by Meg Cabot
But by the time I got out of the bathroom, Grandmère had been thoroughly dabbed by the maître d’. All you could see of the soup were these wet spots all over her chest. I completely missed out on all the fun (as usual). Instead, I got there just in time to see the maître d’ imperiously ordering the poor busboy to turn in his dishtowel: He was fired.
FIRED!!! And for something that was fully not his fault!
Jangbu—that was the busboy’s name—totally looked as if he were going to cry. He kept saying over and over again how sorry he was. But it didn’t matter. Because if you spill soup on a dowager princess in New York City, you can kiss your career in the restaurant biz good-bye. It would be like if a gourmet cook got caught going to McDonald’s in Paris. Or if P. Diddy got caught buying underwear at Wal-Mart. Or if Nicky and Paris Hilton got caught lying around in their Juicy Couture sweats on a Saturday night, watching National Geographic Explorer, instead of going out to party. It is simply Not Done.
I tried to reason with the maître d’ on Jangbu’s behalf, after Michael told me what had happened. I said in no way could Grandmère hold the restaurant responsible for what HER dog had done. A dog she wasn’t even supposed to have HAD in the restaurant in the first place.
But it didn’t do any good. The last I saw of Jangbu, he was sadly heading back toward the kitchen.
I tried to get Grandmère, who was, after all, the injured party—or the allegedly injured party, since of course she wasn’t in the least bit hurt—to talk the maître d’ into giving Jangbu his job back. But she remained stubbornly unmoved by my pleas on Jangbu’s behalf. Even my reminding her that many busboys are immigrants, new to this country, with families to support back in their native lands, left her cold.
“Grandmère,” I cried, in desperation. “What makes Jangbu so different from Johanna, the African orphan you are sponsoring on my behalf? Both are merely trying to make their way on this planet we call Earth.”
“The difference,” Grandmère informed me, as she held Rommel close, trying to calm him down (it took the combined efforts of Michael, my dad, Mr. G, and Lars to finally catch Rommel, right before he made a run for it through the revolving door and out to Fifth Avenue and to freedom on the toy poodle underground railroad) “between Johanna and Jangbu is that Johanna did not spill SOUP ALL OVER ME!”
God. She is such a CRAB sometimes.
So now here I am, knowing that somewhere in the city— Queens, most likely—is currently a young man whose family will probably starve, and all because of MY BIRTHDAY. That’s right. Jangbu lost his job because I WAS BORN.
I’m sure wherever Jangbu is right now, he is wishing I wasn’t. Born, that is.
And I can’t say that I blame him one little bit.
Friday, May 2, 1 a.m., the loft
My snowflake necklace is really nice, though. I am never ever taking it off.
Friday, May 2, 1:05 a.m., the loft
Well, except maybe when I go swimming. Because I wouldn’t want it to get lost.
Friday, May 2, 1:10 a.m., the loft
He loves me!
Friday, May 2, Algebra
Oh, my God. It is all over the city. About Grandmère and the incident at Les Hautes Manger last night, I mean. It must be a slow news day, because even The Post picked it up. It was right there on the front cover at the newsstand on the corner:
A ROYAL MESS, screams The Post.
PRINCESS AND THE PEA(SOUP), claims The Daily News (erroneously, since it wasn’t pea soup at all, but lobster bisque).
It even made The Times! You would think that The New York Times would be above reporting something like that, but there it was, in the Metro Section. Lilly pointed it out as she climbed into the limo with Michael this morning.
“Well, your grandmother’s certainly done it this time,” Lilly says.
As if I didn’t already know it! As if I wasn’t already suffering from the crippling guilt of knowing that I was, even in an indirect manner, to blame for Jangbu’s loss of livelihood!
