Princess in Pink

by Meg Cabot

  At least, I didn’t know what to do. I looked over at Tina, and I could tell by the shocked expression on her face that she didn’t know what to do, either.

  Michael, on the other hand, seemed to know what to do. He laid a sympathetic hand on Boris’s shoulder and said, “Tough break, man,” then went and grabbed a handful of Cheetos.

  TOUGH BREAK, MAN?????? That is what boys say to one another when they see that their friend’s heart has just been ripped from his chest and tossed upon the floor?

  I couldn’t believe Michael could be so cavalier. I mean, what about the whole Colin Hanks thing? Why wasn’t he ripping that closet door open, hauling Jangbu Panasa out of it, and beating him to a bloody pulp? I mean, Lilly was his little sister, for God’s sake. Didn’t he have an ounce of protective feeling toward her?

  Completely forgetting about my despair over the whole prom thing—I think the shock of seeing Lilly’s eagerness to lock lips with someone other than her boyfriend had numbed my senses—I followed Michael to the refreshment table and said, “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to do?”

  He looked at me questioningly. “About what?”

  “About your sister!” I cried. “And Jangbu!”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” Michael asked. “Haul him out and hit him?”

  “Well,” I said. “Yes!”

  “Why?” Michael drank some 7-Up, since there wasn’t any Coke. “I don’t care who my sister locks herself in the closet with. If it were you, then I’d hit the guy. But it’s not you, it’s Lilly. Lilly, as I believe she’s amply proved over the years, can take care of herself.” He held a bowl out toward me. “Cheeto?”

  Cheetos! Who could think of food at a time like this?

  “No, thank you,” I said. “But aren’t you at all worried that Lilly’s—” I broke off, uncertain how to continue. Michael helped me out.

  “Been swept off her feet by the guy’s rugged Sherpa good looks?” Michael shook his head. “Looked to me like if anybody was being taken advantage of, it’s Jangbu. The poor guy doesn’t seem to know what hit him.”

  “B-But…” I stammered. “But what about Boris?”

  Michael looked over at Boris, who had slumped down onto the futon couch, his head cradled in his hands. Tina had rushed over to him and was trying to apply sisterly balm to his wounded feelings by telling him that Lilly was probably only showing Jangbu what the inside of a real American coat closet looked like. Even I didn’t think she sounded very convincing, and I am very easily convinced by almost anything. For instance, in convocations where we are forced to listen to the debate team, I almost always agree with whichever team is talking at the moment, no matter what they’re saying.

  “Boris’ll get over it,” Michael said, and reached for the chips and dip.

  I don’t understand boys. I really don’t. I mean, if it had been MY little sister in the closet with Jangbu, I would have been furious with rage. And if it had been MY senior prom, I’d have been falling all over myself in an effort to secure tickets before they were all gone.

  But that’s me, I guess.

  Anyway, before any of us had a chance to do anything more, the front door to the loft opened, and Mr. G came in, carrying bags of more Coke.

  “I’m home,” Mr. G called, putting the bags down, and starting to take off his windbreaker. “I picked up some ice, too. I figured we might be running out by now….”

  Mr. G’s voice trailed off. That’s because he’d opened the hall closet door to put away his coat and found Lilly and Jangbu in there, making out.

  Well, that was the end of my party. Mr. Gianini is no Mr. Taylor, but he’s still pretty strict. Also, being a high-school teacher and all, he is not unfamiliar with games like Seven Minutes in Heaven. Lilly’s excuse—that she and Jangbu had gotten locked into the closet together accidentally—didn’t exactly fly with him. Mr. G said he thought it was time for everybody to go home. Then he had Hans, my limo driver, who we’d arranged beforehand to take everybody home after the party, make sure that when he dropped off Lilly and Michael, Jangbu didn’t go inside with them, and that Lilly went all the way into her building, up the elevator and everything, so she didn’t try to sneak down and meet Jangbu later, like at Blimpie’s or whatever.

