by Meg Cabot
“Mother,” I said. “Am I, or am I not, a sufferer of Asperger’s syndrome?”
My mom was trying to watch a bunch of episodes of Charmed she’d taped. She says Charmed is actually a very feminist show, because it portrays young women who fight evil without the help of males, but I notice that a) they often fight them while wearing halter tops, and b) my mother takes a special interest in the episodes where men take their shirts off.
But whatever. In any case, her reply to me was way cranky.
“For God’s sake, Mia,” she said. “Are you doing another report for Health and Safety?”
“Yes,” I said. “And it is clear to me that you have been hiding from everyone the fact that I am a sufferer of Asperger’s syndrome, and that, in fact, you send me to a special school for Asperger’s sufferers. And the lying has got to stop now!”
She just looked at me and went, “Are you seriously trying to tell me that you don’t remember last month, when you were convinced you had Tourette’s syndrome?”
I protested that this was totally different. Tourette’s is a disorder characterized by multiple motor and vocal tics that begin prior to the age of eighteen, and at the time we were studying it in class, my constant use of words such as like and totally seemed totally characteristic of the disease.
Is it my fault that generally the utterances are accompanied by involuntary bodily movements, from which I apparently don’t suffer?
“Are you trying to say,” I demanded, “that I don’t have Asperger’s syndrome?”
“Mia,” my mother said. “You are one hundred percent, U.S.-certified Asperger’s free.”
I couldn’t believe this, however, after everything I’ve read.
“Are you SURE?” I asked. “What about Lilly?”
My mom snorted. “Well. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Lilly is normal. But I highly doubt she is suffering from Asperger’s.”
Damn! I wish she were. Lilly, I mean. Because then I might be able to forgive her. For calling me weak, I mean.
But as she has no disorder, there is no excuse for the way she’s treated me.
I have to admit, I’m a little sad I don’t have Asperger’s. Because now my obsession with the prom is just that: my obsession with the prom. And not a symptom of a disorder over which I have no control.
Just my luck!
Wednesday, May 7, 3:30 a.m.
I realize now what I am going to have to do. I mean, I think I knew it all along, and I was just blocking it. Which isn’t surprising, considering that every fiber of my being is crying out against it.
But really, what choice do I have? Michael himself even said it: He’d go to the prom if the guys from his band were going, too.
Oh God, I can’t believe it has come to this. My life really IS going down the toilet if this is the low to which I am forced to stoop.
I’ll never be able to get to sleep now. I just know it. I am too filled with dread.
THE ATOM
The Official Student-Run Newspaper of Albert Einstein High School
Take Pride in the AEHS Lions
* * *
Week of May 12
Volume 45/Issue 18
Notice to all Students:
As we enter final exams in the next few weeks, school administrators would like us to review the AEHS mission statement and beliefs:
Mission Statement
It is Albert Einstein High School’s mission to provide students with learning experiences that are technologically relevant, globally oriented, and personally challenging.
Beliefs
1. The school must provide a diverse curriculum that includes a strong academic program enhanced by numerous electives.
2. A well-supported and diverse extracurricular program is an essential supplement to the academic program in helping students explore a wide range of interests and abilities.
3. Students must be encouraged to develop responsible behavior and accountability for their actions.
4. Tolerance and understanding of different cultures and viewpoints must be encouraged at all times.
5. Cheating or plagiarism will not be condoned in any form, and can lead to suspension or expulsion.
The administration would like the student body to be aware that in the coming exam period, it intends to enforce #5 with vigilance. Forewarned is forearmed.
Incident at Les Hautes Manger
by Mia Thermopolis
Having been asked by this paper to provide an account of what occurred last week at the restaurant Les Hautes Manger, at which this reporter was present, it must be noted that the entire thing was the fault of this reporter’s grandmother, who smuggled her dog into the restaurant, and whose ill-timed break for freedom caused busboy Jangbu Panasa to drop a soup-laden tray onto the dowager princess of Genovia’s person.
