by Meg Cabot
I thought we established yesterday that just being you is enough of an accomplishment.
Yeah, but you were just being nice. Anybody can be THEMSELVES. I want to do something really special.
Mia, if you’re not going to pay attention in this class, I don’t see how you plan to pass it. Don’t expect me to bail you out again this year, I’ve got other things to do.—Kenny
That guy is really getting on my nerves.
He’s right, though. We should stop. It’s wrong.
But it feels so right!
J.P.! Stop it! You’re making me laugh!
Good. You need a laugh, I suspect.
J.P. is so nice!!!! Lilly’s so lucky to have found such a perfect guy.
All right, back to Chemistry.
Wait…there’s HOW many chemical compounds? And we have to know them ALL???????
Thursday, September 9, Precalculus
REASONS TO DO IT TONIGHT
VS.
WAIT UNTIL PROM NIGHT
Pro:
It could convince him to stay in New York and not move to Japan, thus keeping me from having a nervous breakdown when he isn’t around for me to smell his neck.
Con:
It could convince him to stay in New York and not move to Japan, thus depriving the world of a potentially life-saving medical breakthrough, and my grandmother of her reason to keep trying to fix me up with other guys she believes are “more worthy” (meaning richer) than Michael.
Pro:
Michael says he is never going to another prom anyway, so I might as well just get it over with now.
Con:
But maybe by the time my senior prom rolls around, he might be so desperate for sex he’ll agree to go after all!
Pro:
It will be a chance for us to express our love physically in a way that will truly make us one heart, one mind, one soul.
Con:
What if I pass gas or something? I mean, seriously, you are NAKED, he’s going to be able to tell it was you.
Pro:
Speaking of naked, I will finally get to see Michael naked.
Con:
He will get to see ME naked.
Pro:
By having sex tonight, instead of waiting until prom night, we will avoid being a cliché, like couples in teen movies.
Con:
The fact that I am not yet eighteen could lead to legal complications for Michael down the road. Although I’m sure my dad wouldn’t want the tabloids finding out about something like that.
Pro:
Lilly’s Done It already. At least I think so. And it doesn’t seem to have done her and J.P. any harm.
Con:
I don’t actually know this for sure.
Pro:
By giving each other the Precious Gift of our virginity, we will be forging an emotional and spiritual bond with each other that we will never have with anyone else in our lives, even if the unthinkable should happen and we someday part ways.
Con:
I can’t think of a con to that one.
Oh whatever. We’re so Doing It.
I’m so going to throw up.
HOMEWORK
Homeroom: n/a
Intro to Creative Writing: Some idiotic thing I can’t remember
English: 1,000 words on Raise High the Roof Beams, Carpenters
French: More décrire un soir amusant avec les amis
G & T: n/a
PE: n/a
Chemistry: Who knows?
Precalculus: Who cares?
Only six more hours until Michael and I Do It!!!!!!!!
Thursday, September 9, the Four Seasons
It’s getting harder and harder to find Grandmère for my princess lessons these days. We finally tracked her down in the penthouse of the Four Seasons, but when I walked in, it was bedlam, as usual.
“These curtains are unacceptable,” Grandmère was saying to a man in a business suit whose gold nametag read Jonathan Greer.
“I’ll have them replaced immediately, madam,” Jonathan Greer said.
Grandmère looked kind of surprised that he wasn’t arguing. She said, “A floral print. NOT stripes.”
“Absolutely, madam,” Jonathan Greer said. “They’ll be replaced with floral patterned curtains at once.”
Grandmère gave him a startled look. She was clearly used to more resistance from the hotel concierges she’s been dealing with lately.
“And I cannot abide leather furniture,” she said, pointing to a very nice club chair in the corner. “It’s far too slippery, and Rommel dislikes it. The smell makes him nervous. He was kicked in the head by a cow once.”
“I’ll have the chair re-covered at once, madam,” the concierge said. He caught my eye, and nodded politely in my direction. But then he turned back to Grandmère. “Perhaps in the same material as the curtains?”
Grandmère looked even more taken aback. “Why, yes…yes, that would be acceptable.”
“And would Your Highness care for tea,” Jonathan Greer wanted to know, “as I see your granddaughter has arrived? Service for two can be brought immediately. Finger sandwiches or scones or both?”
Grandmère looked like she might pass out, she was so astonished. “Both, of course,” she said. “And Earl Grey tea.”
“Absolutely,” Jonathan Greer said, as if there were no other kind. “And perhaps a cocktail for you, Your Highness? I believe a Sidecar—served in a stemmed cocktail glass, no sugar on the rim—is your preference?”
Grandmère had to sit down. She did it gracefully—well, except for the part where she almost sat on Rommel. But he got out of the way in the nick of time. It’s not like he hasn’t had plenty of practice.
“That would be lovely,” she said faintly.
“Anything that we can do to make your stay in the Royal Suite more pleasurable, Your Highness,” Jonathan Greer said, with a bow. “You need only call.”
And with that, he stepped smartly out of the room and into the hallway—where I saw my dad, out of Grandmère’s sight, slip the guy a folded-up bill and murmur his thanks.