  And now I am lying here, a broken shell of a girl… fifteen years old, and yet so much older in so many ways. Because I know now what it is like to see all of your hopes and dreams crushed beneath the soulless heel of despair. I saw it in Boris’s eyes, as he watched Lilly and Jangbu emerge from that closet, looking flushed and sweaty, Lilly actually tugging on the bottom of her shirt (I cannot believe Lilly got to second base before I did. And with a guy she’d known for a mere forty-eight hours, as well—not to mention the fact that she did it in MY hall closet).

  But Boris’s eyes weren’t the only ones registering despair tonight. My own have a distinctly hollow look to them. I noticed tonight as I was brushing my teeth before bed. It is no mystery why, of course. My eyes have a haunted look to them because I am haunted… haunted by the specter of the dream of a prom that I know now will never be. Never will I, dressed in off-the-shoulder black, rest my head upon the shoulder of Michael (in a tux) at his senior prom. Never will I enjoy the stale cookies he mentioned, or the look on Lana Weinberger’s face when she sees that she is not the only freshman girl besides Shameeka in attendance.

  My prom dream is over. And so, I am afraid, is my life.

  Sunday, May 4, 9 a.m., the loft

  It is very hard to be sunk in the black well of despair when your mother and stepfather get up at the crack of dawn and put on the Donnas while making their breakfast waffles. Why can’t they go quietly to church to hear the word of the Lord, like normal parents, and leave me to wallow in my own grief? I swear it is enough to make me contemplate moving to Genovia.

  Except of course there I would be expected to get up and go to church, as well. I guess I should be thanking my lucky stars that my mother and her husband are godless heathens. But they could at least turn it DOWN.

  Sunday, May 4, noon, the loft

  My plan for the day was to stay in bed with the covers up over my head until it was time to go to school Monday morning. That is what people who have had their reason for living cruelly snatched from them do: stay in bed as much as possible.

  This plan was unfairly destroyed, however, by my mother, who just came barreling in (at her current size, she can’t help but barrel everywhere she goes) and sat down on the edge of the bed, nearly crushing Fat Louie, who had slunk down underneath the covers with me and was snoozing at my toes. After screaming because Fat Louie had sunk all his claws into her rear end, right through my duvet, my mom apologized for barging in on my grief-stricken solitude, but— she said—she thought it was time we had A Little Talk.

  It is never a good thing when my mom thinks it is time for A Little Talk. The last time she and I had A Little Talk, I was forced to listen to a very long speech about body image and my supposedly distorted one. My mother was very worried that I was contemplating using my Christmas money for breast-enhancement surgery, and she wanted me to know what a bad idea she thought this was, because women’s obsession with their looks has gotten completely out of control. In Korea, for instance, thirty percent of women in their twenties have had some form of plastic surgery, ranging from cheek-and-jawbone shaving to eye slicing and calf-muscle removal (for slimmer legs) in order to achieve a more Western look. This as opposed to 3 percent of women in the United States who have had plastic surgery for purely aesthetic purposes.

  The good news? America is NOT the most image-obsessed country in the world. The bad news? Too many women outside of our culture feel pressured to change their looks to better emulate ours, thinking Western standards of beauty are more important than their own country’s, because that is what they see on old reruns of shows like Baywatch and Friends . Which is wrong, just wrong, because Nigerian women are just as beautiful as women from LA or Manhattan. Just maybe in a
different way.

  As awkward as THAT chat had been (I was not contemplating using my Christmas money for breast-enhancement surgery: I was contemplating using my Christmas money for a complete set of Shania Twain CDs, but of course I couldn’t ADMIT that to anyone, so my mom naturally thought it was something to do with my boobs), the one we had today really takes the cake as far as mother/daughter talks go.

  Because of course today was THE mother/daughter talk. Not the “Honey, your body is changing and soon you’ll have a different use for those sanitary napkins of mine you stole to make into beds for your Star Wars action figures” talk. Oh, no. Today was the “You’re fifteen now and you have a boyfriend and last night my husband caught you and your little friends playing Seven Minutes in Heaven and so I think it’s time we discussed You Know What” talk.

