by Meg Cabot
he and I were just friends, so his sitting there MUST mean that he is at least slightly in love with me, because it is quite a sacrifice to give up the intellectual talk at the table where he normally sits for the kinds of talks we have at my table, which
are generally, like, in-depth analyses of last night's episode of Charmed and how cute Rose McGowan's halter top was or whatever.
But Michael was totally a good sport about it, even though he thinks Charmed is facile. And I really did try to steer the conversation around to things a guy would like, such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Milla Jojovich.
Only it turned out I didn't even need to, because Michael is like one of those peppered moths we read about in Bio.
You know, the ones that turned black when the tree bark they were camouflaged against got all sooty during the industrial revolution? He can totally adapt to any situation, and feel at ease. This is an amazing talent that I wish I had. Maybe if I
did, I wouldn't feel so out of place at meetings of the Genovian Olive Growers' Association.
Anyway, today at the lunch table, someone brought up cloning, and everyone was talking about who would you clone if you could clone anyone, and people were saying like Albert Einstein so he could come back and tell us the meaning of life and
stuff, or Jonas Salk so he could find a cure for cancer, and Mozart so he could finish his last requiem (whatever, that one
was Boris's, of course), or Madame Pompadour so she could give us all tips on romance (Tina) or Jane Austen so she
could write scathingly about current social mores and we could all benefit from her cutting wit (Lilly).
And then Michael said he would clone Kurt Cobain, because he was a musical genius who was taken too young. And then
he asked me who I would clone, and I couldn't think of anyone, because there really isn't anyone dead that I would want to bring back, except maybe Grandpa, but how creepy would that be? And Grandmere would probably freak. So I just said
Fat Louie, because I love Fat Louie and wouldn't mind having two of him around.
Only nobody looked very impressed by this except for Michael who said, 'That's nice,' which he probably only said
because he is my boyfriend.
But, whatever, I could deal with that, I am totally used to being the only person I know who sits through Empire Records every time it comes on TBS and who thinks it is one of the best movies ever made - after Star Wars and Dirty Dancing
and Say Anything and Pretty Woman, of course. Oh, and Tremors and Twister.
I am content to keep secret the fact that I must watch the Miss America Pageant every single year without fail, even though
I know it is degrading to women and not a scholarship fund, considering no one bigger than a size ten ever gets into it.
I mean, I know these things about myself. It is just the way I am. And though I have tried to improve myself by watching award-winning movies such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Gladiator, I don't know, I just don't like them. Everybody dies at the end and besides, if there isn't any dancing or explosions, it is very difficult for me to pay attention.
So, OK, I accept these things about myself. They are just me. Like I am good at English and not so good at Algebra. Whatever.
But it wasn't until we got to Gifted and Talented today, after lunch, and Lilly started working on the shot list for this week's episode of her cable access show, Lilly Tells It Like It Is, and Boris got out his violin and started playing a concerto (sadly
not in the supply closet because they still haven't put the door back on it), and Michael put on headphones and started
working on a new song for his band, that I realized it:
I have no special talent. I have no gift. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that I am a princess, I would be the most ordinary
person alive.
I mean, all my friends have these incredible things they can do: Lilly knows everything there is to know and isn't shy about saying it in front of a camera. Michael can not only play guitar and, like, fifty other instruments including the piano and drums, but he can also design whole computer programs. Boris has been playing his violin at sold-out Carnegie Hall concerts since
he was eleven years old, or something. Tina Hakim Baba can read, like, a book a day. Shameeka knows everything there is
to know about makeup and amoebas and Ling Su is an extremely talented artist.
But me?
Yeah, I can't do anything. I mean, nothing really well. Nothing better than anybody else.
I am just blah. I do not know why Michael even likes me, I am so talentless and boring. I mean, I guess it's a good thing my destiny as the monarch of a nation is sealed, because if I had to go apply for a job somewhere, I so fully wouldn't get it, because I'm not good at anything.
So here I am, sitting in Gifted and Talented, and there really is no getting around this basic fact:
I, Mia Thermopolis, am neither gifted nor talented.
