by Meg Cabot
I sincerely hope Greenpeace appreciates the supreme sacrifice I am making for its sake.
So she is coming back to New York with me, and dragging a cowering Rommel along with her. Just when his fur had
started to grow back, too. Poor thing.
I told my dad I'd put up with the whole princess lesson thing again this semester, but that he'd better get one thing straight
with Grandmere beforehand, and that is this: I have a serious boyfriend now. Grandmere had better not try to sabotage this,
or think she can be trying to fix me up with any more Prince Renes. I don't care how many royal titles the guy has, my heart belongs to Michael Moscovitz, Esquire.
My dad said he'd see what he could do. But I don't know how much he was actually paying attention, since Tapeka, the bareback rider, and Natasha, the trapeze artist, were kind of having a fight over him at the time in the royal palace lemon
grove.
Anyway, a little while ago I told Grandmere myself that she better watch it where Michael is concerned.
'I don't want to hear anything more about how I'm too young to be in love,' I said, over the lunch (poached salmon for Grandmere, three-bean salad for me) we were served by the royal Genovian flight attendants. 'I am old enough to know
my own heart, and that means I am old enough to give that heart away if I choose to.'
Grandmere said something about how then I should get ready for some heartache, but I ignored her. Just because her
romantic life since Grandpa died has been less than satisfactory is no reason for her to be so cynical about mine. I mean,
that is just what she gets for going out with media moguls and dictators and stuff.
Michael and I, on the other hand, are going to have a great love, just like Jane and Mr. Rochester.
Or Buffy and Angel. Or Brad and Jennifer.
Or at least, we will if we ever actually get to go out on a date.
Twenty-two hours until I see him again.
Monday, January 18, Martin Luther King Day,
National Holiday, the Loft, at Last
I am so happy I feel like I could burst, just like that eggplant I once dropped out of Lilly's sixteenth-floor bedroom window.
I'm home!!!!!!! I'm finally home!!!!!!
I cannot tell you how good it felt to look out the window of the plane and see the bright lights of Manhattan below me. It brought tears to my eyes, knowing I was once again in the air space over my beloved city. Below me, I knew, cab drivers
were running down litde old ladies (unfortunately not Grandmere); deli owners were short-changing their customers;
investment bankers were not cleaning up after their dogs; and people all over town were having their dreams of becoming
a singer, actress, musician, novelist, or dancer completely crushed by soulless producers, directors, agents, editors and choreographers.
Yes, I was back in my beautiful New York. I was back home at last.
I especially knew it when I stepped off the plane, and there was Lars, waiting for me, ready to take over body-guarding
duty from Francois, the guy who had looked after me in Genovia, and who had taught me all the French swear words. Lars looked especially menacing on account of being all darkly tanned from his month off. He had spent his Winter Break with
Tina Hakim Baba's bodyguard, Wahim, snorkelling and hunting wild boar in Belize. He gave me a piece of tusk as a
memento of his trip, even though of course I don't approve of killing animals recreationally, even wild boars, who really
can't help being so ugly and mean.
Then, sixty-five minutes later, thanks to a pile-up on the Long Island Expressway, I was home.
It was so good to see my mom!!!!! She is beginning to show now. I didn't want to say anything because even though my
mom says she does not believe in the Western standard of idealized beauty and thinks that there is nothing wrong with a
woman who is bigger than a size eight, I'm pretty sure that if I had said anything like, 'Mom, you're huge,' even in a complimentary fashion, she would start to cry. After all, she still has more than four months left to go.
So instead I just went, as I tried to hug her close even though her belly is starting to get in the way, That baby has to be
a boy. Or if it's not it's a girl who is going to be as tall as me.'
'Oh, I hope so,' my mom said, as she brushed tears of joy from her face — or maybe she was crying because Fat Louie
was biting her ankles so hard in his effort to get near me. 'I could use another you for when you aren't around. I missed
you so much! There was no one to berate me for ordering ' roast pork and wonton soup from Number One Noodle Son.'
'I tried,' Mr. Gianini assured me.
Mr. G looks great, too. He is growing a goatee beard. I pretended I liked it.
Then I bent down and picked up Fat Louie, who was yowling to get my attention, and gave him a great big hug. I may be wrong, but I think he lost weight while I was away. I do not want to accuse anyone of purposely starving him, but I noticed
his dry-food bowl was not completely full. In fact, it was perilously close to being only half full. I always keep Fat Louie's
bowl filled to the brim, because you never know when there might be a sudden plague, killing everyone in Manhattan but
cats. Fat Louie can't pour out his own food, having no thumbs, so he needs a little extra just in case we all die and there is
no one around to open the bag for him.
