by Meg Cabot
Lilly says I need to stop obsessing. She says I’m taking my anxiety over the fact that this is only our first month in high school and I already have an F in something, and transferring it to anxiety about Mr. Gianini and my mom. She says this is called displacement.
It sort of sucks when your best friend’s parents are psychoanalysts.
Today after school the Drs. Moscovitz were totally trying to analyze me. I mean, Lilly and I were just sitting there playing Boggle. And every five minutes it was like, "Girls, do you want some Snapple? Girls, there’s a very interesting squid documentary on the Discovery channel. And by the way, Mia, how do you feel about your mother starting to date your Algebra teacher?"
I said, "I feel fine about it."
Why can’t I be more assertive?
But what if Lilly’s parents run into my mom at Jefferson Market or something? If I told them the truth, they’d definitely tell her. I don’t want my mom to know how weird I feel about this, not when she’s so happy about it.
The worst part was that Lilly’s older brother Michael overheard the whole thing. He immediately started laughing his head off, even though I don’t see anything funny about it.
He went, "Your mom is dating Frank Gianini? Ha! Ha! Ha!"
So great. Now Lilly’s brother Michael knows.
So then I had to start begging him not to tell anybody. He’s in fifth period Gifted and Talented class with me and Lilly, which is the biggest joke of a class, because Mrs. Hill, who’s in charge of the G & T program at Albert Einstein, doesn’t care what we do as long as we don’t make too much noise. She hates it when she has to come out of the teachers’ lounge, which is right across the hall from the G & T room, to yell at us.
Anyway, Michael is supposed to use fifth period to work on his on-line webzine, Crackhead. I’m supposed to use it for catching up on my Algebra homework.
But anyway, Mrs. Hill never checks to see what we’re doing in G & T, which is probably good, since mostly what we’re all doing is figuring out ways to lock the new Russian kid, who’s supposedly this musical genius, in the supply closet so we don’t have to listen to any more Stravinsky on his stupid violin.
But don’t think that just because Michael and I are united against Boris Pelkowski and his violin he’d keep quiet about my mom and Mr. G.
What Michael kept saying was, "What’ll you do for me, huh, Thermopolis? What’ll you do for me?"
But there’s nothing I can do for Michael Moscovitz. I can’t offer to do his homework, or anything. Michael is a senior (just like Josh Richter). Michael has gotten all straight A’s his entire life (just like Josh Richter). Michael will probably go to Yale or Harvard next year (just like Josh Richter).
What could I do for someone like that?
Not that Michael’s perfect, or anything. Unlike Josh Richter, Michael is not on the crew team. Michael isn’t even on the debate team. Michael does not believe in organized sports, or organized religion, or organized anything, for that matter. Instead, Michael spends almost all of his time in his room. I once asked Lilly what he does in there, and she said she and her parents employ a don’t ask, don’t tell policy with Michael.
I bet he’s in there making a bomb. Maybe he’ll blow up Albert Einstein High School as a senior prank.
Occasionally, Michael comes out of his room and makes sarcastic comments. Sometimes when he does this he is not wearing a shirt. Even though he does not believe in organized sports, I have noticed that Michael has a really nice chest. His stomach muscles are extremely well defined.
I have never mentioned this to Lilly.
Anyway, I guess Michael got tired of my offering to do stuff like walk his sheltie, Pavlov, and take his mom’s empty Tab cans back to Gristedes for the deposit money, which is his weekly chore. Because in the end Michael just said, in this disgusted voice, "Forget it, okay, Thermopolis?" and went back into his room.
I asked Lilly why he was so mad, and she said because he’d been sexually harassing me but I didn’t notice.
How embarrassing! Supposing Josh Richter starts sexually harassing me someday (I wish) and I don’t notice? God, I’m so stupid sometimes.
Anyway, Lilly said not to worry about Michael telling his friends at school about my mom and Mr. G, since Michael has no friends. Then Lilly wanted to know why I cared about Mr. Gianini’s nostrils sticking out so much, since I’m not the one who has to look at them, my mom is.
