by Meg Cabot
Fortunately the chauffeur knew better than to take me somewhere without my bodyguard. He got on the radio and said some stuff, and then Lars came out to the limo with my dad, who asked me what on earth I thought I was doing.
I thought about asking him the exact same thing, only about the receptionist with the pierced belly button. But my throat hurt too much to talk.
Dr. Fung was pretty nice about it in the end. He gave up on the throat culture and just prescribed some antibiotics and this cough syrup with codeine in it—but not until he had one of his nurses take a picture of us shaking hands together inside the limo so he could hang it on his wall of celebrity photos. He has pictures of himself up there shaking hands with other famous patients of his, like Robert Goulet and Lou Reed.
Now that my raging fever has gone down, I can see that I was behaving completely irrationally. I would have to say that that trip to the doctor’s office was probably one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Of course, there’ve been so many, it’s hard to tell where this one ranks. I think I would chalk it up there with the time I accidentally dropped my dinner plate in the buffet line at Lilly’s bat mitzvah, and everybody kept stepping in gefiltefish for the rest of the night.
MIA THERMOPOLIS’S TOP FIVE MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENTS
1. Josh Richter kissing me in front of the whole school while everyone looked at me.
2. The time when I was six and Grandmère ordered me to hug her sister, Tante Jean Marie, and I started to cry because I was afraid of Jean Marie’s mustache, and hurt Jean Marie’s feelings.
3. The time when I was seven and Grandmère forced me to attend a boring cocktail party she gave for all her friends, and I was so bored I picked up this little ivory coaster holder which was shaped like a rickshaw, and then I wheeled it around the coffee table, making noises like I was speaking Chinese, until all the coasters fell out the back of the rickshaw and rolled around on the floor very noisily, and everyone looked at me. (This is even more embarrassing when I think of it now, because imitating Chinese people is very rude, not to mention politically incorrect.)
4. The time when I was ten and Grandmère took me and some of my cousins to the beach and I forgot my bikini top and Grandmère wouldn’t let me go back to the chateau to get it, she said this was France for God’s sake and I should just go topless like everybody else, and even though I didn’t have anything more up there to show than I do now, I was mortified and wouldn’t take my shirt off and everyone looked at me because they thought I had a rash or disfiguring birthmark or a shriveled-up Siamese-twin fetus hanging off me.
5. The time when I was twelve and I got my first period, and I was at Grandmère’s house and I had to tell her about it because I didn’t have any pads or anything, and later that night as I walked in for dinner I overheard Grandmère telling all her friends about it, and then for the rest of the night all they did was make jokes about the wonder of womanhood.
Now that I think about it, almost all of the most embarrassing moments of my life have something to do with Grandmère.
I wonder what Lilly’s parents, who are both psychoanalysts, would have to say about this.
TEMPERATURE CHART
5:20 p.m.—99.3
6:45 p.m.—99.2
7:52 p.m.—99.1
Is it possible I am getting better already? This is horrible. If I get better, I’ll have to go on that stupid interview. . . .
This calls for drastic measures: Tonight I fully intend to take a shower and stick my head out the window with my hair wet.
That will show them.
Thursday, October 23
Oh, my God. Something so exciting just happened, I can hardly write.
This morning as I was lying in my sickbed, my mom handed me a letter that she said had come in the mail yesterday, only she forgot to give it to me.
This wasn’t like the electricity or cable bills my mom usually forgets about after they have arrived. This was a personal letter to me.
Still, since the address on the front of it was typed, I didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary. I thought it was a letter from school, or something. Like maybe I’d made honor roll (HA HA). Except that there was no return address, and usually mail from Albert Einstein High School has Albert’s thoughtful face in the left-hand corner, along with the school’s address.
So you can imagine my surprise when I opened the letter and found not a flier asking me to show my school spirit by making rice krispy Treats to help raise money for the crew team but the following . . . which, for want of a better word, I can only call a love letter:
Dear Mia (the letter went)
I know you will think it’s strange, receiving a letter like this. I feel strange writing it. And yet I am too shy to tell you face-to-face what I’m about to tell you now: And that’s that I think you are the Josiest girl I’ve ever met.