WHAT AM I DOING IN HERE????? I DO NOT BELONG HERE!!!! I BELONG IN TECH. ED.!!!! OR DOMESTIC ARTS!!!!! I SHOULD BE MAKING A BIRDHOUSE OR A PIE!!!!
Just as I was writing this, Lilly leaned over and went, 'Oh my God, what is wrong with you? You look like you just ate a
sock,' which is what we say whenever someone looks super depressed, because that is how Fat Louie always looks
whenever he accidentally eats one of my socks and has to go to the vet to have it surgically removed.
Fortunately, Michael didn't hear her on account of having his headphones on. I would never have been able to confess
in front of him what I confessed then to his sister, which is that I am a big talentless phoney.
'And they only put me in this class in the first place because I was flunking Algebra,' I told her.
And she went, 'You have a talent.'
I stared at her, my eyes wide and, I am afraid, filled with tears. 'Oh, yeah, what?' I was really scared I was going to cry.
It must be PMS or something, because I was practically ready to start bawling.
But to my disappointment, all Lilly said was, 'Well, if you can't figure it out, I'm not going to tell you.' When I protested this,
she went: 'Part of the journey of achieving self-actualization is that you have to reach it on your own, without help or guidance from others. Otherwise, you won't feel as keen a sense of accomplishment. But I will give you a hint: Right now, your talent
is staring you in the face.'
I looked around, but I couldn't figure out what she was talking about. There was nothing staring me in the face that I could
see. No one was looking at me at all. Boris was busy scraping away with his bow, and Michael was fingering his keyboard furiously (and silently), but that was about it. Everyone else was bent over their Kaplan review books or doodling or making sculptures out of Vaseline or whatever.
I still have no idea what Lilly was talking about. There is nothing I am talented at - except maybe telling a fish fork apart from
a normal one.
I can't believe that all I thought I needed in order to achieve self-actualization was the love of the man to whom
I have pledged my heart. Knowing Michael loves me - or at least really likes me - just makes it all worse. Because his incredible talentedness just makes the fact that I am not . good at anything even more obvious.
I wish I could go to the nurse's office and take a nap. But they won't let you do that unless you have a temperature,
and I'm pretty sure all I have is jet lag.
I knew it was going to be a bad day. If I had had on my Queen Amidala underwear, I never would have realized how
pathetic I am.
Tuesday, January 19th,
World Civ.
Inventor
Invention
Benefits to Society
Cost to Society
Samuel B. Morse
Telegraph
Easier communication
Disrupted
view (wires)
Thomas A. Edison
Electric light
Phonograph
Easier to turn on lights
Less expensive than candles
Music in the home
w/o anyone playing instrument
Society didn't trust them
weren't successful at first
Music in the home
sound was bad at first
Ben Franklin
Franklin stove
Lightning rod
Less fuel, easier cooking
Less chance of house being struck
More pollution
Ugly
Eli Whitney
Cotton gin
Less work
Less employment
A. Graham Bell
Telephone
Easier communications
Disrupted view (wires)
Elias Howe
Sewing machine
Less work
Less employment
Chris. Scholes
Typewriter
Easier work
Less employment
Henry Ford
Automobile
assembly line
More cars
Pollution
I will never invent anything, either of benefit or cost to any society, because I am a talentless reject.
Homework:
Algebra: probs at beginning of Chapter 11 (no review session, Mr G has mtgs - also, just started semester, so nothing to review yet. Also, not flunking any more!!!!!!) English: update journal (How I Spent My Winter Break -500 words)
Biology: Read Chapter 13
Health and Safety: Chapter 1: You and Your Environment
G & T: Figure out secret talent
French: Chapitre Dix
World Civ.: Chapter 13: Brave New World
Tuesday, January 19th,
in the Limo on Way to Grandmere's for Princess Lesson
Things To Do:
1. Find Queen Amidala underwear.
2. Stop obsessing over whether or not Michael loves me vs. being in love with me. Be happy with what I have.
Remember, lots of girls have no boyfriends at all. Or they have really gross ones with no front teeth like on
Maury Povich.
3. Call Tina to compare notes on how the not-chasing-boys thing is working.
4. Do all homework. Do not get behind first day!!!!!
5. Wrap Michael's present.
6. Find out what Grandmere talked to Mom about last night. Oh, God, please do not let it be something weird like
wanting to take me clay-pigeon shooting. I don't want to shoot any clay pigeons. Or anything else, for that matter.