And I said, "Excuse me, I have to look at them from 9:55 to 10:55 and from 2:30 to 3:30 EVERY SINGLE DAY, except Saturdays and Sundays and national holidays and the summer. If I don’t flunk, that is, and have to go to summer school."
And if they get married, then I’ll have to look at them EVERY SINGLE DAY, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK, MAJOR HOLIDAYS INCLUDED.
Define set: collection of objects; element or member belongs to a set
A = {Gilligan, Skipper, Mary Ann}
rule specifies each element
A = {x|x is one of the castaways on Gilligan’s Island}
Friday, September 26
LILLY MOSCOVITZ’S LIST OF HOTTEST GUYS(compiled during World Civ, with commentary by Mia Thermopolis)
1. Josh Richter (agree—six feet of unadulterated hotness. Blond hair, often falling into his clear blue eyes, and that sweet, sleepy smile. Only drawback: he has the bad taste to date Lana Weinberger)
2. Boris Pelkowski (strongly disagree. Just because he played his stupid violin at Carnegie Hall when he was twelve does not make him hot. Plus he tucks his school sweater into his pants, instead of wearing it out, like a normal person)
3. Pierce Brosnan, best James Bond ever (disagree—I liked Timothy Dalton better)
4. Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans (agree—stay alive, no matter what occurs)
5. Prince William of England (duh)
Leonardo in Titanic (As if! That is so 1998)
6. Mr. Wheeton, the crew coach (hot, but taken. Seen opening the door to the teachers’ lounge for Mademoiselle Klein)
7. That guy in that jeans ad on that giant billboard in Times Square (totally agree. Who IS that guy? They should give him his own TV series)
8. Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman’s boyfriend (whatever happened to him? He was hot!)
9. Joshua Bell, the violinist (totally agree. It would be so cool to date a musician—just not Boris Pelkowski)
Later on Friday
I was measuring my chest and totally not thinking about the fact that my mom was out with my Algebra teacher when my dad called. I don’t know why, but I lied and told him Mom was at her studio. Which is so weird, because obviously Dad knows Mom dates. But for some reason, I just couldn’t tell him about Mr. Gianini.
This afternoon during my mandatory review session with Mr. Gianini, I was sitting there practicing the FOIL method (first, outside, inside, last; first, outside, inside, last—Oh my God, when am I ever going to have to actually use the FOIL method in real life? WHEN???) and all of a sudden Mr. Gianini said, "Mia, I hope you don’t feel, well, uncomfortable about my seeing your mother socially."
Only for some reason for a second I thought he said SEXUALLY, not socially. And then I could feel my face getting totally hot. I mean like BURNING. And I said, "Oh, no, Mr. Gianini, it doesn’t bother me at all."
And Mr. Gianini said, "Because if it bothers you, we can talk about it."
I guess he must have figured out I was lying, since my face was so red.
But all I said was, "Really, it doesn’t bother me. I mean, it bothers me a LITTLE, but really, I’m fine with it. I mean, it’s just a date, right? Why get upset about one measly date?"
That was when Mr. Gianini said, "Well, Mia, I don’t know if it’s going to be one measly date. I really like your mother."
And then, I don’t even know how, but all of a sudden I heard myself saying, "Well, you better. Because if you do anything to make her cry, I’ll kick your butt."
Oh my God! I can’t even believe I said the word butt to a teacher! My face got even REDDER aft
er that, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. Why is it that the only time I can tell the truth is when it’s guaranteed to get me into trouble?
But I guess I am feeling sort of weird about the whole thing. Maybe Lilly’s parents were right.
Mr. Gianini, though, was totally cool. He smiled in this funny way and said, "I have no intention of making your mother cry, but if I ever do, you have my permission to kick my butt."
So that was okay, sort of.
Anyway, Dad sounded really weird on the phone. But then again, he always does. Transatlantic phone calls suck because I can hear the ocean swishing around in the background and it makes me all nervous, like the fish are listening, or something. Plus Dad didn’t even want to talk to me. He wanted to talk to Mom. I suppose somebody died, and he wants Mom to break it to me gently.
