by Meg Cabot
“Grandmère,” I said, trying to remain calm. “I have only one boyfriend. His name is Kenny.” I’ve only told you about fifty thousand times, I added, in my head.
“I thought this Kenny person was your Biology partner,” Grandmère said, after taking a sip of her sidecar, her favorite drink.
“He is,” I said, a little surprised that she’d managed to remember something like that. “He’s also my boyfriend. Only last night he went completely schizo on me, and told me he loves me.”
Grandmère patted Rommel, who was sitting in her lap looking miserable (his habitual expression), on the head.
“And what is so wrong,” Grandmère wanted to know, “about a boy who says he loves you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Only I’m not in love with him, see? So it wouldn’t be fair of me to, you know, lead him on.”
Grandmère raised her painted-on eyebrows. “I don’t see why not.”
How had I ever gotten into this conversation? “Because, Grandmère. People just don’t go around doing things like that. Not nowadays.”
“Is that so? Well, my observations of people are to the contrary. Except, of course, if one happens to be in love with someone else. Then shedding an unwanted suitor might be considered wise, so that one can make oneself available to the man one truly desires.” She eyed me. “Is there someone like that in your life, Amelia? Someone—ahem—special?”
“No.” I lied, automatically.
Grandmère snorted. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.” I lied again.
“Indeed you are. I oughtn’t tell you this, but I suppose as it is a bad habit for a future monarch, you ought to be made aware of it, so that in the future, you can try to prevent it: When you lie, Amelia, your nostrils flare.”
I threw my hands up to my nose. “They do not!”
“Indeed,” Grandmère said, clearly enjoying herself immensely. “If you do not believe me, look in the mirror.”
I turned around to face the nearby full-length mirrors. Taking my hands from my face, I examined my nose. My nostrils weren’t flaring. She was crazy.
“I’ll ask you again, Amelia,” Grandmère said, in a lazy voice, from her chair. “Are you in love with anyone right now?”
“No.” I lied, automatically. . . .
And my nostrils flared right out!
Oh, my God! All these years I’ve been lying, and it turns out whenever I do, my nostrils totally give me away! All anyone has to do is look at my nose when I talk, and they’ll know for sure whether or not I’m telling the truth.
How could no one have pointed this out to me before? And Grandmère—Grandmère, of all people—was the one who figured it out! Not my mother, with whom I’ve lived for fourteen years. Not my best friend, whose IQ is higher than Einstein’s.
No. Grandmère.
If this got out, my life was over.
“Fine,” I cried dramatically, spinning away from the mirror to face her. “All right, yes. Yes, I am in love with somebody else. Are you happy now?”
Grandmère raised her painted-on eyebrows.
“No need to shout, Amelia,” she said, with what I might have taken for amusement in anyone other than her. “Who might this special someone be?”
“Oh, no,” I said, holding out both my hands. If it wouldn’t have been totally rude, I’d have made a little cross out of my index fingers and held it up toward her—that’s how much she scares me. And if you think about it, with her tattooed eyeliner, she does look a little like Nosferatu. “You are not getting that information out of me.”
Grandmère stamped out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray Sebastiano had provided, and went, “Very well. I take it, then, that the gentleman in question does not return your ardor?”
There was no point in lying to her. Not now. Not with my nostrils.
My shoulders sagged. “No. He likes this other girl. This really smart girl who knows how to clone fruit flies.”
Grandmère snorted. “A useful talent. Well, never mind that now. I don’t suppose, Amelia, that you are acquainted with the expression dirty dishwater is better than none?”
I guess she must have been able to tell from my perplexed expression that this was one I hadn’t heard before, since she went on, “Do not throw away this Kenny until you have managed to secure someone better.”
I stared at her, horrified. Really, my grandmother has said—and done—some pretty cold things in her time, but this one took the cake.
“Secure someone better?” I couldn’t believe she actually meant what I thought she meant. “You mean I shouldn’t break up with Kenny until I’ve got someone else?”
Grandmère lit another cigarette. “But of course.”
“But Grandmère.” I swear to God, sometimes I can’t figure out if she’s human or some kind of alien life force sent down from some other planet to spy on us. “You can’t do that. You can’t just string a guy along like that, knowing that you don’t feel the same way about him that he feels about you.”
Grandmère exhaled a long plume of blue smoke. “Why not?”
“Because it’s completely unethical!” I shook my head. “No. I’m breaking up with Kenny. Right away. Tonight, as a matter of fact.”
Grandmère stroked Rommel under the chin. He looked more miserable than ever, as if instead of stroking him, she was peeling the skin away from his body. He really is the most heinous excuse for a dog I have ever seen.
“That,” Grandmère said, “is your prerogative, of course. But allow me to point out to you that if you break off your relationship with this young man, your Biology grade will suffer.”
I was shocked. But mostly because this was something I had already thought of myself. I was amazed Grandmère and I had actually shared something.
Which was really the only reason I exclaimed, “Grandmère!”
“Well,” Grandmère said, flicking ash from her cigarette into the ashtray. “Isn’t it true? You are only making what, a C, in this class? And that is only because that young man allows you to copy his answers to the homework.”