The consequent dismissal of Jangbu Panasa was both unfair and possibly unconstitutional. Though this reporter isn’t sure, due to her lack of familiarity with said constitution. It is this reporter’s feeling that Mr. Panasa should be given his job back. The End.
Editorial:
While it is not the policy of this paper to print anonymous submissions, the following poem so neatly sums up what so many of us are feeling this time of year that we decided to run it anyway.—Ed
Spring Fever
by Anonymous
Sneaking away during lunch—Taco salad, the kind with the meat in it, and the Green Goddess dressing God, why do they do that to us? We find that Central Park beckons—Green grass and daffodils pushing their way out from underneath a blanket of cigarette butts and crumpled soda cans. So we make a run for it Did they see us? I don’t think so. Can we get In-School suspension for a first offense? I guess anything is possible. Let’s sit on the bench and try to get a tan…. Only to find, to our dismay, that we’ve left our sunglasses back in our lockers.
Please note: It is the policy of this administration to suspend any and all students who leave campus during school hours for WHATEVER REASON. Spring fever is not an acceptable excuse for violating this school policy.
Student Injured by Globe
by Melanie Greenbaum
An AEHS student suffered an in-class injury yesterday due to a large globe that fell and/or was dropped upon his head. If it was the latter, this reporter feels it necessary to ask: Where was the adult supervision at the time said globe was dropped? And if it was the former, why is this administration allowing dangerous objects such as globes to be placed at heights from which they might fall and cause injury to our students? This reporter demands a thorough investigation.
Letters to the Editor:
To Whom it May Concern:
The amount of malaise evidenced by the student body of this establishment is a personal embarrassment to me and a disgrace to our generation. While the students of Albert Einstein High School sit around, planning their senior prom and whining about their finals, people in Nepal are DYING. Yes, DYING. Maoist uprisings in Nepal have intensified over the past few years, and clashes continue between the rebels and the military, making it impossible for many Nepalese to make even a meager living.
But what is our government doing to help the starving people of Nepal? Nothing more than advising tourists to stay away. People, the Nepalese make their living from tourists who come to climb Mount Everest. Please do not listen to our government’s warnings to avoid Nepal. Encourage your parents to allow you to vacation there this summer—you’ll be glad you did.
—Lilly Moscovitz
Take out your own personal ad! Available to AEHS students at 50 cents/line
Happy ads
From CF to GD: YES!!!!!!!!!!!
JR, I am SO excited about the prom, I can’t STAND it, we are going to have SO MUCH FUN. I feel SO SORRY for the rejects who aren’t going to the prom. Isn’t that just too bad for them? They’ll be sitting around at home while you and I are DANCING THE NIGHT AWAY! I love you SOOOOOOOO much. —LW
LW, Right back atcha, babe.—JR
Shop at Ho’s Deli for all your school supply needs! New this week: PAPER, BINDER CLIPS, TAPE. Also Yu-Gi-Oh! cards/Slimfast
Personal from BP to LM—
I’m sorry for what I did, but I want you to know that I still love you. PLEASE meet me by my locker after school today and allow me to express my devotion to you. Lilly, you are my muse. Without you, the music is gone. Please don’t let our love die this way.
For Sale: one Fender precision bass, baby blue, never been played. With amp, how-to videos. Best offer. Locker #345
Looking for Love: female Frosh, loves romance/reading, wants older boy who enjoys same. Must be taller than 5' 8", no mean people, non-smokers only, musician preferred, NO METALHEADS, nice hands a must.
E-mail: [email protected]
AEHS Food Court Menu
compiled by Mia Thermopolis
Mon.
Spicy Chix, Meatball Sub, Fr. Bread Pizza, Potato Bar, Fish Fingers
Tues.
Nachos Deluxe, Indiv. Pizza, Chicken Patty, Soup & Sand, Tuna in Pita
Wed.
Italian Beef, Deli Bar, Burrito, Taco Salad Bar, Corndog/Pickle
Thurs.