  I have recorded our conversation here as best I could so that when I have my own daughter I can make sure NEVER, EVER to say any of these things to her, remembering how INCREDIBLY AND UTTERLY STUPID THEY MADE ME FEEL WHEN MY OWN MOTHER SAID THEM TO ME. As far as I’m concerned, my own daughter can learn about sex from the Lifetime Movie Channel for Women, like everybody else on the planet.

  Mom:

  Mia, I just heard from Frank that Lilly and her new friend Jambo—

  Me:

  Jangbu.

  Mom:

  Whatever. That Lilly and her new friend were, er, kissing in our hall closet. Apparently, you were all playing some sort of make-out game, Five Minutes in the Closet—

  Me:

  Seven Minutes in Heaven.

  Mom:

  Whatever. The point is, Mia, you’re fifteen now. You’re pretty much an adult, and I know that you and Michael are very much a couple. It’s only natural that you’d be curious about sex… perhaps even experimenting—

  Me:

  MOM!!!! GROSS!!!!!!!!!

  Mom:

  There’s nothing gross about sexual relations between two people who love each other, Mia. Of course I would prefer it if you waited until you were older. Until you were in college, maybe. Or your mid-thirties, anyway. However, I know only too well what it is like to be a slave to your hormones, so it’s important that you take the appropriate precau—

  Me:

  I mean, it’s gross to talk about it with my MOTHER.

  Mom:

  Well, yes, I know. Or rather, I don’t know, since my own mother would have sooner dropped dead than have mentioned any of this to me. However, I think it is important for mothers and daughters to be open with one another about these things. For instance, Mia, if you ever feel that you need to talk about birth control, I can make you an appointment with my gynecologist, Dr. Brandeis—

  Me:

  MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!! MICHAEL AND I ARE NOT HAVING SEX!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Mom:

  Well, I’m glad to hear that, honey, since you are a bit young. But if the two of you should decide to, I want to make sure you have all your facts straight. For instance, are you and your friends aware that diseases like AIDS can be transmitted through oral sex as well as—

  Me:

  YES, MOM, I KNOW THIS. I AM TAKING HEALTH AND SAFETY THIS SEMESTER, REMEMBER?????

  Mom:

  Mia, sex is nothing to be embarrassed about. It is one of the basic human needs, such as water, food, and social interaction. It is important that if you choose to become sexually active, you protect yourself.

  Oh, you mean like you did, Mom, when you got knocked up by Mr. Gianini? Or by DAD?????

  Only of course I didn’t say this. Because, you know, what would be the point? Instead I just nodded and went, “Okay, Mom. Thanks, Mom. I’ll be sure to, Mom,” hoping she’d finally give up and go away.

  Only it didn’t work. She just kept hanging around, like one of Tina’s little sisters whenever I’m over at the Hakim Babas and Tina and I want to sneak a look at her dad’s Playboy collection. Really, you can learn a lot from the Playboy Advisor, from what kind of car stereo works best in a Porsche Boxster to how to tell if your husband is having an affair with his personal assistant. Tina says it is a good idea to know your enemy, which is why she reads her dad’s copies of Playboy whenever she gets the chance… though we both agree that, judging from the stuff in this magazine, the enemy is very, very weird.

  And oddly fixated with cars.

  Finally my mom ran out of steam. The Little Talk just kind of petered out. She sat there for a minute, looking around at my room, which is only minorly a disaster area. I am pretty neat, overall, because I always feel like I have to clean my room before I can start on my homework. Something about a clear environment making for clear thinking. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because homework is so boring I’ll take any excuse to put off doing it.

  “Mia,” my mom said, after a long pause. “Why are you still in bed at noon on a Sunday? Isn’t this when you usually meet your friends for dim sum?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to admit to my mom that dim sum was probably the last thing on anybody’s mind this morning… I mean, seeing as how apparently Lilly and Boris were broken up now.

  “I hope you aren’t upset with Frank,” my mom went on, “for ruining your party. But really, Mia, you and Lilly are old enough to know better than to play silly games like Seven Minutes in Heaven. What on earth is wrong with playing Spoon?”

  I shrugged some more. What was I going to say? That the reason I was so upset had nothing to do with Mr. G, and everything to do with the fact that my boyfriend didn’t want to go to the prom? Lilly was right: The prom is just a stupid pagan dance ritual. Why did I even care?

