by Meg Cabot
Mia, I thought you prided yourself on the fact that you and Michael had this open and honest relationship. Why don’t you just ask him if he plans on going?
I CAN’T DO THAT! I mean, then it will sound like I am asking him to ask me.
No, it won’t.
Yes, it will.
No, it won’t.
Yes, it will.
No, it won’t. And not all coeds have large breasts. You really ought to speak to a mental health specialist about this absurd fixation you have with the size of your chest. It’s not healthy.
Oh, there’s the bell, THANK GOD!!!!!!!
Wednesday, April 30, Gifted and Talented
IT IS NOT FAIR. I mean, I know my friends have more important things on their minds than the prom—Michael is busy with graduation and Skinner Box, his band; Lilly’s got her TV show which, even if it is still only on the public access channel, continues to break new ground in television news journalism every week; Tina’s still looking for a guy to replace her ex, Dave Farouq El-Abar, in her heart; Shameeka’s got cheerleading; and Ling Su has Art Club and all.
But HELLO!!!!!!! Isn’t ANYONE thinking about the prom? ANYONE AT ALL, besides me and Shameeka??? I mean, it is next week, and Michael hasn’t asked me yet. NEXT WEEK!!!! Shameeka is right, if we are going, we really have to start planning for it now.
Only how am I supposed to ask Michael whether or not he is planning on asking me? You can’t do that. That fully ruins the romance of the thing. I mean, it’s bad enough that my own mother was the one who had to propose when she found out she was pregnant. When I asked her how Mr. G popped the question, my mom said he didn’t. She said the conversation went like this:
Helen Thermopolis:
Frank, I’m pregnant.
Mr. Gianini:
Oh. Okay. What do you want to do?
Helen Thermopolis:
Marry you.
Mr. Gianini:
Okay.
HELLO!!!!!!!!! Where is the romance in THAT????
“Frank, I’m pregnant, let’s get married.” “Okay.” AAAAACKKKK!!!!
How about:
Helen Thermopolis:
Frank, the seed from your loins has sprung to fruition in my womb.
Mr. Gianini:
Helen, I have never heard such joyous news in all of my thirty-seven years. Will you do me the very great honor of becoming my bride, my soul mate, my life partner?
Helen Thermopolis:
Yes, my sweet protector.
Mr. Gianini:
My life! My hope! My love!(KISS)
That’s how it SHOULD have gone. Look at the difference. It is so much better when the guy asks the girl instead of the girl asking the guy.
So obviously, I can’t just walk up to Michael and be all:
Mia Thermopolis:
So are we going to the prom or what? ’Cause I need to buy my dress.
Michael Moscovitz:
Okay.
NO!!!!!!!!! That will never work!!!!!!! Michael has to ask ME. He has to be all:
Michael Moscovitz:
Mia, the past five months have been the most magical of my life. Being with you is like having a refreshing ocean breeze blowing constantly against my passion-fevered brow. You are my sole reason for living, the purpose for which my heart beats. It would be the greatest honor of my life if I could escort you to the senior prom, where, you must promise, you will dance every single dance with me, except the fast ones that we will sit down during, because they are lame.
Mia Thermopolis:
Oh, Michael, this is so sudden! I simply wasn’t expecting it. But I adore you with every fiber of my being, so of course I will go to the prom with you, and dance every single dance with you, except the fast ones because they are lame. (KISS)
That’s how it should go. If there is any justice in the world, that’s how it WILL go.
But WHEN? When is he going to ask me? I mean, look at him over there. He is so clearly NOT thinking about the prom. He is arguing with Boris Pelkowski over the fingering for their band’s new song, “Rock-Throwing Youths,” a searing criticism of the current situation in the Middle East. I am sorry, but someone who is worrying about strut placement and the situation in the Middle East is HARDLY LIKELY TO REMEMBER TO ASK HIS GIRLFRIEND TO THE PROM.
This is what I get for falling in love with a genius.