7. Stop biting fingernails.
8. Buy cat litter.
9. Figure out secret talent.
10. GET SOME SLEEP!!!!!!!!! Boys don't like girls who have huge purple bags under their eyes. Not even perfect
boys like Michael.
Tuesday, January 19th,
Still in the Limo on Way to Grandmere's for Princess Lesson
(presidential motorcade going by, stuck in traffic on FDR, underneath the United Nations)
Draft for English Journal:
How I Spent My Winter Break
I spent my Winter Break in Genovia, population 50,000. Genovia is a principality located on the Cote d'Azur between
Italy and France. Genovia's main export is olive oil. Its main import is tourists. Recently, however, Genovia has begun
suffering from considerable damage to its infrastructure due to foot traffic from the many yachts that dock in its harbour
and
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Wednesday, January 20,
Homeroom
Oh, my God. I must have been even more tired than I thought yesterday. Apparently I fell asleep in the limo on the
way to Grandmere's, and Lars couldn't even wake me up for my princess lesson! He says that when he tried, I swatted
him away and called him a bad word in French (that is Francois' fault, not mine).
So he had Hans turn around and drive me back to the loft, then Lars carried me up three flights of stairs to my room
(no joke, I weigh as much as about five Fat Louies) and my mom put me to bed.
I didn't wake up for dinner or anything. I slept until seven this morning! That is fifteen hours straight.
Wow. I must have been fried from all the excitement of being back home and seeing Michael, or something.
Or maybe I really did have jet lag, and that whole I-am-a-talentless-bum thing from yesterday wasn't rooted in my low self-esteem, but was due to a chemical imbalance from lack of REM sleep. You know they say that people who are sleep deprived start suffering from hallucinations after a while. There was a DJ who stayed up for eleven days straight, the longest-recorded period of time anyone has ever gone without sleep, and he started playing nothing but Crosby, Stills and Nash, and that's how they knew it was time to call the ambulance.
Except that even after fifteen hours of sleep, I still feel like a bit of a talentless bum. But at least today I don't feel like it's
such a tragedy. I think sleeping for fifteen hours straight has given me some perspective. I mean, not everyone can be super-geniuses like Lilly and Michael. Just like not everyone can be a violin virtuoso like Boris. I have to be good at something. I just need to figure out what that something is. I asked Mr. G today at breakfast what he thinks I am good
at, and he said he thinks I make some interesting fashion statements sometimes.
But that cannot have been what Lilly was referring to, as I was wearing my school uniform at the time she mentioned my mystery talent, which hardly leaves room for creative expression.
Mr. G's remark reminded me that I still haven't found my Queen Amidala underwear. But I wasn't about to ask my
stepfather if he'd seen them. EW! I try not to look at Mr. Gianini's underwear when it comes back all folded from the laundry-by-the-pound place, and thankfully he extends the same courtesy to me.
And I couldn't ask my mom because once again she was dead to the world this morning. I guess pregnant women need
as much sleep as teenagers and DJs.
But I had seriously better find them before Friday, or my first date with Michael will be a full-on disaster, I just know it.
Like he'll probably open his present and be all, 'Uh ... I guess it's the thought that counts.'
I probably should have just followed Mrs. Hakim Baba's rules and got him a sweater.
But Michael is so not the sweater type! I realized it as we pulled up in front of his building today. He was standing there, looking all tall and manly and Heath Ledger-like . . . except for having dark hair, not blond.
And his scarf was kind of blowing in the wind, and I could see that part of his throat, you know, right beneath his Adam's
apple and right above where his shirt collar opens, the part that Lars once told me if you hit someone hard enough, it would paralyse them. Michael's throat was so nice-looking, so pink and concave, that all I could think about was Mr. Rochester standing out on the moor, brooding about his great love for Jane . . .
And I knew, I just knew, I was right not to have gotten him a sweater. I mean, Jane would never have given Mr. Rochester
a sweater. Ew.
Anyway, then Michael saw me and smiled and he didn't look like Mr. Rochester any more, because Mr. Rochester never smiled, he just looked like Michael.