Maybe it was Grandmère. Hmmm. . . .
My breasts have grown exactly none since last summer. Mom was totally wrong. I did not have a growth spurt when I turned fourteen, like she did. I will probably never have a growth spurt, at least not on my chest. I only have growth spurts UP, not OUT. I am now the tallest girl in my class.
Now if anybody asks me to the Cultural Diversity Dance next month (yeah, right) I won’t be able to wear a strapless dress because there isn’t anything on my chest to hold it up.
Saturday, September 27
I was asleep when my mom got home from her date last night (I stayed up as late as I could, because I wanted to know what happened, but I guess all that measuring wore me out), so I didn’t get to ask her how it went until this morning when I went out into the kitchen to feed Fat Louie. Mom was up already, which was weird, because usually she sleeps later than me, and I’m a teenager, I’m supposed to be the one sleeping all the time.
But Mom’s been depressed ever since her last boyfriend turned out to be a Republican.
Anyway, she was in there, humming in a happy way and making pancakes. I nearly died of shock to see her actually cooking something so early in the morning, let alone something vegetarian.
Of course she had a fabulous time. They went to dinner at Monte’s (not too shabby, Mr. G!) and then walked around the West Village and went to some bar and sat outside in the back garden until nearly two in the morning, just talking. I kind of tried to find out if there’d been any kissing, particularly of the tongue-in-mouth variety, but my mom just smiled and looked all embarrassed.
Okay. Gross.
They’re going out again this week.
I guess I don’t mind, if it makes her this happy.
Today Lilly is shooting a spoof of the movie The Blair Witch Project for her TV show, Lilly Tells It Like It Is. The Blair Witch Project is about some kids who go out into the woods to find a witch and end up disappearing. All that’s found of them is film footage and some piles of sticks. Only instead of The Blair Witch Project, Lilly’s version is called The Green Witch Project. Lilly intends to take a hand-held camera down to Washington Square Park and film the tourists who come up to us and ask if we know how to get to Green Witch Village. (It’s actually Greenwich Village—you’re not supposed to pronounce the w in Greenwich. But people from out of town always say it wrong.)
Anyway, as tourists come up and ask us which way to Green Witch Village, we are supposed to start screaming and run away in terror. All that will be left of us by the end, Lilly says, is a little pile of MetroCards. Lilly says after the show is aired no one will ever think of MetroCards the same way.
I said it was too bad we don’t have a real witch. I thought we could get Lana Weinberger to play her, but Lilly said that would be typecasting. Plus then we’d have to put up with Lana all day, and nobody would want that. Like she’d even show up, considering how she thinks we’re the most unpopular girls in the whole school. She probably wouldn’t want to tarnish her reputation by being seen with us.
Then again, she’s so vain she’d probably jump at the chance to be on TV, even if it is only a public access channel.
After filming was over for the day, we all saw the Blind Guy crossing Bleecker. He had a new victim, this totally innocent German tourist who had no idea that the nice blind man she was helping to cross the street was going to feel her up as soon as they got to the other side, then pretend he hadn’t done it on purpose.
Just my luck, the only guy who’s ever felt me up (not that there’s anything to feel) was BLIND.
Lilly says she’s going to report the Blind Guy to the Sixth Precinct. Like they would care. They’ve got more important things to worry about. Like catching murderers.
THINGS TO DO
1. Get cat litter
2. Make sure Mom sent out rent check
3. Stop lying
4. Proposal for English paper
5. Pick up laundry
6. Stop thinking about Josh Richter
Sunday, September 28
My dad called again today, and this time Mom really was at her studio, so I didn’t feel so bad about lying last night and not telling him about Mr. Gianini. He sounded all weird on the phone again, so finally I was like, "Dad, is Grandmère dead?" and he got all startled and said, "No, Mia, why would you think that?"