Although I do have to admit that I was somewhat distracted from my grief over Jangbu by the fact that Michael looked so incredibly hot, as he does every morning when he gets into my limo. That is because when we go to pick him and Lilly up for school, Michael has always just shaved, and his face is looking all smooth. Michael is not a particularly hairy person, but it is true that by the end of the day—which is when we usually end up doing our kissing, since we are both somewhat shy people, I think, and we have the cover of darkness to hide our burning cheeks—Michael’s facial hair has gotten a bit on the sandpapery side. In fact, I can’t help thinking that it would be much nicer to kiss Michael in the morning, when his face is all smooth, than at night, when it is all scratchy. Especially his neck. Not that I have ever thought about kissing my boyfriend’s neck. I mean, that would just be weird.
Although as far as boys’ necks go, Michael has a very nice one. Sometimes on the rare occasions when we are actually alone long enough to start making out, I put my nose next to Michael’s neck and just inhale. I know it sounds strange, but Michael’s neck smells really, really nice, like soap. Soap and something else. Something that makes me feel like nothing bad could ever happen to me, not when I am in Michael’s arms, smelling his neck.
IF ONLY HE WOULD ASK ME TO THE PROM!!!!!!!!! Then I could spend a whole NIGHT smelling his neck, only it would look like we were dancing, so no one, not even Michael, would know.
Wait a minute. What was I saying before I got distracted by the smell of my boyfriend’s neck?
Oh, yes. Grandmère. Grandmère and Jangbu.
Anyway, none of the newspaper articles about what happened last night mention the part about Rommel. Not one. There is not even a hint of a suggestion that the whole thing might possibly have been Grandmère’s own fault. Oh no! Not at all!
But Lilly knows about it, on account of Michael having told her. And she had a lot to say about it.
“What we’ll do,” she said, “is we’ll start making signs in Gifted and Talented class, and then we’ll go over after school.”
“Go over where?” I wanted to know. I was still busy staring at Michael’s smooth neck.
“To Les Hautes Manger,” Lilly said. “To start the protest.”
“What protest?” All I seemed to be able to think about was whether my neck smells as good to Michael as his does to me. To tell the truth, I cannot even remember a time when Michael might have smelled my neck. Since he is taller than me, it is very easy for me to put my nose up to his neck and smell it. But for him to smell mine, he would have to lean down, which might look a bit weird, and could conceivably cause whiplash.
“The protest against their unfair dismissal of Jangbu Panasa!” Lilly shouted.
Great. So now I know what I am doing after school. Like I don’t have enough problems, what with
My princess lessons with Grandmère
Homework
Worrying about the party Mom is having for me Saturday night and the fact that probably no one will show up, and even if they do it is entirely possible that my mom and Mr. G might do something to embarrass me, such as complain about their bodily functions or possibly start playing the drums
Next week’s menu for The Atom being due
The fact that my father expects me to spend sixty-two days with him in Genovia this summer
My boyfriend still not having asked me to the prom
Oh, no, let me just FORGET ALL ABOUT all of THAT stuff and worry about Jangbu. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am totally worried about him, but hello, I have my own problems, too. Like the fact that Mr. G just passed back the quizzes from Monday, and mine has a big red C minus on it and a note: SEE ME.
Um, hello, Mr. G, like I didn’t just see you AT BREAKFAST. You couldn’t have mentioned this THEN?
Oh, my God, Lana just turned around and slapped a copy of New York Newsday on my desk. There is a huge picture on the cover of Grandmère leaving Les Hautes Manger with Rommel cowering in her arms, an
d bits of lobster bisque still stuck to her skirt.
“Why is your family so full of FREAKS?” Lana wants to know.
You know what, Lana? That is a very good question.
Friday, May 2, French
I cannot believe Mr. G. The nerve of him, suggesting that my relationship with Michael is DISTRACTING me from my schoolwork! As if Michael has ever done anything but try to help me to understand Algebra. Hello!
And okay, so Michael comes in to visit me every morning before class starts. So what? How is that harming anyone? I mean, yeah, it makes LANA mad, because Josh Richter NEVER comes in to see HER before class, because he is too busy admiring his highlights in the mens’-room mirror. But how is THAT distracting me from my schoolwork?
