by Meg Cabot
“Well, of course she’ll be there,” Mamaw said. “It’s her wedding, isn’t it?”
Well . . . sort of, I guess. I didn’t say that to Mamaw, though. I said, “Sure.” And then I hung up, feeling crushed.
For entirely selfish reasons, too, I confess. I was a little bit sad for my mom, I guess, since she really had tried to put up a resistance against Grandmère. I mean, she really had tried. It wasn’t her fault, of course, that she’d been going up against such a inexorable force.
But mostly I felt sad for myself. I would NEVER escape in time for Rocky Horror. Never, never, never. I mean, I know the movie doesn’t even start until midnight, but wedding receptions last way longer than that.
And who knows if Michael will ever ask me out again? I mean, not once today has he acknowledged that he is, in fact, Jo-C-rox, nor has he mentioned Rocky Horror. Not once. Not even so much as a reference to Rachel Leigh Cook.
And we talked at length during G and T. AT LENGTH. That is on account of how some of us who saw last year’s groundbreaking episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is were understandably confused by Lilly’s helping Hank to realize his dream of supermodel stardom. The segment was titled “Yes, You as an Individual Can Bring Down the Sexist, Racist, Ageist, and Sizeist Modeling Industry” (by “criticizing ads that demean women and limit our ideas of beauty” and “finding ways to make your protest known to the companies advertised” and “letting the media know you want to see more varied and realistic images of women.” Also, Lilly urged us to “challenge men who judge, choose, and discard women on the basis of appearance”).
The following exchange took place during Gifted and Talented (Mrs. Hill has returned to the teachers’ lounge—permanently, one can only hope) and included Michael Moscovitz, who, as you will see, did NOT ONCE mention Jo-C-rox or Rocky Horror:
Me: Lilly, I thought you found the modeling industry as a whole sexist and racist and belittling to the human race.
Lilly: So? What’s your point?
Me: Well, according to Hank, you helped him realize his dream of becoming a you know what. A model.
Lilly: Mia, when I recognize a human soul crying out for self-actualization, I am powerless to stop myself. I must do what I can to see that that person’s dream is realized.
[Gee, I haven’t noticed Lilly doing all that much to help me realize my dream of French-kissing her brother. But on the other hand, I have not exactly made that dream known to her.]
Me: Um, Lilly, I hadn’t noticed that you had a real foothold in the modeling industry.
Lilly: I don’t. I merely taught your cousin how to make the most of his God-given talents. Some simple lessons in elocution and fashion, and he was well on his way to landing that contract with Ford.
Me: Well, why did it have to be such a big secret?
Lilly: Do you have any idea how fragile the male ego is?
[Here Michael broke in.]
Michael: Hey!
Lilly: I’m sorry, but it’s true. Hank’s self-esteem had already been reduced to nothing thanks to Amber, Corn Queen of Versailles County. I couldn’t allow any negative comments to ruin what little self-confidence he had left. You know how fatalistic boys can be.
Michael: Hey!
Lilly: It was vital that Hank be allowed to pursue his dream without the slightest fatalistic influence. Otherwise, I knew, he didn’t stand a chance. And so I kept our plan a secret even from those I most cared about. Any one of you, without consciously meaning to, might have torpedoed Hank’s chances with the most casual of comments.
Me: Come on. We’d have been supportive.
Lilly: Mia, think about it. If Hank had said to you, ‘Mia, I want to be a model,’ what would you have done? Come on. You would have laughed.
Me: No, I wouldn’t have.
Lilly: Yes, you would have. Because to you, Hank is your whiny, allergy-prone cousin from the boondocks who doesn’t even know what a bagel is. But I, you see, was able to look beyond that, to the man Hank had the potential to become. . . .
Michael: Yeah, a man who is destined to have his own pin-up calendar.
Lilly: You, Michael, are just jealous.
Michael: Oh, yeah. I’ve always wanted a big picture of myself in my underwear hanging up in Times Square.
[Actually, I think that is something I would really enjoy seeing, but Michael was, of course, being sarcastic.]