Fish Stix, Pasta Bar, Chicken Parm, Asian Bar, Corn/FF
Fri.
Soft Pretzel, Buffalo Bites, Grilled Cheese, Bean Bar, Curly Fries
Wednesday, May 7, Algebra
Well, I did it. I can’t say it went over very well. In fact, it did not go over AT ALL well. But I did it. No one can say I didn’t do EVERYTHING POSSIBLE to try to get my boyfriend to take me to his prom.
Oh God, but WHY did it have to be LANA WEINBERGER???? WHY???? I mean, ANYBODY else— Melanie Greenbaum, even. But no. It had to be Lana. I had to grovel to LANA WEINBERGER.
Oh God, my skin is still crawling.
She was so not receptive to my offer, either. You would have thought I was asking her to strip naked and sing the school song in the middle of lunch (no, wait—Lana probably wouldn’t mind doing that).
I got to class early, because I know Lana usually likes to get there before the second bell to make a few calls on her cell. There she was, all right, the only person in the room, yakking away to someone named Sandy about her prom dress—she really did get a black off-one-shoulder one with a butterfly hem from Nicole Miller (I so hate her).
Anyway, I went up to her—which I think was VERY brave of me considering every time I fall under Lana’s radar she makes some catty personal remark about my physical appearance. But whatever. I just stood there next to her desk while she yammered into the phone, until she finally realized I wasn’t going away. Then she went, “Hold on a minute, will you, Sandy? There’s a… person who wants something.” Then she held the phone away from her face, looked up at me with those big baby blues of hers, and went, “WHAT?”
“Lana,” I said. I swear, I have sat next to the emperor of Japan, okay? I once shook the hand of Prince William. I even stood next to Imelda Marcos in line for the ladies’ room at The Producers.
But none of those events made me as nervous as Lana does with a mere glance. Because of course Lana has made tormenting me a special personal hobby of hers. That kind of terror runs deeper than the fear of meeting emperors or princes or dictators’ wives.
“Lana,” I said again, trying to get my voice to stop shaking. “I need to ask you something.”
“No,” Lana said, and got back onto her cell phone.
“I haven’t even asked you yet,” I cried.
“Well, the answer is still no,” Lana said, tossing around her shiny blond hair. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, so I am fully getting body-glitter and putting it on my—no, not there, Sandy! You are so bad.”
“It’s just—” I had to talk fast because of course there was a strong chance Michael was going to stop by the Algebra classroom on his way to AP English, as he does almost every day. I did not want him to know what I was up to. “I know you’re on the prom committee, and I really think this year’s senior class deserves live music at their prom, and not just a DJ. That’s why I was thinking you should ask Skinner Box to play—”
Lana went, “Hold on, Sandy. That person still hasn’t gone away.” Then she looked at me from out between her thickly mascared eyelashes and went, “Skinner Box? You mean that band of geeks who played that stupid princess-of-my-heart song to you on your birthday?”
I said, taking umbrage, “Excuse me, Lana, but you shouldn’t speak so disparagingly of geeks. If it were not for geeks, we would not have computers, or vaccinations against many major diseases, or antibiotics, or even that cell phone you are talking into—”
“Yeah,” Lana said briskly. “Whatever. The answer is still no.”
Then she went back to her cell phone conversation.
I stood there for a minute, feeling color rush into my face. I must really be making progress with my impulse control, since I didn’t reach out and grab her cell phone from her and crush it beneath my Doc Martens as I might once have. Being the proud owner of a cell phone myself now, I know just how completely heinous doing something like that would be. Also, you know, considering how much trouble I got into the last time I did it.
Instead, I just stood there with my cheeks burning and my heart beating really fast and my breath coming out in these kind of shallow little gasps. It seems like no matter what kind of strides I make in the rest of my life—you know, behaving with level-headed calmness in medical emergencies, knighting people, almost getting to second base with my boyfriend—I still can’t seem to figure out how to act around Lana. I just don’t get why she hates me so much. I mean, what did I ever DO to her? Nothing.
