going to blow off. “If Lana doesn’t beat me, I WILL be president.”

“No, you won’t,” Lilly said. “I will.”

Now it was my turn to blink. “WHAT? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it does,” Lilly said, calmly. “See, what’s going to happen is, you’re going to win the election—because you’re a princess, and you’re nice to everyone, and people like you. Then, after a suitable period of time—say, two or three days—you’re going to have to—regretfully, of course—step down from the presidency on account of being too busy with the whole princess thing. That is when I, whom you will have appointed your vice president, will have to assume the mantle of presidential responsibility.” Lilly shrugged. “See? Simple.”

I stared at Lilly, completely dumbfounded.

“Wait a minute. You’re doing all of this just so YOU can be president?”

Lilly nodded.

“But, Lilly…why didn’t you just run, then?”

That’s when something totally unexpected happened. Lilly’s eyes, behind the lenses of her glasses, totally filled up with tears. Next thing I knew, she was having a crying jag of her very own.

“Because there’s no way I could ever win,” she said, with a sob. “Don’t you remember how I got crushed in last year’s election? Nobody likes me. Not the way they like you, Mia. I mean, you may be a baby-licker and all, but people seem to be able to relate to you, even with the whole princess thing. NOBODY can relate to me…maybe because I’m a genius, and that’s intimidating to people, or something. I don’t know why, really. I mean, you would think people would want the smartest leader they could find, but instead, they seem perfectly content to elect total MORONS.”

I tried not to take Lilly’s calling me a moron to heart. After all, she was in the middle of a full-blown personal crisis.

“Lilly,” I said, astonishedly. “I didn’t know you thought of yourself that way. You know. As not popular.”

Lilly looked up from the detention slips she was weeping into.

“Wh-Why w-would I ever consider myself popular?” she stammered, sorrowfully. “Y-You’re the only real friend I’ve got.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “You have lots of friends. Shameeka and Ling Su and Tina—”

Lilly started to cry harder at the mention of Tina’s name. Too late, I remembered Boris, and his new hotness.

“Oh,” I said, patting Lilly on the shoulder. “Sorry. What I meant was…Well, whatever. People DO like you, Lilly. It’s just that sometimes…”

Lilly lifted her tear-stained face.

“Wh-What?” she asked.

“Well,” I said. “Sometimes you’re kind of mean to people. Like me. With the whole baby-licker thing.”

“But you ARE a baby-licker,” Lilly pointed out.

“Yes,” I said. “But, you know, you don’t need to SAY it all the time.”

Lilly rested her chin on her knees.

“I guess not,” she said with a sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

While I had her in a conciliatory mood, I added, “And I don’t like it when you call me POG or PIT, either.”

Lilly looked at me blankly.

“Then what am I supposed to call you?”

“How about just plain Mia?”

Lilly seemed to think about this.

“But…that’s so boring,” she said.

“But it’s my name,” I pointed out.

Lilly sighed again.

“Fine,” she said. “Whatever. You have no idea how good you have it, POG. I mean, Mia.”

“Good? ME? Please!” I practically burst out laughing. “My life is TERRIBLE right now. Did you SEE what Ms. Martinez gave me on my paper?”

Lilly wiped her eyes.

“Well, yeah,” she said. “She WAS a little harsh. But a B isn’t really that bad, Mia. Besides, I saw your dad headed toward her classroom a little while ago. He looked like he was going to read her the riot act.”

“Yeah, but what good is that going to do me?” I wanted to know. “I mean, it’s not going to change her mind about my writing talent…or lack thereof. It’s just going to make her, you know. Scared of my dad.”

Lilly just shook her head.

“Yeah,” she said. “But at least you have a boyfriend.”

“Who’s in COLLEGE,” I reminded her. “And who apparently expects—”

“Oh, please,” Lilly said. “Not that stupid Lana thing again. When are you going to get it through your head that Lana doesn’t know what she’s talking about? I mean, do you see HER dating a college boy?”

“No,” I said. “But—”

“Yeah, well, there might be a REASON for that. And if what it says all over the ladies’ room wall is true, it is NOT because Lana has any reservations about Doing It.”

We both sat there and thought about that for awhile. Then Lilly said, “So, are your mom and Mr. G still going to Indiana for the weekend?”

“Yes,” I said, and then added quickly, “but there isn’t going to be any party at my place, because I’m staying at the Plaza.”

“In your own room?” Lilly asked. When I nodded, she said, “Sweet.” Then she said, “Hey, you should have a slumber party.”

I looked at her like she was crazy.

“At the hotel?”

“Sure,” Lilly said. “It’ll be fun. And we need to work on your debate skills, anyway. We could do a mock run-through. How about it?”

“Well,” I said. “I guess so.”

Although, I’m not sure how Dad and Grandmère are going to feel about this. My having a slumber party at the Plaza.

But, oh well. If it’ll make Lilly happy, I guess it’s worth it. I seriously never knew she felt that way about herself. You know, that she’s not popular. I mean, I know Lilly isn’t very popular. But I never knew SHE knew it. She always ACTS like she thinks she’s the queen of the school.