Michael: You know, Lil, I highly doubt Mom and Dad are going to be so impressed by your tremendous act of charity that they’re going to overlook the fact that you skipped school to do it. Especially when they find out you’ve got detention next week because of it.
Lilly: (looking long-suffering) The most eleemosynary are often martyred.
And that was it. That’s all he said to me, all day. ALL DAY.
Note to self: look up eleemosynary
POSSIBLE REASONS MICHAEL WON’T ADMIT HE IS JO-C-ROX
1. He really is too shy to reveal his true feelings for me.
2. He thinks I don’t feel the same way about him.
3. He’s changed his mind and doesn’t like me after all.
4. He doesn’t want to have to bear the social stigma of dating a freshman and he is just waiting until I am a sophomore before asking me out. (Except that by then he’ll be a freshman in college and won’t want to bear the social stigma of dating a high school girl.)
5. He isn’t Jo-C-rox at all and it turns out I am obsessing about something written by that guy from the cafeteria who has the thing about corn.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: none (no Mr. G!)
English: finish Day in a Life! Plus Profound Moment!
World Civ: read and analyze one current event from Sunday Times (200 wd minimum)
G&T: don’t forget the dollar!
French: pg. 120, huit phrases (ex. A)
Biology: questions at end of Chapter 12—get answers from Kenny!
ENGLISH JOURNAL
A Day in My Life by Mia Thermopolis
(I chose to write about a night instead.
Is that okay, Mrs. Spears?)
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31
3:16 p.m.—Arrive home at SoHo loft with bodyguard (Lars). Find it ostensibly empty. Decide mother probably napping (something she does a lot these days).
3:18 p.m.–3:45 p.m.—Play foozball with bodyguard. Win three out of twelve games. Decide must practice foozball in spare time.
3:50 p.m.—Curious as to why riotous game of foozball—not to mention incredibly loud pinball machine—have not awakened mother from nap. Knock gently on bedroom door. Stand there hoping door does not open and reveal view of mother actually sharing bed with Algebra teacher.
3:51 p.m.—Knock louder. Decide perhaps cannot be heard due to intense lovemaking session. Sincerely hope I will not be inadvertent witness to any nakedness.
3:52 p.m.—After receiving no response to my knock, I go into mother’s bedroom. No one is there! Check of mother’s bathroom reveals crucial items such as mascara, lipstick, and bottle of folic acid tablets missing from medicine cabinet. Begin to suspect something is afoot.
3:55 p.m.—Phone rings. I answer it. It is my father. Following conversation ensues:
Me: Dad? Mom’s missing. And so is Mr. Gianini. He didn’t even come to school today.
Father: You still call him Mr. Gianini even though he lives with you?
Me: Dad. Where are they?
Father: Don’t worry about it.
Me: That woman is carrying my last chance at having a sibling. How can I help but worry about her?
Father: Everything is under control.
Me: How am I supposed to believe that?
Father: Because I said so.
Me: Dad, I think you should know, I have some very serious trust issues concerning you.
Father: How come?
Me: Well, part of it might be the fact that up until about a month ago, you had lied to me for my entire life about who you are and what you do for a living.
Fathe
r: Oh.
Me: So just tell me. WHERE IS MY MOTHER?
Father: She left you a letter. You can have it at eight o’clock.
Me: Dad, eight o’clock is when the wedding is supposed to start.
Father: I am aware of that.
Me: Dad, you can’t do this to me. What am I supposed to tell—
Voice: Phillipe, is everything all right?
Me: Who is that? Who is that, Dad? Is that Beverly Bellerieve?
Father: I have to go now, Mia.
Me: No, Dad, wait—
CLICK
4:00 p.m.–4:15 p.m.—Tear apartment apart, looking for clues as to where mother might have disappeared to. Find none.
4:20 p.m.—Phone rings. Paternal grandmother on line. Requests to know if mother and I are ready for trip to salon for beauty makeover. Inform her that mother has left already (well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?). Grandmother suspicious. Inform her that if she has any questions to consult with her son, my father. Grandmother says she fully intends to do so. Also says limo will be by at five o’clock to pick me up.