“Grandmère!” I squealed again. Because, of course, she was right.
She looked at the ceiling. “Let me see,” she said. “With your D in Algebra, if you get anything less than a C in Biology, your grade-point average will take quite a little dip this semester.”
“Grandmère.” I couldn’t believe this. She knew all about my grades! And she was right. She was so right. But still. “I am not going to postpone breaking up with Kenny until after the final. That would be just plain wrong.”
“Suit yourself,” Grandmère said with a sigh. “But it certainly will be awkward having to sit beside him for the next—how long is it until the end of the semester?—Oh, yes, two weeks. Especially considering the fact that after you break things off with him, he probably won’t even speak to you anymore.”
God, so true. And not something I hadn’t thought of myself. If Kenny got mad enough over me breaking up with him to not want to speak to me anymore, seventh period was going to be plenty unpleasant.
“And what about this dance?” Grandmère rattled the ice in her sidecar. “This Christmas dance?”
“It’s not a Christmas dance,” I said. “It’s a nondenominational—”
Grandmère waved a hand. This spiky charm bracelet she was wearing tinkled.
“Whatever,” she said. “If you stop seeing this young man, who will you go to the dance with?”
“I won’t go with anybody,” I said, firmly, even though, of course, my heart was breaking at the thought. “I’ll just stay home.”
“While everyone else has a good time? Really, Amelia, you aren’t being at all sensible. What about this other young man?”
“What other young man?”
“The one you claim to be so in love with. Won’t he be at this dance with the housefly girl?”
“Fruit fly,” I corrected her. “And I don’t know. Maybe.”
The thought that Micha
el might ask Judith Gershner to the Nondenominational Winter Dance had never occurred to me. But as soon as Grandmère mentioned it, I felt that same sickening sensation I’d felt at the ice-skating rink when I’d first seen them together: kind of like the time when Lilly and I were crossing Bleecker Street and this Chinese food delivery man crashed into us on his bicycle, and I had the wind completely knocked out of me.
Only this time, it wasn’t just my chest that hurt, but my tongue. It had been feeling a lot better, but now it started to throb again.
“It seems to me,” Grandmère said, “that one way to get this young man’s attention might be to show up at this dance on the arm of this other young man, looking perfectly divine in an original creation by Genovian fashion designer Sebastiano Grimaldi.”
I just stared at her. Because she was right. She was so right. Except . . .
“Grandmère,” I said. “The guy I like? Yeah, he likes girls who can clone insects. Okay? I highly doubt he is going to be impressed by a dress.”
I didn’t mention that I had, of course, just the night before, been hoping that very thing. But almost as if she could read my mind, Grandmère just went, “Hmmm,” in this knowing way.
“Suit yourself,” she continued. “Still, it seems a bit cruel to me, your breaking things off with this young man at this time of year.”
“Why?” I asked, confused. Had Grandmère inadvertently stumbled across some TV channel playing It’s a Wonderful Life, or something? She had never shown one speck of holiday spirit before now. “Because it’s Christmas?”
“No,” Grandmère said, looking very disgusted with me, I guess over the suggestion that she might ever be moved by the anniversary of the birth of anyone’s savior. “Because of your exams. If you truly wish to be kind, I think you might at least wait until after the final exams are over before breaking the poor little fellow’s heart.”
I had been all ready to argue with whatever excuse for me not breaking up with Kenny Grandmère came up with next—but this one, I had not expected. I stood there with my mouth hanging open. I know it was hanging open, because I could see it reflected in the three full-length mirrors.
“I cannot imagine,” Grandmère went on, “why you do not simply allow him to believe that you return his ardor until your exams are over. Why compound the poor boy’s stress? But you must, of course, do what you think is best. I suppose this—er—Kenny is the sort of boy who bounces back easily from rejection. He’ll probably do quite well on his exams, in spite of his broken heart.”
Oh, God! If she had stabbed a fork in my stomach and twisted my intestines around the tines like spaghetti, she couldn’t have made me feel worse. . . .
And, I have to admit, a little relieved. Because of course I can’t break up with Kenny now. Never mind my Bio grade and the dance: You can’t break up with someone right before finals. It’s, like, the meanest thing you can do.
Well, aside from the kind of stuff Lana and her friends pull. You know, girls’ locker-room stuff, like going up to someone who is changing and asking her why she wears a bra when she obviously doesn’t need one, or making fun of her just because she doesn’t happen to like being kissed by her boyfriend. That kind of thing.
So here I am. I want to break up with Kenny, but I can’t.
I want to tell Michael how I feel about him, but I can’t do that either.
I can’t even quit biting my fingernails. I am going to gross out an entire European nation with my bloody cuticles.
I am a pathetic mess. No wonder in the car this morning—after I accidentally closed the door on Lars’s foot—Lilly said that I should really look into getting some therapy, because if there’s anybody who needs to find inner harmony between her conscious and her subconscious, it’s me.