I just want to make sure you know that there’s one person, anyway, who liked you long before he found out you were a princess . . .
And will keep on liking you, no matter what.
Sincerely,
A Friend
Oh, my God!
I couldn’t believe it! I’d never gotten a letter like this before. Who could it be from? I seriously couldn’t figure it out. The letter was typed, like the address on the envelope. Not by a typewriter, either, but obviously on a computer.
So even if I wanted to compare keystrokes, say, on a suspect’s typewriter (like Jan did on The Brady Bunch when she suspected Alice of sending her that locket), I couldn’t. You can’t compare the type on laser printers, for God’s sake. It’s always the same.
But who could have sent me such a thing?
Of course, I know who I want to have sent it.
But the chances of a guy like Michael Moscovitz ever actually liking me as more than just a friend are like zero. I mean, if he liked me, he had a perfect opportunity to say something about it the night of the Cultural Diversity dance, when he was so nice to step in and ask me to dance, after Josh Richter dogged me so hard. And we didn’t just dance once, either. We danced a few times. Slow dances, too. And after the dance, we hung out in his room at the Moscovitzes’ apartment. He could have said something then, if he’d wanted to.
But he didn’t. He didn’t say a thing about liking me.
And why would he? I mean, I am a complete freak, what with my noticeable lack of mammary glands, my gigantism, and my utter inability ever to mold my hair into something remotely resembling a style.
We just got through studying people like me in Bio, as a matter of fact. Biological sports, we are called. A biological sport occurs when an organism shows a marked change from the normal type or parent stock, typically as a result of mutation.
That is me. That is so totally me. I mean, if you looked at me, and then you looked at my parents, who are both very attractive people, you would be all, What happened?
Seriously. I should go live with the X-men, I am such a mutant.
Besides, is Michael Moscovitz really the type of guy who’d say I was the Josiest girl in school? I mean, I am assuming the author is referring to Josie, the lead singer of Josie and the Pussycats, played by Rachael Leigh Cook in the movie. Except that in no way do I resemble Rachael Leigh Cook. I wish. Josie and the Pussycats started out as a cartoon about a girl band that solves crimes, like on Scooby Doo, and Michael doesn’t even watch the Cartoon Network, as far as I know.
Michael generally only watches PBS, the Sci Fi Channel, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Maybe if the letter had said I think you are the Buffiest girl I’ve ever met. . . .
But if it isn’t from Michael, who could it be from?
This is all so exciting, I want to call someone and tell them. Only who? Everyone I know is in school.
WHY DID I HAVE TO GET SICK????
Forget sticking my wet head out the window. I have to get better right away so I can go back to school and figure out who my secret admirer is!
TEMPERATURE CHART:
10:45 a.m.—99.2
11:15 a.m.—99.1
12:27 p.m.—98.6
Yes! YES! I am getting better! Thank you, Selman Waksman, inventor of the antibiotic.
2:05 p.m.—99.0
No. Oh, no.
3:35 p.m.—99.1
Why is this happening to me?
Later on Thursday
This afternoon while I was lying around with icepacks under the covers, trying to bring my fever down so I can go to school tomorrow and find out who my secret admirer is, I happened to see the best episode of Baywatch ever.
Really.
See, Mitch met this girl with this very fake French accent during a boat race, and they totally fell in love and ran around in the waves to this excellent soundtrack, and then it turned out the girl was engaged to Mitch’s opponent in the boat race—and not only that—she was actually the princess of this small European country Mitch had never heard of. Her fiancé was this prince her father had betrothed her to at birth!
While I was watching this, Lilly came over with my new homework assignments, and she started watching with me, and she totally missed the deep philosophical importance of the episode. All she said was, “Boy, does that royal chick need an eyebrow waxing.”