I am going to have to have a serious talk with my mother, because I think the impending birth of his first child is turning Mr. G into a misanthrope. So what if I got a 69 on the last quiz? A person can have an off day, can’t she? That does NOT mean that my grades are slipping, or that I am spending too much time with Michael, or thinking about smelling his neck every waking moment of the day, or anything like that.
And Mr. G suggesting that I spent the entirety of second period this morning writing in my journal is completely laughable. I fully paid attention to his little lecture about the polynomials toward the last ten minutes or so of class. PLEASE!
And that thing where I wrote HRH Michael Moscovitz Renaldo seventeen times at the bottom of my worksheet was just a JOKE. God. Mr. G, what happened to you? You used to have a sense of humor.
Friday, May 2, Bio
M,
So… did he ask you last night? At your birthday dinner.
—S
No.
Mia! There are exactly eight days until the prom. You are going to have to take matters into your own hands and just ask him.
SHAMEEKA! You know I can’t do that.
Well, it’s getting to be crunch time. If he doesn’t ask you by the party tomorrow night, you aren’t going to be able to say yes if he DOES ask you. I mean, a girl has to have some pride.
That is very easy for someone like you to say, Shameeka. You are a cheerleader.
Yeah. And you’re a princess!
You know what I mean.
Mia, you can’t let him take you for granted in this way. You have to keep boys on their toes… no matter how many songs they write for you, or snowflake necklaces they give you. You’ve got to let them know YOU’RE in charge.
You sound just like my grandmother sometimes.
EEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWW!
Friday, May 2,
Oh, my God, Lilly will NOT shut up about Jangbu and his plight. Look, I feel for the guy, too, but I am not about to violate the poor man’s privacy by trying to track down his home phone number—especially not using a certain royal’s BRAND-SPANKING-NEW CELL PHONE.
I have not even gotten to make ONE call from it. Not ONE. Lilly has already made five.
This busboy thing is totally out of control. Leslie Cho, The Atom’s editor-in-chief, stopped by our table at lunch and asked if I could do an in-depth story on the incident for Monday’s paper. I realize that at last I have been offered my entrée into real reporting—not the cafeteria beat—but does Leslie really think I am the most appropriate person for this job? I mean, isn’t she running the risk of this story being less than completely prejudice-free and unbiased? Sure, I think Grandmère was wrong, but she’s still my GRANDMOTHER, for crying out loud.
I am not sure I really appreciate this peek into the seedy underbelly of school newspaper reporting. Working on a novel instead of writing for The Atom is starting to look more and more appealing.
Since it is Friday and Michael was up at the bean bar getting me a second helping, and Lilly was otherwise occupied, Tina asked me what I am going to do about Michael’s not having asked me to the prom yet.
“What CAN I do?” I wailed. “I just have to sit around and wait, like Jane Eyre did when Mr. Rochester was busy playing billiards with Blanche Ingram and pretending he didn’t know Jane was alive.”
To which Tina replied, “I really think you should say something. Maybe tomorrow night, at your party?”
Oh, great. I was kind of looking forward to my party— you know, except for the part where Mom was sure to stop everyone at the door and tell them all about her Incredible Shrinking Bladder—but now? No chance. Because I know Tina will be staring at me all night, willing me to ask Michael about the prom. Great. Thanks.
Lilly just handed me this giant sign. It says, LES HAUTES MANGER IS UN-AMERICAN!
I pointed out to Lilly that everyone already knows Les Hautes Manger is un-American. It is a French restaurant. To which Lilly replied, “Just because its owner was born in France is no reason for him to think he does not have to abide by our nation’s laws and social customs.”
I said I thought it was one of our laws that people could pretty much hire and fire who they wanted to. You know, within certain parameters.
“Just whose side are you on in this, anyway, Mia?” Lilly wanted to know.
I said, “Yours, of course. I mean, Jangbu’s.”
