by Meg Cabot
Mia: If only the Buffster could just find a boyfriend who doesn’t need to drink platelets to survive. High point: Any time there’s kissing. Low point: None.
Gilmore Girls
Lilly: Thoughtful portrayal of single mother struggling to raise teenage daughter in a small northeastern town.
Mia: Many, many, many, many, many, many cute boys. Plus it is nice to see single moms who sleep with their kid’s teacher getting props instead of lectures from the Moral Majority.
Charmed
Lilly: While this show at least accurately portrays SOME typical Wiccan practices, the spells these girls routinely do are completely unrealistic. You cannot, for instance, travel through time or between dimensions without creating rifts in the space-time continuum. Were these girls really to transport themselves to seventeenth-century Puritan America, they would arrive there with their esophagi ripped inside out, not neatly stuffed into a corset, as no one can travel through a wormhole and maintain their mass integrity. It is a simple matter of physics. Albert Einstein must be spinning in his grave.
Mia: Hello, witches in hot clothes. Like Sabrina, only better, because the boys are cuter, and sometimes they are in danger and the girls have to save them.
Thursday, January 22, G & T
Tina is so mad at Charlotte Brontë. She says Jane Eyre ruined her life.
She announced this at lunch. Right in front of Michael, who isn’t supposed to know about the whole Jane Eyre technique of not-chasing-boys thing, but whatever. He admitted to never having read the book, so I think it is a safe bet he didn’t know what Tina was talking about.
Still, it was way sad. Tina said she is giving up her romance novels. Giving them up because they led to the ruination of her relationship with Dave!
We were all very upset to hear about this. Tina loves reading romances. She reads about one a day.
But now she says that if it weren’t for romance novels, she, and not Jasmine, would be going to the Rangers game with Dave Farouq El-Abar this Saturday.
And my pointing out that she doesn’t even like hockey didn’t seem to help.
Lilly and I both realized that this was a pivotal moment in Tina’s adolescent growth. It needed to be pointed out to her that Dave, not Jane Eyre, was the one who’d pulled the plug on their relationship… and that, when looked at objectively, the whole thing was probably for the best. It was ludicrous for Tina to blame romance novels for her plight.
So Lilly and I very quickly drew up the following list, and presented it to Tina, in hopes that she would see the error of her ways:
MIA AND LILLY’S LIST OF ROMANTIC HEROINES AND THE VALUABLE LESSONS EACH TAUGHT US
Jane Eyre from Jane Eyre : Stick to your convictions and you will prevail.
Lorna Doone from Lorna Doone : Probably you are secretly royalty and an heiress, only no one has told you yet (this applies to Mia Thermopolis, as well).
Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice: Boys like it when you are smart-alecky.
Scarlett O’Hara from Gone With the Wind: Ditto.
Maid Marian from Robin Hood : It is a good idea to learn how to use a bow and arrow.
Jo March from Little Women: Always keep a second copy of your manuscript handy in case your vindictive little sister throws your first draft on the fire.
Anne Shirley from Anne of Green Gables : One word: Clairol.
Marguerite St. Just from The Scarlet Pimpernel : Check out your husband’s rings before you marry him.
Catherine, from Wuthering Heights : Don’t get too big for your britches or you, too, will have to wander the moors in lonely heartbreak after you die.
Tess from Tess of the d’Urbervilles: Ditto.
Tina, after reading the list, admitted tearfully that we were right, that romantic heroines from literature really were her friends, and that she could not, in good conscience, forsake them. We were all just breathing a sigh of relief (except for Michael and Boris—they were playing on Michael’s GameBoy) when Shameeka made a sudden announcement, even more startling than Tina’s:
“I’m trying out for cheerleading.”
We were, of course, stunned. Not because Shameeka would make a bad cheerleader—she is the most athletic of all of us, also the most attractive, and knows almost as much as Tina does about fashion and makeup.