I was appalled.
“Lilly,” I croaked. “Can’t you see that this episode of Baywatch is prophetic? It is entirely possible that I have been betrothed since birth to some prince I’ve never even met, and my dad just hasn’t told me yet. And I could very likely meet some lifeguard on a beach and fall madly in love with him, but it won’t matter, because I will have to do my duty and marry the man my people have picked out for me.”
Lilly said, “Hello, exactly how much of that cough medicine have you had today? It says one teaspoon every four hours, not tablespoon, dorkus.”
I was annoyed at Lilly for failing to see the bigger picture. I couldn’t, of course, tell her about the letter I’d gotten. Because what if her brother was the one who wrote it? I wouldn’t want him thinking I’d gone blabbing about it to everyone I knew. A love letter is a very private thing.
But still, you would think she’d be able to see it from my perspective.
“Don’t you understand?” I rasped. “What is the point of me liking anybody, when it’s entirely possible that my dad has arranged a marriage for me with some prince I’ve never met? Some guy who lives in, like, Dubai, or somewhere, and who gazes daily at my picture and longs for the day when he can finally make me his own?”
Lilly said she thought I’d been reading too many of my friend Tina Hakim Baba’s teen romances. I will admit, that is sort of where I got the idea. But that is not the point.
“Seriously, Lilly,” I said. “I have to guard diligently against falling in love with somebody like David Hasselhoff or your brother, because in the end I might have to marry Prince William.” Not that that would be such a great sacrifice, and all.
Lilly got up off my bed and stomped out into the loft’s living room. My dad was the only one around, because when he’d come over to check on me, my mom had suddenly remembered an errand she had to get done and dashed off.
Only of course there was no errand. My mom still hasn’t told my dad about Mr. G and her pregnancy, and how they’re getting married, and all. I think she’s afraid that he might start yelling at her for being so irresponsible (which I could totally see him doing).
So instead she flees from Dad in guilt every time she sees him. It would almost be funny, if it wasn’t such a pathetic way for a thirty-six-year-old woman to behave. When I am thirty-six, I fully intend to be self-actualized, so you will not catch me doing any of the things my mother is always doing.
“Mr. Renaldo,” I heard Lilly say, as she went out into the living room. She calls my dad Mr. Renaldo even though she knows perfectly well he is the prince of Genovia. She doesn’t care though, because she says this is America and she isn’t calling anybody “Your Highness.” She is fundamentally opposed to monarchies—and principalities, like Genovia, fall under that heading. Lilly believes that sovereignty rests with the people. In colonial times, she’d probably have been branded a Whig.
“Mr. Renaldo,” I heard her ask my dad. “Is Mia secretly betrothed to some prince somewhere?”
My dad lowered his newspaper. I could hear it crinkling all the way from my bedroom. “Good God, no,” he said.
“Moron,” she said to me, when she came stomping back into my room. “And while I can see why you might want to guard diligently against falling in love with David Hasselhoff, who is, by the way, old enough to be your father, and hardly a hottie, what does my brother have to do with any of this?”
Too late, I realized what I’d said. Lilly has no idea how I feel about her brother Michael. Actually, I don’t really have any idea about how I feel about him either. Except that he looks extremely Casper Van Dien with his shirt off.
I so want him to be the one who’d written that letter. I really, really do.
But I’m not about to mention this to his sister.
Instead, I told her I think it unfair of her to demand explanations for stuff I said under the influence of codeine cough syrup.
Lilly just got that expression she gets sometimes when teachers ask a question and she knows the answer, only she wants to give someone else in the class a chance to answer for a change.
It really can be exhausting sometimes, having a best friend with an IQ of 170.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: problems 1–20, pg. 115
English: Chapter 4 of Strunk and White
World Civ: two-hundred–word essay on the conflict between India and Pakistan
G&T: Yeah, right
French: Chaptre huit
Biology: pituitary gland (ask Kenny!)
