by Meg Cabot
“I can’t come straight over after school,” I said to her. “I have therapy tomorrow.”
She blinked at me a few times—I was never sure how much Dad had told her about Dr. Knutz. But now I know it’s nothing—and went, “Well. After that then.”
!!!!!
Seriously. My grandmother finds out I’m in therapy, and all she says is for me to come over AFTERWARD to change for the speech I am ONLY giving because SHE wants to be a Domina Rei.
I could kill both of them right now. Dad AND Grandmère.
I came home so mad, I couldn’t even speak. I just went into my room and shut the door.
Not that Mom or Mr. G even noticed. They finally got all the seasons so far of The Wire on Netflix and are glued to the TV.
The TV in their BEDROOM.
Because no one took THEIR TV away.
I thought about going in there and telling them—well, Mom, anyway—what was going on. Except that I knew the information would cause her head to explode. Her former boyfriend and his mother robbing a woman of her basic human rights (because that’s what Dad and Grandmère are doing to Amelie)? Mom would be so on the warpath. She would get all her Riot Grrls on the phone and be down picketing the Genovian Embassy in no time. Then if that didn’t work, she’d karate chop Dad in the neck (she’s been working off her leftover pregnancy weight and is back up to her brown belt).
Except…
Except that’s not what I want.
For one thing, domestic violence is never the answer.
And for another, I don’t want my MOM to fix this. I need advice on how I can fix this. ME.
I can’t believe any of this. Can this actually—truly—be my life?
And if so…how did this happen?
Friday, September 24, English
Mia! Are you all right? You look like you didn’t get much sleep last night!
Yeah. That’d be because I didn’t.
Why???? Oh my gosh, did something happen with J.P.? Or MICHAEL???
Ha. No, Tina. Believe it or not, this has nothing to do with a boy. Well, except my dad.
Did he give you that speech again about how if you don’t study harder you won’t get into an Ivy League school and then you’ll end up married to a circus performer like your cousin Princess Stephanie? Because I’ve been meaning to say, I really think MOST people don’t end up getting into Ivy League schools, and very few of them end up married to contortionists, so I don’t think this is a very valid concern.
No. It’s worse than that.
Oh my God, did he find out about how you were going to give your Precious Gift to Michael??? Except Michael didn’t want it????
No. Something way, way more important…
More important than your Precious Gift? What is it, then???????
Well—
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
I will not pass notes in class.
Friday, September 24, Lunch period, third-floor stairwell
I don’t even know what to say. I bet the words on this page are all smeary from my tears.
Only I’m crying so hard I can’t tell, since I can barely see the page anyway.
I just—I just don’t understand how she could have SAID that.
Let alone DONE that.
I don’t even know what I was thinking.
It’s just that this is so much WORSE than the fact that my longtime boyfriend has dumped me. Worse than my best friend’s ex claiming to be in love with me. Worse than the fact that my former enemy now sits with me at lunch. Worse than the fact that I’m barely passing Precalc.
I mean, my father is trying to bilk the Genovian people out of their one shot at being a democratic society.
And there’s really only a single person I know of who can tell me what I ought to do about all of this (instead of, like, my mom taking over and doing it all herself).
And she’s not speaking to me.
But I thought we could rise above the petty stuff. I really thought we could.
Seriously. I just felt like I needed to talk to Lilly. Because Lilly would know what I should do.
And what, I thought, would be the worst thing that could happen if I just TOLD her? What if I just walked up and told her what was going on? She’d HAVE to respond, right? Because it’s such an injustice, she wouldn’t be able to help it. She’s LILLY. Lilly can’t stand idly by while an injustice is being perpetrated. She’s physically incapable of it. She’d HAVE to say something.
And most likely, what she’d say was, “You have GOT to be kidding me. Mia, you have to—”
And then she’d tell me what to do. Right?
And then I’d be able to stop feeling like I’m sliding farther and farther down Papaw’s cistern.
I mean, maybe we wouldn’t be friends again.
But Lilly would never let a country be cheated out of government by the people. Right? As opposed as she is to the monarchy?
That was my reasoning, anyway. That’s why I went up to her just now in the cafeteria.
I swear that’s all I did. I just walked over to her. That’s it. All I did was go over to where she was sitting—ALONE, by the way, because Kenny is suspended, and Perin was off at an orthodontist’s appointment, and Ling Su had chosen to stay in the art room to finish a collage of herself she’s calling, Portrait of the Artist in Ramen Noodles and Olives—and go, “Lilly? Can I talk to you a second?”
And okay, maybe it was a bad idea to approach her in public. I probably should have waited in the girls’ room, since she always goes in there to wash her hands when she’s done eating. Then I could have talked to her in private, and if she reacted badly, no one would have seen or heard it but me and maybe a few freshmen.