It was just that, as Lilly so bluntly put it, “Why would you want to go and do something like that ?”
“Because,” Shameeka explained. “I am tired of letting Lana and her friends push me around. I am just as good as any of them. Why shouldn’t I try out for the squad, even if I’m not in their little clique? I have just as good a chance of getting on the team as anybody else.”
Lilly said, “While this is unarguably true, I feel I must warn you: Shameeka, if you try out for cheerleading, you might actually get on the squad. Are you prepared to subject yourself to the humiliation of cheering for Josh Richter as he chases after a ball?”
“Cheerleading has, for many years, suffered under the stigma of being inherently sexist,” Shameeka said. “But I think the cheerleading community in general is making strides at asserting itself as a fast-growing sport for both men and women. It is a good way to keep fit and active, it combines two things I love dearly: dance and gymnastics, and will look excellent on my college applications. That is, of course, the only reason my father is allowing me to try out. That and the fact that George W. Bush was a cheerleader. And that I won’t be allowed to attend any post-game parties.”
I didn’t doubt this last part. Mr. Taylor, Shameeka’s dad, was way strict.
But as for the rest of it, well, I wasn’t sure. Plus, her speech sounded a little planned and, well, defensive.
“Does that mean that if you get on the squad,” I wanted to know, “you’ll stop eating lunch with us, and go sit over there?”
I pointed at the long table across the caf from ours, at which Lana and Josh and all of their school-spirit-minded, incredibly well coifed cronies sat. The thought of losing Shameeka, who was always so elegant and yet at the same time sensible, to the Dark Side made my heart ache.
“Of course not,” Shameeka said disparagingly. “Getting on the Albert Einstein High School cheerleading squad is not going to change my friendships with all of you one iota. I will still be the camera person for your television show—” She nodded to Lilly “—and your Bio partner—” to me “—and your lipstick consultant—” to Tina “—and your portrait model—” to Ling Su. “I just may not be around as much, if I get on the squad.”
We all sat there, reflecting upon this great change that might befall us. If Shameeka made the squad, it would, of course, strike a blow for geeky girls everywhere. But it would also necessarily rob us of Shameeka, who would be forced to spend all of her free time practicing doing the splits and taking the bus to Westchester for away games with Rye Country Day.
But there was even more to it than that. If Shameeka made the cheerleading squad, it would mean she is good at something—REALLY REALLY good at something, not just a little good at everything, which we already knew about her. If Shameeka turned out to be REALLY REALLY good at something, then I would be the ONLY one at our lunch table without a recognizable talent.
And I swear it wasn’t for this reason alone that I was hoping so fervently that Shameeka wouldn’t make the team. I mean, I seriously wanted her to make it, if that was really what she wanted.
Only… only I REALLY don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t have a talent!!!! I REALLY REALLY don’t!!!!!!!
The silence at the table was palpable… well, except for the bing-bing-bing of Michael’s electronic game. Boys—apparently even perfect boys, like Michael—are immune to things like mood.
But I can tell you, the mood of this year so far has been pretty bad. In fact, if things don’t start looking up soon, I may have to write this entire year off as a do-over.
Still no clue as to what my secret talent might be. One thing I’m pretty sure it’s not is psychology.
It was hard work talking Tina out of giving up her books! And we didn’t manage to convince Shameeka not to try out for cheerleading. I guess I can see why she’d want to do it—I mean, it might be a little fun.
Though why anyone would willingly want to spend that much time with Lana Weinberger is beyond me.
Thursday, January 22, French
Mademoiselle Klein is not happy with Tina and me for skipping yesterday.
Of course I told her we didn’t skip, that we had a medical emergency that necessitated a trip to Ho’s for Tampax, but I am not sure Mademoiselle Klein believed me. You would think she would show some feminine solidarity with the whole surfing the crimson wave thing, but apparently not. At least she didn’t write us up. She let us off with a warning and assigned us a five-hundred-word essay each (in French, of course) about the Maginot Line.