LILLY MOSCOVITZ AND MIA THERMOPOLIS’S LIST OF CELEBRITIES AND THEIR BREASTS
CELEBRITY LILLY MIA
Britney Spears Fake Real
Jennifer Love Hewitt Fake Real
Winona Ryder Fake Real
Courtney Love Fake Fake
Jennie Garth Fake Real
Tori Spelling Fake Fake
Brandy Fake Real
Neve Campbell Fake Real
Sarah Michelle Gellar Real Real
Christina Aguilera Fake Real
Lucy Lawless Real Real
Melissa Joan Hart Fake Real
Mariah Carey Fake Fake
Rachael Leigh Cook Fake Real
Even later on Thursday
After dinner I felt well enough to get out of bed, and so I did.
I checked my e-mail. I was hoping there might be something from my mysterious “friend.” If he knew my “snail mail” address, I figured he’d know my e-mail address, too. Both are listed in the school directory.
Tina Hakim Baba was one of the people who e-mailed me. She sent get-well wishes. So did Shameeka. Shameeka mentioned that she was trying to talk her father into letting her have a Halloween party, and that if she succeeded, would I come? I wrote back to say of course, if I wasn’t too weak from coughing.
There was also a message from Michael. It was a get-well message, too, but it was animated, like a little film. It showed a cat that looked a lot like Fat Louie doing a little get-well dance. It was very cute. Michael signed it “Love, Michael.”
Not Sincerely.
Not Yours Truly.
Love.
I played it four times, but I still couldn’t tell whether he was the one who’d sent me that letter. The letter, I noticed, never once mentioned the word love. It said the sender liked me. And he signed it “sincerely.”
But there was no love. Not a hint of love.
Then I saw a message from someone whose e-mail address I didn’t recognize. Oh, my God! Could it be my anonymous liker? My fingers were trembling on my mouse. . . .
And then I opened it and saw the following message from JoCrox:
JOCROX: Just a note to say hope you are feeling better. Missed you in school today! Did you get my letter? Hope it made
you feel at least a little better, knowing there’s someone out there who thinks you rock. Get well soon.
Your Friend
Oh, my God! It’s him! My anonymous admirer!
But who is Jo Crox? I don’t know anyone named Jo Crox. He says he missed me in school today, which means we might be in a class together. But there are no Jo’s in any of my classes.
Maybe Jo Crox isn’t really his name. In fact, Jo Crox doesn’t sound like a name at all. Maybe that actually stands for Joc Rox.
But I don’t know any jocks, either. I mean, not personally.
Oh, no, wait, I get it:
Jo-C-rox.
Josie Rocks! Oh, my God! Josie from Josie and the Pussycats!
That is just so cute.
But who? Who is it?
I figured there was only one way to find out, so I wrote back right away:
FTLOUIE: Dear Friend, I got your letter. Thank you very much. Thanks also for the get-well wishes.
WHO ARE YOU? (I swear I won’t tell anyone.)
Mia
I sat around for half an hour, hoping he would write back, but he never did.
WHO IS IT??? WHO IS IT??
I have GOT to get well by tomorrow so I can go to school and figure out who Jo-C-rox is. Otherwise, I will go mental, just like Mel Gibson’s girlfriend in Hamlet, and I’ll end up floating in my Lanz of Salzburg nightie in the Hudson with the rest of the medical waste.
Friday, October 24, Algebra
I AM BETTER!!!!!
Well, actually, I don’t feel all that great, but I don’t care. I don’t have a temperature, so my mother had no choice but to let me go to school. There was no way I was going to lie in bed another day. Not with Jo-C-rox out there somewhere, possibly loving me.
But so far, nothing. I mean, we swung by Lilly’s in the limo and picked her up, as usual, and Michael was with her and all, but by the casual way he said hello to me you would hardly have known that he’d ever sent me a get-well e-mail signed “Love, Michael,” let alone ever called me the Josiest girl he’s ever met. It is so very clear that he isn’t Jo-C-rox.