5:00 p.m.—Limo pulls up. Bodyguard and I get into it. Inside is paternal grandmother (hereafter known as Grandmère) and maternal grandmother (hereafter known as Mamaw). Mamaw is very excited about upcoming nuptials—though excitement is somewhat dampened by cousin’s desertion to become male supermodel. Grandmère, on other hand, is mysteriously calm. Says son (my father) has informed her that bride has decided to make own hair and make-up plans. Remembering missing folic acid tablets, I say nothing.
5:20 p.m.—Enter Chez Paolo.
6:45 p.m.—Emerge from Chez Paolo. Amazed at difference Paolo has made with Mamaw’s hair. She no longer resembles mom in John Hughes film, but member of upscale country club.
7:00 p.m.—Arrive at Plaza. Father attributes bride’s absence to her desire to nap before ceremony. When I surreptitiously force Lars to call home on his cell phone, however, no one answers.
7:15 p.m.—Begins to rain again. Mamaw observes that rain on a wedding day is bad luck. Grandmère says, No, that’s pearls. Mamaw says, No, rain. First sign of division within formerly united ranks of grandmas.
7:30 p.m.—I am ushered into little chamber just off the White and Gold Room, where I sit with the other bridesmaids (supermodels Gisele, Karmen Kass, and Amber Valetta, whom Grandmère has hired due to fact that my mother refused to supply her with list of her own bridesmaids). I have changed into my beautiful pink dress and matching shoes.
7:40 p.m.—None of the other bridesmaids will talk to me, except to comment about how I look so “sweet.” All they can talk about is a party they went to last night where someone threw up on Claudia Schiffer’s shoes.
7:45 p.m.—Guests begin to arrive. I fail to recognize my maternal grandfather without his baseball cap. He looks quite spry in his tux. A little like an elderly Matt Damon.
7:47 p.m.—Two people arrive who claim to be parents of the groom. Mr. Gianini’s parents from Long Island! Mr. Gianini Sr. calls Vigo “Bucko.” Vigo looks delighted.
7:48 p.m.—Martha Stewart stands near door, chatting with Donald Trump about Manhattan real estate. She can’t find a building with a co-op board that will let her keep her pet chinchillas.
7:50 p.m.—John Tesh has cut his hair. Almost don’t recognize him. Looks faintly babe-like. Queen of Sweden asks him if he is friend of bride or groom. Says groom, for some inexplicable reason, though I happen to know from having looked through Mr. Gianini’s CDs that he owns nothing but the Rolling Stones and a little Who.
7:55 p.m.—Everyone goes quiet as John Tesh sits down at baby grand. Pray that my mother is in different hemisphere and cannot see or hear this.
8:00 p.m.—Everyone waits expectantly. I demand that my father, who has joined me and the supermodels, give me letter from my mother. Dad surrenders letter.
8:01 p.m.—I read letter.
8:02 p.m.—I have to sit down.
8:05 p.m.—Grandmère and Vigo in deep consultation. They seem to have realized that neither the bride nor the groom have shown up.
8:07 p.m.—Amber Valetta whispers that if we don’t get a move on, she’s going to be late for a dinner engagement with Hugh Grant.
8:10 p.m.—A hush falls over the guests as my father, looking excessively princely in his tux (in spite of his bald head) strides to the front of the White and Gold Room. John Tesh stops playing.
8:11 p.m.—My father makes the following announcement:
Father: I want to thank all of you for taking the time out of your busy schedules to come here tonight. Unfortunately, the wedding between Helen Thermopolis and Frank Gianini will not take place . . . at least, not this evening. The happy couple have given us the slip, and this morning they flew to Cancun, where I understand they plan to be married by a justice of the peace.
[A shriek is heard from the far side of the baby grand. It does not appear to have come from John Tesh, but rather, Grandmère.]
Father: You are of course urged to join us in the Grand Ballroom for dinner. And thank you again for coming.