Well, except for the whole cell phone stomping thing. Oh, and that time I stabbed her with a Nutty Royale. And that other time I slammed her hair in my Algebra book.
But I mean, besides all that.
Anyway, I didn’t get a chance to get on my knees and beg her, because the second bell rang, and people started coming into the classroom, including Michael, who came up to me and gave me a bunch of pages he’d printed off the Internet about the dangers of dehydration in pregnant women—“To give to your mom,” he said, kissing me on the cheek (yes, in front of everyone: TCHA).
Still, there are shadows over my otherwise exuberant joy: One shadow is, I was unsuccessful in getting my boyfriend’s band booked at the prom, thus making it more likely than ever that I will never have my Pretty in Pink moment with Michael. Another shadow is that my best friend is still not speaking to me, nor I to her, because of her psychotic behavior and mistreatment of her former boyfriend. Yet another shadow is the fact that my first actual published news story ever in The Atom reads so incredibly lame (although they did publish my poem: TRÈS TRÈS TCHA. Even if I’m the only one who knows it’s mine). It isn’t exactly my fault my story sucks so much, though. I mean, Leslie hardly gave me enough time to come up with something truly Pulitzer prize-worthy. I’m no Nellie Bly or Ida M. Tarbell, you know. I had a lot of other homework to do, too.
Finally, everything is overshadowed by my fear that my mother might pass out again, next time not within sight of Captain Logan and the rest of Ladder Company 9, and of course by my overall dread that, for two whole months this summer, I will be leaving this fair city and everyone in it for the distant shores of Genovia.
Really, if you think about it, this is all entirely too much for one simple fifteen-year-old girl to bear. It is a wonder I have been able to maintain what little composure I have left, under the circumstances.
When adding or subtracting terms that have the same variables, combine the coefficients.
Wednesday, May 7, G & J
STRIKE!!!!!!!!!!
They just announced it on TV. Mrs. Hill is letting us crowd around the one in the teachers’ lounge.
I have never been in the teachers’ lounge before. It actually is not very nice. There are weird stains on the carpeting.
But whatever. The point is that the hotel workers union has just joined the busboys in their strik
e. The restaurant union is expected to follow suit shortly. Which means that there will be no one working in the restaurants or the hotels of New York City. The entire metro area could be shut down. The financial loss from tourism and conventions could be in the billions.
And all because of Rommel.
Seriously. Who knew one little hairless dog could cause so much trouble?
To be fair, it is actually not Rommel’s fault. It is Grandmère’s. I mean, she never should have brought a dog into a restaurant in the first place, even if it IS okay in France.
It was weird to see Lilly on TV. I mean, I see Lilly on TV all the time, but this was a major network—well, I mean, it was New York One, which isn’t exactly national or anything, but it’s seen in more households than Manhattan Public Access, anyway.
Not that Lilly was running the press conference. No, it was being run by the heads of the hotel and restaurant unions. But if you looked to the left of the podium, you could see Jangbu standing there, with Lilly at his side, holding a big sign that says LIVING WAGES FOR LIVING BEINGS.
She is so busted. She has an unexcused absence for the day. Principal Gupta will so be calling the Drs. Moscovitz tonight.
Michael just shook his head disgustedly at the sight of his sister on a channel other than 56. I mean, he is fully on the side of the busboys—they SHOULD be paid a living wage, of course. But Michael is also fully disgusted with Lilly. He says it’s because her interest in the welfare of the busboys has more to do with her interest in Jangbu than in the plight of immigrants to this country.
I kind of wish Michael hadn’t said anything, though, because you know Boris was sitting right there next to the TV. He looks so pathetic with his head all bandaged and everything. He kept lifting up his hand when he thought no one was looking, and softly tracing Lilly’s features on the screen. It was truly touching, to tell you the truth. I actually got tears in my eyes for a minute.