  “Well,” my mom said, climbing awkwardly to her feet. “If you want to stay in bed all day, I’m certainly not going to stop you. There’s no place else I’d rather be, I’ll admit. But then, I’m an old pregnant lady, not a fifteen-year-old.”

  Then she left. THANK GOD. I can’t believe she tried to have a sex talk with me. About Michael. I mean, doesn’t she know Michael and I haven’t gotten past first base? No one I know has, with the exception, of course, of Lana. At least I assume Lana has, judging by what got spray-painted about her across the gymnasium wall over Spring Break. And now Lilly, of course.

  God. My best friend has been to more bases than I have. And I am the one who is supposed to have found my soul mate. Not her.

  Life is so unfair.

  Sunday, May 4, 7 p.m., the loft

  I guess it must be Check on Mia’s Mental Health Day, since everybody is calling to find out how I am. That was my dad on the phone just now. He wanted to know how my party went. While on the one hand this is a good thing—it means neither Mom nor Mr. G mentioned the whole Seven Minutes in Heaven thing to him, which wouldn’t have made him too ballistic or anything—it was also kind of a bad thing, since it meant I had to lie to him. While lying to my dad is easier than lying to my mom, because my dad, never having been a young girl, doesn’t know the kind of capacity young girls have to tell terrific whoppers—and apparently isn’t aware that my nostrils flare when I lie, either—it is still sort of nerve-wracking. I mean, he IS a cancer survivor, after all. It seems sort of mean to lie to someone who is, basically, like Lance Armstrong. Except without all the Tour de France wins.

  But whatever. I told him the party went great, blah blah blah.

  Good thing he wasn’t in the same room with me. He’d have noticed my nostrils flaring like crazy.

  No sooner had I hung up the phone with my dad than it rang again, and I snatched it up, thinking it might be, oh, I don’t know, MY BOYFRIEND. You would have thought Michael might have called me at some point during the day, just to see how I was. You know, whether or not I was crippled with grief over the whole prom thing.

  But apparently Michael is not all that concerned for my mental health, because not only has he not called, but the person on the other end of the phone when I eagerly snatched it up was about as far from being Michael as you can get.

  It was, in fact, Grandmère.

  Our conversation w
ent like this:

  Grandmère:

  Amelia, it is your grandmother. I need you to reserve the night of Wednesday the seventh. I’ve been asked to dine at Le Cirque with my old friend the sultan of Brunei, and I want you to accompany me. And I don’t want to hear any nonsense about how the sultan needs to give up his Rolls because it is contributing to the destruction of the ozone layer. You need more culture in your life, and that’s final. I’m tired of hearing about Miraculous Pets and the Lifetime Channel for Stay-at-Home Mothers or whatever it is you’re always watching on the television. It’s time you met some interesting people, and not the ones you see on TV, or those so-called artists your mother is always having over for girls’ Bingo night, or whatever it is.

  Me:

  Okay, Grandmère. Whatever you say, Grandmère.

  What, I ask you, is wrong with that answer? Really? What part of “Okay, Grandmère. Whatever you say, Grandmère” would any NORMAL grandmother find suspicious? Of course, I’m forgetting my grandmother is far from normal. Because she was all over me, right away.

  Grandmère:

  Amelia. What is wrong with you? Out with it, I haven’t much time. I’m supposed to be dining with the duc di Bomarzo.

  Me:

  Nothing’s wrong, Grandmère. I’m just…I’m a little depressed, is all. I didn’t get such a good grade on my last Algebra quiz, and I’m a little down about it….

  Grandmère:

  Pfuit. What is it REALLY, Mia? And make it snappy.

  Me:

  Oh, all RIGHT. It’s Michael. Remember that prom thing I told you about? Well, he doesn’t want to go.

  Grandmère:

  I knew it. He’s still in love with that housefly girl, isn’t he? He’s taking her, is he? Well, never mind. I have Prince William’s mobile phone number here some place. I’ll give him a ring, and he can take the Concorde over and take you to the little dance, if you want. That will show that unappreciative—