Not that Michael isn’t a perfectly attentive boyfriend. I mean, I know a lot of girls—like Tina, for instance—are totally jealous of me for having such a hot and yet so incredibly supportive life mate. I mean, Michael ALWAYS sits next to me at lunch, every single day, except Tuesdays and Thursdays when he has a Computer Club meeting during lunch. But even then he gazes at me longingly from the Computer Club table on the other side of the caf.
Well, okay, maybe not longingly, but he smiles at me sometimes when he catches me staring at him from across the cafeteria and trying to figure out who he looks like the most—Josh Hartnett or a dark-haired Heath Ledger.
And okay, so Michael doesn’t feel comfortable with public displays of affection—which is no big surprise, seeing as how everywhere I go I am followed by a six-foot-five Swedish expert in Krav Maga—so it’s not like he ever kisses me in school or holds my hand in the hallway or sticks his hand in the back pocket of my overalls when we are strolling down the street or leans his body up against mine when we’re at my locker the way Josh does to Lana….
But when we are alone… when we are alone… when we are alone…
Oh, all right, so we haven’t gotten to second base yet. Well, except for that one time during Spring Break when we were building that house. But I think that might have been a mistake, on account of my hammer was hanging by its claw from the bib of my overalls and Michael asked to borrow it and I couldn’t hand it to him because I was busy holding up that sheet of drywall, so his hand sort of accidentally brushed up against my chest while he was reaching…
Still. We are perfectly happy together. More than happy. We are ecstatically happy.
SO WHY HASN’T HE ASKED ME TO THE PROM?????????????????
Oh, my God. Lilly just leaned over to see what I was writing and saw that last part. That is what I get for using capital letters. She just went, “Oh, God, don’t tell me you’re still obsessing over that.”
As if that weren’t bad enough, Michael looked up and went, “Obsessing over what?” (!!!!!!!!!!!)
I thought Lilly was going to say something!!!!!!!!!! I thought she was going to go, “Oh, Mia’s just having an embolism because you haven’t asked her to the prom yet.”
But she just went, “Mia’s working on an essay about methane ice worms.”
Michael said, “Oh,” and turned back to his guitar.
Trust Boris to go, “Oh, methane ice worms. Yes, of course. If they turn out to be ubiquitous on shallow seafloor gas deposits, they could have a significant impact on how methane deposits are formed and dissolve in seawater, and how we go about mining and otherwise harvesting natural gas as a source of energy.”
Which, you know, is good to know for my essay and all, but seriously. Why does he even know this?
I don’t know how Lilly puts up with him. I really don’t.
Wednesday, April 30, French
Thank God for Tina Hakim Baba. At least SHE understands how I feel. AND she totally sympathizes. She says that it has always been her dream to go to the prom with the man she loves—like Molly Ringwald dreamed of going to the prom with Andrew McCarthy in Pretty in Pink.
Sadly for Tina, however, the man she loves—or once loved—dumped her for a girl named Jasmine with turquoise braces. But Tina says she will learn to love again, if she can find a man willing to break down the self-defensive emotional wall she has built around herself since Dave Farouq El-Abar’s betrayal. It was looking like Peter Tsu, whom Tina met over Spring Break, might succeed, but Peter’s obsession with Korn soon drove her away, as it would any right-thinking woman.
Tina thinks Michael is going to ask tomorro
w, on my birthday. About the prom, I mean. Oh, please let that be true! It would be the best birthday present anyone has ever given me. Except for when my mom gave me Fat Louie, of course.
Except I hope he doesn’t do it, you know, in front of my family. Because Michael is coming out with us on my birthday. We are going to dinner tomorrow night with Grandmère and my dad and mom and Mr. Gianini. Oh, and Lars, of course. And then on Saturday night, my mom is having a big blow-out party for me and all of my friends at the loft (that is, providing she can still walk then, on account of her you-know-what).
I haven’t mentioned Mom’s problem with her you-know-what to Michael, though. I believe in having a fully open and honest relationship with the man you love, but seriously, there are some things he just doesn’t need to know. Like that your pregnant mother has problems with her bladder.