But like an IDIOT I went up to her in front of everyone and slid into the seat across from hers and went, “Lilly, I know you’re not speaking to me, but I really need your help. Something terrible has happened: I found out that nearly four hundred years ago one of my ancestresses signed a bill making Genovia a constitutional monarchy, but no one found the bill until the other day, and when I showed it to my dad he basically dismissed it because it was written by a teenage girl who only ruled for twelve days before succumbing to the Black Death, and besides which, he doesn’t want a merely ceremonial role in the Genovian government, even though I told him he should run for prime minister. You know everyone would vote for him. And I just feel like this enormous injustice is being done, but I don’t know what I can do about it, and you’re so smart, I figured you could help me—”
Lilly looked up from her salad and went, coldly, “Why are you even speaking to me?”
Which, I will admit, kind of threw me. I probably should have gotten up and walked away right then and there.
But like the idiot that I am, I kept going. Because…I don’t know. We’ve been through so much together, I just figured maybe she hadn’t heard me right, or something.
“I told you,” I said. “I need your help. Lilly, this whole cold-shoulder thing, it’s so stupid.”
She just stared at me some more. So I went, “Well, okay,
if you feel like you have to go on hating me, that’s fine. What about the people of Genovia, though? They never did anything to you—although neither did I, but that’s not the point. Don’t you think the people of Genovia deserve to be free to choose their own leader? Lilly, they need you—I need you to help me figure out how to—”
“Oh. My. God.”
Lilly stood up on the word “Oh.” She raised her fist on the word “My.” And she brought it down hard on the table-top on the word “God.”
So hard that every single head in the caf swiveled toward us to see what was going on.
“I cannot believe this!” Lilly yelled. Literally, yelled at me, even though I was sitting right across from her, barely two feet away. “You are completely unbelievable. First, you break my brother’s heart. Then you steal my boyfriend. Then you think you can ask me for advice about your completely dysfunctional family?”
By the time she got to the word “family,” she was screaming.
I just blinked up at her, completely shocked. Also, not able to see very well, thanks to the tears in my eyes.
But probably that was good. Because I couldn’t see all the stricken faces that were turned in our direction.
Although I could hear the total silence that was roaring across the caf. You couldn’t even hear a fork scrape. That’s how eager everyone was to take in every second of the verbal tongue-lashing I was getting from my former best friend.
“Lilly,” I whispered. “You know I didn’t break Michael’s heart. He broke mine. And I did not steal your boyfriend—”
“Oh, save it for the New York Post,” Lilly shouted. “Nothing is EVER your fault, is it, Mia? But then why should you ever admit you were in the wrong, when the victim thing is working so well for you, right? I mean, look at you. You’ve got LANA WEINBERGER as your best friend now. Isn’t that SPECIAL? Don’t you realize that she’s just USING you, you idiot? They’re all just using you, Mia. I was your only real friend and look how you treated me!”
All I could see of Lilly was a big blur after that, because the tears were coming so fast. But I could hear the contempt in her voice. Also, the complete and utter silence of everyone around us.
“And you know what?” Lilly went on acidly—and still loudly enough to wake the dead. “You’re right. You didn’t break Michael’s heart. He was so sick of your constant whining and complete inability to solve your own problems, he couldn’t wait to get away from you. I just wish I were as lucky as he is! I’d give anything to be thousands of miles away from you, too. But in the meantime, at least I have the new website I’ve designed to comfort me. Perhaps you’ve seen it? If not let me give you the URL—it’s IHATEMIATHERMOPOLISDOTCOM!”
And with that, she whirled around and left the cafeteria.
Or at least I suppose so. It was kind of hard to tell since I couldn’t actually see what was happening, because by that time I was crying so hard, it looked like Niagara Falls was coming down my face.
Which was why I didn’t notice that Tina and Boris and J.P. and Shameeka and Lana and Trisha had hurried over to where I was sitting until they were patting me on the back and saying things like, “Don’t listen to her, Mia, she didn’t mean it,” and “She’s just jealous. She always has been,” and “Nobody’s using you, Mia. Because to be honest, you don’t really have anything I want.” (This last came from Lana. Who meant it kindly, I know.)
I knew they were just trying to be nice. I knew they just wanted to make me feel better.
But it was too late. Lilly’s total annihilation of me—in such a public manner—was the straw that broke the camel’s entire spinal column. And the fact that Lilly—Lilly, of all people!—was behind that stupid website?
I guess I always knew it.
But to hear her admit it like that—so proudly, like she wanted me to know…
I had to get out of there. I knew by doing so, I was just being what Lilly had accused me of—a whiny victim.
But I really needed to just be alone.
Which is what I’m doing here in the third-floor stairwell, which leads to the locked roof door, and where no one ever goes…
No one but Lilly and me, that is, when we’ve been upset about something in the past.
Lars is standing guard at the bottom of the stairs to keep anyone from coming up. He seems genuinely concerned about me. He went, “Princess, should I call your mother?”