And I told him it was because he sounded so weird, and he was all, "I don’t sound weird," which was a lie, because he DID sound weird. But I decided to let it drop, and I talked to him about Iceland, because we’re studying Iceland in World Civ. Iceland has the world’s highest literacy rate, because there’s nothing to do there but read. They also have these natural hot springs, and everybody goes swimming in them. Once, the opera came to Iceland, and every show was sold out and something like 98 percent of the population attended. Everybody knew all the words to the opera and went around singing it all day.
I would like to live in Iceland someday. It sounds like a fun place. Much more fun than Manhattan, where people sometimes spit at you for no reason.
But Dad didn’t seem all that impressed by Iceland. I suppose by comparison, Iceland does make every other country look sucky. The country Dad lives in is pretty small, though. I would think if the opera went there, about 80 percent of the population would attend, which would certainly be something to be proud of.
I only shared this information with him because he is a politician, and I thought it might give him some ideas about how to make things better in Genovia, where he lives. But I guess Genovia doesn’t need to be better. Genovia’s number one import is tourists. I know this because I had to do a fact sheet on every country in Europe in the seventh grade, and Genovia was right up there with Disneyland as far as income from the tourist trade is concerned. That’s probably why people in Genovia don’t have to pay taxes: The government already has enough money. This is called a principality. The only other one is Monaco. My dad says we have a lot of cousins in Monaco, but so far I haven’t met any of them, not even at Grandmère’s.
I suggested to Dad that next summer, instead of spending it with him and Grandmère at her French chateau, Miragnac, we go to Iceland. We’d have to leave my grandmother at the chateau, of course. She’d hate Iceland. She hates any place where you can’t order up a decent Sidecar, which is her favorite drink, twenty-four hours a day.
All Dad said was, "We’ll talk about that some other time," and hung up.
Mom is so right about him.
Absolute value: the distance that a given number is from zero on a number line . . . always a positive
Monday, September 29, G & T
Today I watched Mr. Gianini very closely for signs that he might not have had as good a time on his date with my mom as my mom did. He seemed to be in a really good mood, though. During class, while we were working on the quadratic formula (what happened to FOIL? I was just starting to get the hang of it, and all of a sudden there’s some NEW thing; no wonder I’m flunking), he asked if anybody had gone out for a part in the fall musical, My Fair Lady.
Then later he said, in the way he does when he gets excited about something, "You know who would be a good Eliza Doolittle?
Mia, I think you would."
I thought I would totally die. I know Mr. Gianini was only trying to be nice—I mean, he is dating my mom, after all—but he was SO far off: First of all because of course they already held auditions, and even if I could’ve gone out for a part (which I couldn’t, because I’m flunking Algebra, hello, Mr. Gianini, remember?) I NEVER would’ve gotten one, let alone the LEAD. I can’t sing. I can barely even talk.
Even Lana Weinberger, who always got the lead in junior high, didn’t get the lead. It went to some senior girl. Lana plays a maid, a spectator at the Ascot Races, and a Cockney hooker. Lilly is house manager. Her job is to flick the lights on and off at the end of intermission.
I was so freaked out by what Mr. Gianini said I couldn’t even say anything. I just sat there and felt myself turning all red. Maybe that was why later, when Lilly and I went by my locker at lunch, Lana, who was there waiting for Josh, was all, "Oh, hello, Amelia," in her snottiest voice, even though nobody has called me Amelia (except Grandmère) since kindergarten, when I asked everybody not to.
Then, as I bent over to get my money out of my backpack, Lana must have got a good look down my blouse, because all of a sudden she goes, "Oh, how sweet. I see we still can’t fit into a bra. Might I suggest Band-Aids?"
I would have hauled off and slugged her—well, probably not; the Drs. Moscovitz say I have issues about confrontation—if Josh Richter hadn’t walked up AT THAT VERY MOMENT. I knew he totally heard, but all he said was, "Can I get by here?" to Lilly, since she was blocking his path to his locker.
I was ready to go slinking down to the cafeteria and forget the whole thing—God, that’s all I need, my lack of chest pointed out right in front of Josh Richter!—but Lilly couldn’t leave well enough alone. She got all red in the face and said to Lana, "Why don’t you do us all a favor and go curl up someplace and die, Weinberger?"