But that isn’t even what I want to write about. What I want to write about is this:
MY DAD RULES!!!!!
And not just a country, either. He totally got me out of the Contessa’s black-and-white ball!!!!
What happened was—at least according to Mr. G, who just caught me outside in the hall and filled me in— the filibuster over the parking meters was finally broken (after thirty-six hours) and my mom was finally able to get through to my dad (those in favor of charging for parking meters won. It is a victory for the environment as well as for me. But I cannot feel fully vindicated for the post-introduction-speech-to-my-people mocking I endured at Grandmère’s hands, due to the fact that the true winner in all of this is the Genovian infrastructure).
Anyway, my dad fully said that I did not have to go to the Contessa’s party. Not only that, but he said he had never heard anything so ridiculous in his life, that the only feud going on between our family and the royal family of Monaco is Grandmère’s. Apparently she and the Contessa have been in competition since finishing school, and Grandmère had just wanted to show off her granddaughter, about whom books have been written and movies have been made. Apparently the Contessa’s only granddaughter will also be at the ball, but she’s never had a movie based on her life, and in fact is kind of like a sadsack who got kicked out of finishing school for never learning how to ski right, or something.
So I am free! Free to spend tomorrow night with my only love! I cat-on-the-roofed Michael for nothing! Everything is going to be all right, despite my lack of lucky underwear. I can feel it in my bones.
I am so happy, I feel like writing a poem. I will shield it from Tina, however, because it is unseemly to gloat over one’s own fortunes when the fortunes of another are so exceedingly wretched (Tina found out who Jasmine is: a girl who goes to Trinity, with Dave. Her father is an oil sheik, too. Jasmine has aquamarine braces and her screenname is IluvJustin2345).
HOMEWORK
Algebra: probs at end of Chapt. 11
English: in journal, describe feelings pertaining to reading John Donne’s The Bait
Bio: don’t know, Shameeka is doing it for me Health and Safety: Chapter 2, Environmental Hazards and You
G & T: figure out secret talent
French: Chapitre Onze, écrivez une narratif, 300 words, double spaced, plus 500 wds on snails
World Civ: 500 words, describe origins of Armenian conflict
Poem for Michael
Oh, Michael,
soon we’ll be parkin’
in front of Grand Moff Tarkin
Enjoying veggie moo shu
to the beeps of R2-D2
And maybe even holding hands
while gazing upon the Tatooine sands
And knowing that our love by far
has more fire power than the Death Star
And though they may blow up our planet
and kill every creature living on it
Like Leia and Han, in the stars above,
they can never destroy our love—
Like the Millennium Falcon in hyperdrive
our love will continue to thrive and thrive.
Thursday, January 22, limo on way home from Grandmère’s
It takes a big person to admit she’s wrong—Grandmère is the one who taught me that.
And if it’s true, then I must be even bigger than my five feet nine inches. Because I’ve been wrong. I’ve been wrong about Grandmère. All this time, when I thought she was inhuman and perhaps even sent down from an alien mothership to observe life on this planet and then report back to her superiors? Yeah, turns out Grandmère really is human, just like me.
How did I find this out? How did I discover that the dowager princess of Genovia did not, after all, sell her soul to the Prince of Darkness as I have often surmised?
I learned it today when I walked into Grandmère’s suite at the Plaza, fully prepared to do battle with her over the whole Contessa Trevanni thing. I was going to be all, “Grandmère, Dad says I don’t have to go, and guess what, I’m not going to.”
That’s what I was going to say, anyway.