But doesn’t Lilly realize I have way too many problems of my own to take on an itinerant busboy’s as well? I mean, I have the summer to worry about, not to mention my Algebra grade, and an African orphan to support. And I really don’t think I can be expected to help get Jangbu’s job back when I can’t even get my own boyfriend to ask me to the prom.
I gave Lilly her sign back, explaining that I won’t be able to come to the protest after school, as I have a princess lesson to attend. Lilly accused me of being more concerned for myself than for Jangbu’s three starving children. I asked her how she knew Jangbu even had kids, because as far as I knew, this had not been mentioned in any of the newspaper articles about the incident, and Lilly still hadn’t managed to get hold of him. But she just said she meant it figuratively, not literally.
I am very concerned about Jangbu and his figurative children, it is true. But it is a dog-eat-dog world out there, and right now I’ve got problems of my own. I’m almost positive Jangbu would understand.
But I told Lilly I’d try to talk Grandmère into talking the owner of Les Hautes Manger into hiring Jangbu back. I guess it’s the least I can do, considering my presence on Earth is the reason the poor guy’s livelihood was destroyed.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: Who knows
English: Who cares
Biology: Whatever
Health and Safety: Please
G & T: As if
French: Something
World Civ: Something else
Friday, May 2, in the limo on the way home from Grandmère’s
Grandmère has decided to act like nothing happened last night. Like she didn’t bring her poodle to my birthday dinner and get an innocent busboy fired. Like her face wasn’t plastered all over the front of every newspaper in Manhattan, minus The Times. She was just going on about how in Japan it is considered terrifically rude to poke your chopstick into your rice bowl. Apparently, if you do this, it is a sign of disrespect to the dead, or something.
Whatever. Like I am going to Japan anytime soon. Hello, apparently I am not even going to the PROM.
“Grandmère,” I said, when I couldn’t take it anymore. “Are we going to talk about what happened at dinner last night, or are you just going to pretend it didn’t happen?”
Grandmère looked all innocent. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I can’t think what you mean.”
“Last night,” I said. “My birthday dinner. At Les Hautes Manger. You got the busboy fired. It was all over the papers this morning.”
“Oh, that.” Grandmère innocently stirred her Sidecar.
“Well?” I asked her. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Do?” Grandmère looked genuinely surprised. “Why, nothing. What is there to do?”
I guess I shouldn’t have been so shocked. Grandmère can be pretty self-absorbed, when she wants to
be.
“Grandmère, a man lost his job because of you,” I cried. “You’ve got to do something! He could starve.”
Grandmère looked at the ceiling. “Good heavens, Amelia.
I already got you an orphan. Are you saying you want to adopt a busboy as well?”
“No. But, Grandmère, it wasn’t Jangbu’s fault that he spilled soup on you. It was an accident. But it was caused by your dog.”
Grandmère shielded Rommel’s ears.
“Not so loud,” she said. “He’s very sensitive. The vet said—”
“I don’t care what the vet said,” I yelled. “Grandmère, you’ve got to do something! My friends are down at the restaurant picketing it right now!”
Just to be dramatic, I switched on the television and turned it to New York One. I didn’t really expect there to be anything on it about Lilly’s protest. Just maybe something about how there was a traffic snarl in the area, due to rubber-neckers peering at the spectacle Lilly was making of herself.
So you can imagine I was pretty surprised when a reporter started describing the “extraordinary scene outside Les Hautes Manger, the trendy four-star eatery on Fifty-seventh Street,” and they showed Lilly marching around with a big sign that said LES HAUTES MANGER MGMT UNFAIR. The biggest surprise wasn’t the large number of Albert Einstein High School students Lilly had managed to talk into joining her. I mean, I expected to see Boris there, and it wasn’t exactly astonishing to see that the AEHS Socialist Club was there as well, since they will show up at any protest they can find.
No, the big shocker was that there were a large number of men I’d never seen before marching right alongside Lilly and the other AEHS students.
The reporter soon explained why.