Wow. My dad can be slick sometimes.
“So,” he said to Grandmère, as he strolled back into the room. “What do you think? Does this place meet with your approval?”
“It’s called the Royal Suite,” Grandmère said, still a bit faintly.
“Indeed it is,” my dad said. “Three bedrooms of luxury for you, Rommel, and your maid. I hope you approve. Look…there’s even an ashtray.”
Grandmère blinked at the crystal bowl he held up. “There are roses,” she said. “Pink and white. In vases everywhere.”
“Well, look at that,” Dad said. “So there are. Do you think you can stand to live here until your condo at the Plaza is completed?”
Grandmère rallied herself. “I suppose it will be tolerable,” she said. “Though hardly what I’m used to.”
“Of course not,” Dad said. “But sometimes in life we must suffer. Mia. How are you?”
I jumped away from the window, which I’d been looking out of. We were on the thirty-second floor, and I have to say that the view, while beautiful, wasn’t doing much for the vomity feeling I was kind of pushing down.
I didn’t just feel like throwing up, either. There was fluttering going on in my stomach. It was like there was one of those hummingbirds, that sometimes hover around outside my window back in Genovia, trapped inside my abdomen.
I’m sure this was just nervous anticipation of the ecstasy I am bound to experience tonight in Michael’s arms.
“I’m fine,” I said to my dad. Too fast, though, since he gave me a strange look.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “You look…pale.”
“I’m good,” I said. “Just, um, ready for today’s princess lesson!”
My dad gave me an even STRANGER look at that. I have NEVER been ready for a princess lesson. EVER.
“Oh, Amelia,” Grandmère groaned, from her couch. “I haven’t the tim
e or patience today. Jeanne and I have so much unpacking to do.” Which translates from Grandmère speak to My maid, Jeanne, has to unpack while I, the dowager princess, boss her around. “I need to get settled before I can think of more things to teach you. This constant moving about has been VERY unsettling. Not just for me, but for Rommel, as well.”
We all looked at Rommel, who had curled into a ball at the end of the couch and was snoring fitfully, while he dreamed of being far, far away from Grandmère.
“Well, Mother,” Dad said. “Now that you have Mr. Greer looking after you, I feel as if I can leave you for a bit—”
Grandmère just snorted. “Which lucky Victoria’s Secret lingerie model is it tonight, Phillipe?” she wanted to know. Then, before he could even answer, she went on to say, “Amelia, all of this rushing around town has wreaked havoc on my pores. I’m going to have a facial. Princess lessons are canceled for the day.”
“Um,” I said. “Okay, Grandmère.” It was really hard to hide my relief. I have a LOT of shaving to do.
Hmmm, I wonder if she knows this, and that’s WHY she’s letting me go home early?
But no, that’s not possible. Not even GRANDMÈRE could actually WANT me to have premarital sex.
I mean. Could she? Why else would she have—
No. Not even Grandmère could be that calculating.
Thursday, September 9, the Moscovitzes’ apartment, 7 p.m.
Okay, so I’m here. I’m shaved and exfoliated and conditioned and the sponges are secured in my backpack and I think I’m ready.
I mean, aside from the throwing-up feeling, which still hasn’t gone away.
Everything is crazy here. Michael is packing to leave, and his mother seems to think they don’t actually have things like shampoo and toilet paper in Japan. She keeps slipping that kind of stuff into his suitcase. She and Maya, the Moscovitzes’ housekeeper, went to Sam’s Club in New Jersey and bought a year’s supply of stuff like family-size containers of Tums for him to take with him.
He’s like, “Mom, I’m sure they have Tums in Japan. Or something similar. I do not need a family-size container of them. Or this giant vat of Listerine mouthwash.”
But Dr. Moscovitz doesn’t care, she just keeps putting them back in his suitcase every time Michael takes them out.
It’s kind of sad. I mean, I know how Dr. Moscovitz feels. She just wants to have SOME feeling of control in a world that is rapidly spinning into chaos. And apparently making sure her son has enough antacid to last him until the next millennium helps Michael’s mother feel more in control.
I wish I could tell her she has nothing to worry about, since Michael won’t be going to Japan after all. But I can’t really let HER in on my plan before I let MICHAEL in on it.
Anyway, I already told him we’re going to be sneaking out. He doesn’t like it—he’s always afraid of getting on my dad’s bad side, which I can understand might be a concern to anyone, seeing as how my dad has command of an elite security task force—but I can tell he’s intrigued. He was like, “Okay. Let me just find my jacket. I know it’s in my room…somewhere.”
Little does he know he’s not going to need his jacket.
Lilly just came out of her room with her video camera and said, “Oh, good, POG, I’m glad you’re here. Quick—what are some ways you’d reduce climate-heating pollution so that we don’t experience a climatic disaster equivalent to the ones portrayed in The Day After Tomorrow and Category 6? I mean, if you ruled the world, and not just Genovia.”
“Lilly,” I said. “I am not in the mood to be on your TV show right now.”
“This isn’t for Lilly Tells It Like It Is, it’s for the campaign. Come on, quick. Pretend you’re addressing the Genovian parliament.”