I was like, “No, thanks, Lars.”
And then he was all, “Well, then, your father, maybe?”
And I was like, “NO!”
He looked kind of taken aback by my vehemence. But I was afraid he was going to ask if he should call Dr. Knutz next.
Thankfully, though, he just nodded and said, “All right, then. If you’re sure…”
Am I ever sure. I told him I just needed to be by myself for a little while. I said I’d be right back down…
But it’s been fifteen minutes, and I don’t feel like the tears are going to stop anytime soon. I just—how could she say those things? After everything we’ve been through together? How could she WRITE those things on her site? How can she think I would ever do anything like what she accused me of? How could she ever be so…so cruel?
Oh, no. I hear footsteps. Lars is letting someone up! WHY, LARS, WHY???? I told you—
Friday, September 24, G & T
Oh, God. That was so…
Random.
Really. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it.
Which makes it no wonder Ms. Martinez despairs of my ever being a successful freelance writer or journalist.
But, seriously! How else can I put it? It was just…RANDOM.
And what was Lars THINKING? I told him to let NO ONE up. Except for Principal Gupta or a teacher, OBVIOUSLY.
So how did BORIS become exempt from that?
But sure enough, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and the next thing I knew, BORIS was there, all out of breath, like he’d been running.
At first I was worried he was going to tell me HE loves me, too (well, whatever, it’s amazing the things that start happening when you finally grow into a 36C).
But he just went, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you all over. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but it’s not true.”
“What’s not true, Boris?” I asked him, totally confused.
“What Lilly just said,” he said. “About Michael being sick of you. I can’t tell you how I know. But I do.”
I smiled at him. Even though I was still in total despair and everything, I couldn’t help it. Really, Tina is so lucky. She has the most fantastic boyfriend in the entire world.
Fortunately, she knows it.
“Thanks, Boris,” I said, trying to wipe away my tears with my sleeve so I didn’t look like quite as much of a lunatic as I was pretty sure I did. “That’s really sweet of you to say.”
“I’m not being sweet,” Boris insisted earnestly, still panting from all the running around he’d been doing, looking for me. “I’m telling the truth. And you should write him back.”
I blinked at him, more confused than ever. “W-what? Write who back?”
“Michael,” Boris said. “He’s been e-mailing you, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, stunned. “But how did you—”
“You should write him back,” Boris said. “I mean, just because you’re broken up doesn’t mean you can’t be friends anymore. Isn’t that what you both agreed? That you’d still be friends?”
“Yes,” I said, bewildered. “But, Boris, how do you know he’s been e-mailing me? Did…did Tina tell you?”
Boris hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. That’s right, Tina told me.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I can’t e-mail him back, Boris. I’m just…I’m not ready to be friends with him yet. It still hurts too much not to be more than friends.”
“Well,” Boris said. “I can understand that, I guess. But…you should e-mail him back as soon as you feel ready. So he doesn’t think�
�you know. That you hate him. Or that you’ve forgotten about him. Or whatever.”
As if THAT’S ever going to happen.
I assured Boris I’d e-mail Michael when I felt emotionally capable of doing so without falling apart and begging him in eighteen-point type to take me back.
Then Boris did the nicest thing. He volunteered to walk me to class (once I’d pulled myself together and gotten rid of the evidence of my tears…smeared mascara, snot down my nose, etc.).
So the three of us—Boris, Lars, and I—all got to G and T at the same time (late).
But it didn’t matter, since neither Mrs. Hill nor Lilly is here.
I suppose Lilly’s skipping to meet Kenny somewhere. They’re like a regular Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain. Minus the heroin. All Lilly needs is to start smoking, though, and maybe get a tattoo or two, she’ll have completely perfected her tough girl image.
Boris asked me one last time if I was all right, and when I said I thought I was, he slipped into the supply closet and started practicing my favorite Chopin piece of his.
Which has to have been on purpose. He’s so thoughtful.
Tina really is a lucky girl.
I just hope someday I can be as lucky as she is.
Or maybe I’ve already had my luck where boys are concerned, and I completely squandered it.
God, I hope that’s not the case. Although if it is, all I can say is, it was good while it lasted.
Friday, September 24, Dr. Knutz’s waiting room
Lana and Trisha insisted on taking me out for what they like to call a Mani-Pedi Time-Out. They said I deserved it, after what Lilly did to me in the caf.
So instead of playing softball during sixth period, I got my toenails and what was left of my fingernails (I haven’t had new acrylic tips put on since I got back from Genovia this summer, and I’ve been biting what remains of my natural nails) painted I’m-Not-Really-a-Waitress red, a color Grandmère insists is totally inappropriate for young girls.
Which is precisely why I picked it.
But I have to admit, after we were done with our forty-five-minute manicure/pedicures, I didn’t feel much better. I know Lana and Trisha were trying.