by Meg Cabot
I am haunted . . . haunted by the spectre of the dream of a prom that I know now will never be. Never will I, dressed in off-one-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, nor 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 on 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 barrelling 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 a 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 got completely out of control. In Korea, for instance, thirty per cent of women in their twenties have had some form of plastic surgery, ranging from cheekbone and jawbone shaving to eye slicing and calf-muscle removal (for slimmer calves) in order to achieve a more Western look. This as opposed to three per cent of women in the US 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 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 one another, 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 gynaecologist, 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, 'OK, 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 adviser, from what kind of car stereo works best in a Porsche Boxter 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 wer
e 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. I am the one who is supposed to have found my soul-niate. 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-racking. 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 snatefeed it up was about as far from being Michael as you can get.
It was, in fact, Grandmere. Our conversation went like this:
Grandmere: 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: OK, Grandmere. Whatever you say, Grandmere.
What, I ask you, is wrong with that answer? Really? What part of OK, Grandmere. Whatever you say, Grandmere 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.
Grandmere: Amelia. What is wrong with you? Out with it, I haven't much time. I'm supposed to be dining with the Due
di Bormazo. Nothing's wrong, Grandmere. I'm just... I'm a little depressed, that's all. I didn't get such a good grade on my last Algebra quiz, and I'm a little down about it...
Grandmere: 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.
Grandmere: 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 someplace. I'll give him a ring, and he can take Concorde over and take you to the little dance, if you want. That will show that unappreciative—
Me: No, Grandmere. Michael doesn't want to take someone else. He doesn't want to go at all. He ... he thinks the
prom is lame.
Grandmere: Oh ... for ... the .. . love ... of ... heaven. Not one of those.
Me: Yes, Grandmere. I'm afraid so.
Grandmere: Well, never mind. Your grandfather was the same way. Do you know that if I had left it up to him,
we'd have been married in a clerk's office, and gone to a coffee shop for lunch afterwards? The man simply had no understanding of romance, let alone the public's need for PAGEANTRY.
Me: Yes. Well. That's why I'm a little down today. Now, if you don't mind, Grandmere, I really have to start on my homework. I have a story due to the paper in the morning, too . . .
I didn't mention that it was a story about HER. Well, more or less. It was the story about the incident at Les Hautes Manger. According to the Sunday Times, the restaurant's management was still refusing to take Jangbu back on. So Lilly's march had been for nothing. Well, except that it had apparently gotten her a new boyfriend.
Grandmere: Yes, yes, get to work. You have to keep your grades up, or your father will give me another one of his lectures about forcing you to concentrate too much on royal matters and not enough on trigonometry or whatever it is you seem to be having so much trouble with. And don't worry too much about the situation with that boy. He'll come around, same as your grandfather did. You just have to find the right incentive. Goodbye.
Incentive? What was Grandmere talking about? What kind of incentive would make Michael come around to the idea of
going to the prom? I couldn't think of a single thing that might make him get over this obviously deeply rooted prejudice he
had against it.
Except possibly if the prom were a combo prom/Star Wars/Star Trek/Lord of the Rings/computer convention.
Sunday, May 4, 9 p.m., the Loft
I know why Michael never called. Because he emailed me instead. I just didn't check my messages until I turned on my computer to type up my story for The Atom.
LinuxRulz
Mia — Hope you didn't get in too much trouble over the closet thing from last night.
Mr G is a cool guy, though. I can't imagine he was too upset, after his initial blow-up.
Things have been pretty tense here, what with the whole Lilly/Boris break up. I am trying to stay out of it, and I strongly recommend, for your sanity's sake, you do the same. It's their problem, NOT OURS. I know how you are, Mia, and I really mean it when I say you're better off staying out of it. It's not worth it.
I'll be around all day if you want to give me a call. If you aren't grounded or whatever, maybe we can get together for dim sum? Or if you want, I can come over later to help with your Algebra homework. Just let me know.
Love — Michael
Well. Judging from the tone of THAT, I guess Michael isn't feeling too bad about the whole prom thing. It's almost as if he doesn't KNOW he's ripped out my heart and torn it into little pieces.
Which, considering the fact that I didn't exactly tell him how I felt, might actually be true. That he doesn't know, I mean.
But ignorance, as Grandmere is fond of saying, is no excuse.
I would also hazard a guess from the unconcerned tone of that
email that the Drs. Moscovitz have not been paying visits to Michael's room, telling HIM about birth control and the richness of the human sexual experience. Oh no. That kind of thing always ends up being the girl's problem. Even if your boyfriend, like mine, is a staunch supporter of women's rights.
Well, at least he wrote. That's more than can be said for my so-called best friend. You would think that Lilly might at least have called to apologize for ruining my party. (Well, really it was Tina who ruined it, with her stupid Seven Minutes in Heaven idea. But Lilly is the one who killed it spiritually by making out with a guy who is not her boyfriend in front of said boyfriend. Well, practically.)