Except that when I walked in and saw her, the words practically died on my lips. Because Grandmère looked as if someone had run over her with a truck! Seriously. She was sitting there in the dark—she had had these purple scarves thrown over the lampshades because she said the light was hurting her eyes—and she wasn’t even dressed properly. She had on a velvet lounging robe and some slippers and had a cashmere throw blanket covering her lap and that was it, and her hair was all in curlers and if her eyeliner hadn’t been tattooed on, I swear it would have been all smeared. She wasn’t even enjoying a Sidecar, her favorite refreshment, or anything. She was just sitting there, with Rommel trembling on her lap, looking like death warmed over. Grandmère, not the dog.
“Grandmère,” I couldn’t help crying out, when I saw her. “Are you all right? Are you sick or something?”
But all Grandmère said was, in a voice so unlike her own normally quite strident one that I could barely believe it belonged to the same woman, “No, I’m fine. At least I will be. Once I get over the humiliation.”
“Humiliation? What humiliation?” I went over to kneel by her chair. “Grandmère, are you sure you aren’t sick? You aren’t even smoking!”
“I’ll be all right,” she said, weakly. “It will be weeks before I’ll be able to show my face in public. But I’m a Renaldo. I’m strong. I will recover.”
Actually Grandmère is technically only a Renaldo by marriage, but at that point I wasn’t going to argue with her, because I thought there was something genuinely wrong, like her uterus had fallen out in the shower or something (this happened to one of the women in the condo community down in Boca where Lilly and Michael’s grandmother lives. Also it happens a lot to the cows in All Creatures Great and Small ).
“Grandmère,” I said, kind of looking around, in case her uterus was lying on the floor somewhere or whatever. “Do you want me to call a doctor?”
“No doctor can cure what is wrong with me,” Grandmère assured me. “I am only suffering from the mortification of having a granddaughter who doesn’t love me.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. Sure, I don’t like Grandmère so much sometimes. Sometimes I even think I hate her. But I don’t not love her. I guess. At least I’ve never said so, to her face.
“Grandmère, what are you talking about? Of course I love you—”
“Then why won’t you come with me to the Contessa Trevanni’s black-and-white ball?” Grandmère wailed.
Blinking rapidly, I could only stammer, “Wh-what?”
“Your father says you will not go to the ball,” Grandmère said. “He says you have no wish to go!”
“Grandmère,” I said. “You know I don’t want to go. You know that Michael and I—”
“That boy!” Grandmère cried. “That boy again!”
“Grandmère, stop calling him that,” I said. “You know his name perfectly well.”
“And I suppose this Michael—” Grandmère sniffed “—is more important to you than I am. I suppose you consider his fe
elings over mine in this case.”
The answer to that, of course, was a resounding yes . But I didn’t want to be rude. I said, “Grandmère, tomorrow night is our first date. Mine and Michael’s, I mean. It’s really important to me.”
“And I suppose the fact that it was really important to me that you attend this ball—that is of no consequence?” Grandmère actually looked, for a moment, as she sat gazing down at me so miserably, like she had tears in her eyes. But maybe it was only a trick of the not very clear light. “The fact that Elena Trevanni has been, since I was a little girl, always lording it over me, because she was born into a more respected and aristocratic family than I was? That until I married your grandfather, she always had nicer clothes and shoes and handbags than my parents could afford for me? That she still thinks she is so much better than me, because she married a compt who had no responsibilities or property, just unlimited wealth, whereas I have been forced to work my fingers to the bone in order to make Genovia the vacation paradise it is today? And that I was hoping that just this once, by revealing what a lovely and accomplished granddaughter I have, I could show her up?”
I was stunned. I’d had no idea why this stupid ball was so important to her. I thought it had just been because she’d wanted to try to split Michael and me up, or get me to start liking Prince René instead, so that the two of us could unite our families in holy matrimony someday and create a race of super-royals. It had never occurred to me that there might be some underlying, mitigating circumstance…
Such as that the Contessa Trevanni, was, in essence, Grandmère’s Lana Weinberger.
Because that’s what it sounded like. Like Elena Trevanni had tortured and teased Grandmère as mercilessly as I had been tortured and teased by Lana through the years.