I invited only Michael to both the dinner and the party. Everyone else, including Lilly, is just invited to the party. Hello, how unromantic would that be, to have your birthday dinner with your mom, your stepdad, your real dad, your grandma, your bodyguard, your boyfriend, and his sister. At least I was able to narrow it down a little.
Michael said he would come to both, the dinner and the party, which I thought was very brave of him, and further proof that he is the best boyfriend who ever lived.
If I could just nail him down on this prom thing, though.
Tina says I should just come out and ask him. Michael, I mean. Tina is now a staunch believer in being very up front with boys, on account of how she played games with Dave and he fled from her into the arms of the turquoise-toothed Jasmine. But I don’t know. I mean, this is the PROM. The prom is special. I don’t want to mess it up. Especially since I’m only going to be able to see Michael for, like, another two months before my dad drags me off to Genovia for the summer. Which is so totally unfair. “But you signed a contract, Mia,” is what he keeps saying to me. My dad, I mean.
Yeah, I signed a contract, like a year ago. Okay, seven months ago. How was I supposed to know then that I would fall madly and passionately in love? Well, okay, I was madly and passionately in love back then, but hello, it was with somebody totally different. And the real object of my affection didn’t like me back. Or if he did (he says he did!!!!!!!!!), I didn’t exactly know it, did I?
And now my dad expects me to spend two whole months away from the man to whom I have pledged my heart?
Oh, no. I don’t think so.
It is one thing to spend Christmas in Genovia. I mean, that was only thirty-two days. But July and August? I’m supposed to spend two whole months away from him?
Well, it is so not happening. My dad thinks he’s being all reasonable about it, since originally he was going to make me spend the WHOLE summer in Genovia. But since Mom’s due date is in June, he’s acting like it’s this big concession to let me stay in New York until the baby’s born. Oh, yeah. Thanks, Dad.
Well, he is just going to have to exhale, because if he thinks I am spending the last two months of the first summer of my life with an actual boyfriend away from said boyfriend, then he is in for a very big surprise. I mean, what is there even to do in Genovia in the summer? NOTHING. The place is lousy with tourists (well, so is New York, but whatever, New York tourists are different, they are much less repulsive than the ones who go to Genovia) and Parliament isn’t even in session. What am I going to do all day? I mean, at least here there’ll be the whole baby thing, once my mom hurries up and has it, which I actually wish would be sooner than June because it is like living with Sasquatch, I swear to God, all she does is stomp around and grunt at us, she is in such a bad mood on account of all the water weight and the pressure on her you-know-what (my mom shares WAY too much information sometimes).
Whatever happened to pregnancy being the most magical time in a woman’s life? Whatever happened to being full of the wonder and glory of creation?
Clearly my mom has never heard of either of those things.
The point is, this is Michael’s last summer before he leaves for college. And okay, the college he is going to is just a few subway stops uptown, but whatever, I am not going to see him at school anymore after this. For instance, he is no longer going to be swinging by my Algebra class to give me strawberry Gummi Worms like he did this morning, to the wrath of Lana Weinberger, who is just jealous because her boyfriend Josh NEVER surprises her with Gummi Worms.
No. Michael and I should be spending this summer together, having lovely picnics in Central Park (except that I hate having picnics in public parks because all the homeless people come around and look longingly at your egg-salad sandwich or whatever, and then you have to give it to them because you feel so guilty about having so much when others have nothing, and they are usually not even grateful, they usually say something like, “I hate egg salad,” which is very ungracious if you ask me) and seeing Tosca on the Great Lawn (except that I hate opera because everybody dies all tragically at the end, but whatever). There’s still strolling through one of those random saint festivals they’re always having in Little Italy and Michael maybe winning me a stuffed animal at the air-rifle booth (except that he is ethically opposed to guns, as am I, except if you are a member of law enforcement or a soldier or whatever, and those stuffed animals they give away at fairs are fully made by children in Guatemalan sweatshops).
Still. It could have been totally romantic, if my dad hadn’t gone and ruined it all.