I sighed. “Fine. Well, instead of spending three hundred billion dollars a year extracting and refining fossil fuels, I’d urge world leaders to spend that money developing alternative clean energy resources, like solar, wind, and biofuels.”
“Good,” Lilly said. “What else?”
“Is this part of your scare-the-freshmen-into-voting-for-me thing?” I asked. “Because I’m such a worrywart, I’ve already researched what to do in the event of most disasters??”
“Just answer the question.”
“I’d help developing nations, which are the ones causing the most pollution, switch over to clean energy resources, too. And require automakers to manufacture only gas-electric hybrid cars, and buy back everyone’s SUV, and provide tax breaks to consumers and businesses that switch from fossil fuel burning to solar or wind power.”
“Awesome. Why do you look so funny?”
I put a hand up to my face. I’d been extra careful with my makeup, because Michael would be seeing it extra up close. I didn’t want it to look like I was wearing any. Boys like the natural look. Well, boys like Michael, anyway.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Funny how?” Was I getting a zit? That would be just my luck.
“No. You just look really nervous. Like you’re going to throw up.”
“Oh.” Thank God it wasn’t a zit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“POG.” Lilly lowered the camera and stared at me curiously. “What’s going on? What are you up to? What are you and Michael doing tonight, anyway? He said you had some kind of surprise for him.”
Thank God Michael just came out from his room, carrying his jean jacket and going, “Sorry, I’m ready now.”
I wish I could say the same.
Thursday, September 9, 8 p.m., the Ritz
Have to write fast—Michael is tipping the room service guy. Everything is going perfectly…we got out of the building without anyone suspecting a thing. Michael thinks we’re just having a romantic good-bye dinner for two in my grandmother’s abandoned hotel suite (which, thank God, they’ve cleaned since she left. I don’t think I could go through with this if the place still reeked of Chanel No. 5, as most rooms tend to after Grandmère’s been there). He doesn’t know I’m about to make him the recipient of my Precious Gift.
Ooooh, he’s coming back. I will drop the bomb after dinner…the sex bomb, I mean.
Hey, isn’t that the name of a song?
Thursday, September 9, 10 p.m., taxi home from the Ritz
I can’t believe he—
Oh my God, how am I even going to write this down? I can’t even THINK it, how can I WRITE it???? I really can’t even SEE to write it, the light in here is so bad. I can only see the page when we’re stopped in traffic under a streetlamp.
But since Ephrain Kleinschmidt—that’s my cab driver’s name, according to his license in the bulletproof screen between him and me—took Fifth Avenue and not Park, like I asked, we are stopped in traffic A LOT.
Which is good. No, really, it’s GOOD. Since I guess it means I can hopefully get all my crying out of my system before we get to the loft, so I don’t have to face the Big Interrogation from Mom and Mr. G when I walk in looking like Kirsten Dunst after the hot tub scene from Crazy/Beautiful. You know. Crying hysterically and all.
The crying is really freaking Ephrain Kleinschmidt out. I guess he’s never had a sobbing sixteen-year-old princess in his cab before. He keeps on looking back here in his rearview mirror and trying to hand me Kleenexes from the box on his dashboard.
As if Kleenex is going to help!!!!!
The only thing that’s going to help is getting this down in some kind of lucid manner to help me make sense of it. Because it makes no sense. None of this makes any sense. It CAN’T be happening. It CAN’T.
Except that it is.
I just don’t understand how he could never have TOLD me. I mean, seriously, I thought we had a perfect relationship.
Okay, maybe not PERFECT because no one has a PERFECT relationship. I will admit the computer stuff really, really bored me.
But at least he KNEW that, and didn’t bore me with it. That much.
And I know the princess lessons stuff really bored him, too. I mean, the st
uff about who to curtsy to when, and all. So I tried to spare him, too.
But other than that, I thought we had a good relationship. An OPEN relationship. A relationship where we could TELL each other things, and didn’t have any secrets.
I had no idea Michael has been keeping something like this from me the WHOLE TIME we’ve been going out.
And his excuse—that I never asked—is BOGUS. I’m sorry, but that is just—OH MY GOD, EPHRAIN KLEINSCHMIDT, NO I DO NOT WANT ANY KLEENEX—stupid. You don’t NOT tell your girlfriend something like that, even if she never asked, because she just ASSUMED….
Although I should have known. I mean, what was I THINKING???? Michael is way too hot not to have—
Okay. Lucid. Right.
Everything was going great. At least, I THOUGHT everything was going great. The throw-up feeling had even gone away. It’s true I couldn’t eat very much—I ordered the bluefin tuna two ways with artichoke salad with fava beans and scallions and Parmesan shavings for me, and the chicken à la moutarde, fresh peas, cipollini onions, baby carrots, and pea “cappuccino” sauce for Michael, plus milk chocolate mousse to share for dessert. I was kind of worried about the scallions but I had a Listerine Pocket Pak in my bag—because I was so nervous about what I knew I was about to do.
But just BEING with Michael and in the vicinity of his neck and therefore his pheromones calmed me down so much that by the time we got to the mousse, I felt like I really could go through with it.