[Father strides off. Bewildered guests gather their belongings and go in search of cocktails. No sound whatsoever is heard from behind baby grand.]
Me: (to no one in particular) Mexico! They must be crazy. If my mother drinks the water, my future brother or sister will be born with flippers for feet!
Amber: Don’t worry, my friend Heather got pregnant in Mexico, and she drank the water, and she just gave birth to twins.
Me: And they had dorsal fins coming out of their backs, didn’t they?
8:20 p.m.—John Tesh begins to play. At least until Grandmère barks, “Oh, shut up!”
What the letter from my mother said:
Dear Mia,
By the time you read this, Frank and I will be married. I am sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, but when your grandmother asks you if you knew (and she will ask you), I wanted to be sure you could say truthfully that you didn’t, so there won’t be any ill feeling between the two of you.
[Ill feeling between Grandmère and me? Who does she think she’s kidding? There’s nothing but ill feeling between us!
Well, as far I’m concerned, anyway.]
More than anything, Frank and I wanted you to be there for our wedding. So we have decided that when we get back, we’re going to have another ceremony: This one will be kept strictly secret and very private, with just our little family and our friends!
[Well, that certainly should be interesting. Most of my mom’s friends are militant feminists or performance artists. One of them likes to stand up on a stage and pour chocolate syrup all over her naked body while reciting poetry.
I wonder how they are going to get along with Mr. G’s friends, who I understand like to watch a lot of sports.]
You have been a tower of strength during this crazy time, Mia, and I want you to know how much I—as well as your father, and stepfather—appreciate it. You are the best daughter a mother could have, and this new little guy (or girl) is the luckiest baby in the world to have you as a big sister.
Missing you already—
Mom
Friday, October 31, 9 p.m.
I am in shock. I really am.
Not because my mom and my Algebra teacher eloped. That’s kind of romantic, if you ask me.
No, it’s the fact that my dad—my dad—helped them to do it. He actually defied his mother. In a BIG way.
In fact, because of all this, I’m starting to think my dad isn’t scared of Grandmère at all! I think he just doesn’t want to be bothered. I think he just feels it’s easier to go along with her than to fight her, because fighting her is so messy and exhausting.
But not this time. This time, he put his foot down.
And you can bet he’s going to pay for it, too.
I may never get over this. I am going to have to readjust everything I ever thought about him. Kind of like when Luke Skywalker finds out his dad is really Darth Vader. Only the opposite.
Anywa
y, while Grandmère was plotzing behind the baby grand, I went up to Dad and threw my arms around him and was like, “You did it!”
He looked at me curiously. “Why do you sound surprised?”
Oops. I said, totally embarrassed, “Oh, well, because, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Well,” I said. (WHY? WHY do I have such a big mouth?)
I thought about lying. But I think my dad must have realized what I was thinking, since he said, in this warning voice, “Mia . . .”
“Oh, okay,” I said, grudgingly, letting him go. “It’s just that sometimes you give the appearance—just the appearance, mind you—of being a little bit scared of Grandmère.”
My dad reached out and wrapped an arm around my neck. He did this right in front of Liz Smith, who was getting up to follow everyone into the Grand Ballroom. She smiled at us as if she thought it was sweet, though.
“Mia,” my dad said. “I am not scared of my mother. She really isn’t as bad as you think. She just needs proper handling.”
This was news to me.
“Besides,” my dad said, “do you really think I would ever let you down? Or your mother? I will always be there for you two.”
This was so nice, I actually got tears in my eyes for a minute. But it might have been the smoke from all the cigarettes. There were a lot of French people at this party.
“Mia, I haven’t done so badly by you, have I?” my dad asked, all of a sudden.
I was surprised by the question. “No, Dad, of course not. You guys have always been okay parents.”
My dad nodded. “I see.”
I could see I hadn’t been complimentary enough, so I added, “No, I mean it. I really couldn’t ask for better . . .” I couldn’t help adding, “I could probably live without the princess thing, though.”