Lilly says my father clearly has abandonment issues from when his father died and left him all alone with Grandmère, and that’s why he is being so totally rigid on the whole spending-my-summer-in-Genovia thing.
Except that Grandpère died when my dad was in his twenties—not exactly his formative years—so I don’t see how this is possible. But Lilly says the human psyche works in strange and mysterious ways and that I should just accept that and move on.
I think the person with issues might be Lilly, on account of how it’s been almost four months since her cable access television program Lilly Tells It Like It Is was optioned by the producers who made the movie based on my life and they still haven’t managed to find a studio willing to tape a pilot episode. But Lilly says the entertainment industry works in strange and mysterious ways (just like the human psyche) and that she has accepted it and moved on, just like I should about the whole Genovian thing.
BUT I WILL NEVER ACCEPT THE FACT THAT MY DAD WANTS ME TO SPEND SIXTY-TWO WHOLE DAYS AWAY FROM THE MAN I LOVE!!!! NEVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tina says I should try to get a summer internship somewhere here in Manhattan, and then my dad won’t be able to make me go to Genovia, on account of how that would be shirking my responsibilities here. Only I don’t know of any place that would want a princess for an intern. I mean, what would Lars do all day while I was alphabetizing files or making photocopies or whatever?
When I walked in before class started, Mademoiselle Klein was showing some of the sophomore girls a picture of this slinky dress she is ordering from Victoria’s Secret to wear to the prom. She is a chaperone. So is Mr. Wheeton, the track coach and my Health and Safety teacher. They are going together. Tina says it is the most romantic thing she has ever heard of, besides my mom and Mr. Gianini. I have not revealed to Tina the painful truth about my mom being the one to propose to Mr. Gianini, because I don’t want to crush all of Tina’s fondest dreams. I have also hidden from her the fact that I don’t think Prince William is ever going to e-mail her back. That’s on account of how I gave her a fake e-mail address for him. Well, I had to do something to get her to quit bugging me for it. And I’m sure whoever is at [email protected] is very appreciative of her five page testimonial to how much she loves him, especially when he is wearing his polo jodhpurs.
I sort of feel bad about lying to Tina, but it was only to make her feel better. And someday I really will get Prince William’s real e-mail address for her. I just have to wait until somebody important dies, and I see him at the state funeral. It probably won’t be long—Eliza
beth Taylor is looking pretty shaky.
Il me faut des lunettes de soleil.
Didier demand a essayer la jupe.
I don’t know how someone who is as deeply in love with Mr. Wheeton as Mademoiselle Klein is supposed to be can assign us so much homework. Whatever happened to spring, when the world is mud luscious and the little lame balloon man whistles far and wee?
Nobody who teaches at this school has a grain of romance in them. Ditto most of the people who go here, too. Without Tina, I would be truly lost.
Jeudi, j’ai fait de l’aerobic.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: pages 279–300
English:The Iceman Cometh
Biology: Finish ice worm essay
Health and Safety: pages 154–160
Gifted and Talented: As if
French: Écrivez une histoire personel
World Civ: pages 310–330
Wednesday, April 30, in the limo on the way home from the Plaza
Grandmère fully knows there is something up with me. But she thinks it’s because I’m upset over the whole going-to-Genovia-for-the-summer thing. As if I don’t have much more immediate concerns.
“We shall have a lovely time in Genovia this summer, Amelia. They are currently excavating a tomb they believe might belong to your ancestress, Princess Rosagunde. I understand that the Genovian mummification processes used in the eighth century were really every bit as advanced as ones employed by the Egyptians. You might actually get to gaze upon the face of the woman who founded the royal house of Renaldo.”
Great. I get to spend my summer looking up some old mummy’s nasal cavity. My dream come true. Sorry, Mia. No hanging out with your true love at Coney Island for you. No fun volunteer work tutoring little kids with their reading. No cool summer job at Kim’s Video, rewinding Princess Mononoke and Fist of the North Star. No, you get to commune with a thousand-year-old corpse. Yippee!