TO DO BEFORE LEAVING FOR GENOVIA
Get cat food, litter for Fat Louie
Stop biting fingernails
Achieve self-actualization
Find inner harmony between conscious and subconscious
Break up with Kenny—but not until after finals/Nondenominational Winter Dance
Tuesday, December 9, English
What was THAT just now in the hallway? Did Kenny Showalter just say what I think he said to you?
Yes. Oh, my God, Shameeka, what am I going to do? I’m shaking so hard I can barely write.
What do you mean, what are you going to do? The boy is warm for your form, Mia. Go for it.
People can’t just be allowed to go around saying things like that. Especially so loud. Everyone must have heard him. Do you think everyone heard him?
Everybody heard him, all right. You should have seen Lilly’s face. I thought she was going to suffer one of those synaptic breakdowns she’s always talking about.
You think EVERYBODY heard him? I mean, like the people coming out of the Chemistry lab? Do you think they heard?
How could they not? He yelled it pretty loud.
Were they laughing? The people coming out of Chemistry? They weren’t laughing, were they?
Most of them were laughing.
Oh, God! Why was I ever born????
Except Michael. He wasn’t laughing.
He WASN’T? REALLY? Are you pulling my leg?
No. Why would I do that? And what do you care what Michael Moscovitz thinks, anyway?
I don’t. I don’t care. What makes you think I care?
Um, for one thing because you won’t shut up about it.
People shouldn’t go around laughing at other people’s misfortunes. That’s all.
I don’t see what the big misfortune is. So the guy loves you? A lot of girls would really like it if their boyfriend yelled that at them between first and second period.
Yeah, well, NOT ME!!!!
Use transitive verbs to create brief, vigorous sentences.
Transitive: He soon regretted his words.
Intransitive: It was not long before he was very
sorry that he had said what he said.
Tuesday, December 9, Bio
Gifted and Talented was so not fun today. Not that Bio is any better, on account of the fact that I am stuck here next to Kenny, who seems to have calmed down a little since this morning.
Still, I really think that people who are not actually enrolled in certain classes have no business showing up in them.
For instance, just because Judith Gershner has study hall for fifth period is no reason that she should be allowed to hang around the Gifted and Talented classroom for fifty minutes during that period. She should never have been let out of study hall in the first place. I don’t think she even had a pass.
Not that I would turn her in, or anything. But this kind of flagrant rule-breaking really shouldn’t be encouraged. If Lilly is going to go through with this walkout thing, which she is still trying to garner support for, she should really add to her list of complaints the fact that the teachers in this school play favorites. I mean, just because a girl knows how to clone things doesn’t mean she should be allowed to roam the school freely any time she wants.
But there she was when I walked in, and there’s no doubt about it: Judith Gershner has a total crush on Michael. I don’t really know how he feels about her, but she was wearing tan-colored panty hose instead of the black cotton tights she normally wears, so you know something is up. No girl wears tan panty hose without a good reason.
And okay, so maybe they are working on their booth for the Winter Carnival, but that is no reason for Judith to drape her arm across the back of Michael’s chair like that. Plus he used to help me with my Algebra homework during G and T, but now he can’t, because Judith is monopolizing all his time. I would think he might resent the intrusion.
Plus Judith really has no business butting into my private conversations. She hardly even knows me.
But did that stop her from letting me know, when she overheard Lilly’s formal apology for not having believed me about Kenny’s weird phone call—any doubts about the veracity of which he managed to scat
ter today with his display of unbridled passion in the third floor hallway—that she feels sorry for him? Oh, no.
“Poor kid,” Judith said. “I heard what he said to you in the hallway. I was in the chem lab. What was it again? ‘I don’t care if you don’t feel the same way, Mia, I will always love you,’ or something like that?”
I didn’t say anything. That’s because I was busy picturing how Judith would look with a pencil sticking out of the middle of her forehead.
“It’s really sweet,” Judith said. “If you think about it. I mean, the guy’s clearly got it bad for you.”
This is the problem, see. Everyone thinks what Kenny did was so cute and everything. Nobody seems to understand that it wasn’t cute. It wasn’t cute at all. It was completely humiliating. I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my whole life.
And believe me, I’ve lived through more than my fair share of embarrassing incidents, especially since this whole princess thing started.
But I’m apparently the only person in this entire school who thinks what Kenny did was the least bit wrong.
“He’s obviously very in touch with his emotions.” Even Lilly was taking Kenny’s side in the whole thing. “Unlike some people.”
I have to say, this makes me so mad when I think about it, because the truth is, ever since I started writing things down in journals, I have gotten very in touch with my emotions. I usually know almost exactly how I feel.
The problem is, I just can’t tell anyone.
I don’t know who was the most surprised when Michael suddenly came to my defense against his sister—Lilly, Judith Gershner, or me.
“Just because Mia doesn’t go around shouting about how she feels in the third floor hallway,” Michael said, “doesn’t mean she isn’t in touch with her emotions.”
How does he do that? How is it that he is able to magically put into words exactly what I feel, but seem to have so much trouble saying? This, you see, is why I love him. I mean, how could I not?
“Yeah,” I said triumphantly.