But the loft looks so great!!!!!!!! Mr. Gianini did a lot to it while I was gone. He got rid of the Christmas tree - the first time
in the history of the Thermopolis household that the Christmas tree was out of the loft by Easter - and had the place wired
for DSL. So now you can email or go on the Internet anytime you want, without tying up the phone.
It is like a Christmas miracle.
And that's not all. Mr. G also fully redid the darkroom, leftover from when my mom was going through her Ansel Adams
stage. He pulled the boards off the windows and got rid of all the noxious chemicals that have been sitting around since
forever because my mom and I were too afraid to touch them. Now the darkroom is going to be the baby's room! It is so sunny and nice in there. Or at least it was until my mom started painting the walls with scenes of important historical
significance, such as the trial of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg and the assassination of Martin Luther King, so that, she says,
the baby will have an understanding of all the problems facing our nation (Mr. G assured me privately that he is going to
paint over the whole thing as soon as my mom gets admitted to the maternity ward. She will never know the difference
once the endorphins kick in. All I can say is thank God Mom picked a man with so much common sense with whom to reproduce this time around).
But the best thing of all was what was waiting for me on the answering machine. My mom played it for me proudly
almost the minute I walked through the door.
IT WAS A MESSAGE FROM MICHAEL!!!! MY FIRST MESSAGE FROM MICHAEL SINCE
I BECAME HIS GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!
Which of course means it worked. The my-not-calling-him thing, I mean.
The message goes like this:
'Uh, hi, Mia? Yeah, it's Michael. I was just wondering if you could, uh, call me when you get this message. '
Cause I haven't heard from you in a while. And I just want to know if you're, uh, OK. And make sure you got home all right. And that there's nothing wrong. OK. That's all. Well. Bye. This is Michael, by the way. Or
maybe I said that. I can't remember. Hi, Mrs Thermopolis. Hi, Mr. G. OK. Well. Call me, Mia. Bye.'
I took the tape out of the message machine and am keeping it in the drawer of my nightstand along with:
a. some grains of rice from the bag Michael and I sat on at the Cultural Diversity Dance, in memory of
the first time
we ever slow-danced together
b. a dried-out piece of toast from the Rocky Horror Show, which is where Michael and I went on our first date,
though it wasn't really a date because Kenny came too
c. a cut-out snowflake from the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, in memory of the first time Michael and I kissed
It was the best Christmas present I could ever have had, that message. Even better than DSL.
So then I came into my room and unpacked and played the message over about fifty times on my tape player, and my mom kept coming in to give me more hugs and asking me if I wanted to listen to her new Liz Phair CD and wanting to show me
her stretch marks. Then, about the thirtieth time she came in, I was playing Michael's message again, and she was all, 'Haven't you called him back yet, honey?' and I went, 'No,' and she went, 'Well, why not?' and I went, 'Because I am trying to be like Jane Eyre.'
And then my mom got all squinty-eyed like she does whenever they are debating funding for the arts in Congress.
'Jane Eyre?' she echoed. 'You mean the book?'
'Exactly,' I said, tugging the little Napoleonic diamond napkin holders that the Prime Minister of France had given me for Christmas out from beneath Fat Louie. He had lain down inside my suitcase, I guess in the mistaken belief that I was packing, not unpacking, and he wanted to try to stop me from going away again. 'See, Jane didn't chase boys, she let them chase her. And so Tina and I, we've both taken solemn vows that we are going to be just like Jane.'
My mom, unlike Grandmere had been, didn't look happy to hear this.
'But Jane Eyre was so mean to poor Mr Rochester,' she cried.
I didn't mention that this was what I had thought, too . . . at first.
'Mom,' I said, very firmly. 'I think you're forgetting the whole first-wife-in-the-attic thing.'
'Because she was a lunatic,' my mom pointed out. 'It wasn't like they had psychotropic drugs back then. Keeping Bertha locked in the attic was kinder, really, than sending her to a mental hospital, considering what they were like during that era,
with people chained to the walls and the whole no TV thing. Really, Mia. I swear I don't know where you get half your
ideas. Jane Eyre? Who told you about Jane Eyre?'
'Um,' I said, stalling because I knew my mom wasn't going to like the answer. 'Grandmere.'
My mom's lips got so thin, they completely disappeared.
'I should have known,' she said. 'Well, Mia, I think it is commendable that you and your friends have decided not to chase boys. However, if a boy leaves a nice message on the answering machine like Michael did, it could hardly be construed as chasing for you to do the polite thing and return his call.'
I thought about this. My mom was probably right. I mean, it isn't as if Michael has a crazy wife in the attic. The Fifth
Avenue apartment where the Moscovitzes live doesn't even have an attic, so far as I know.
'OK,' I said, setting down the clothes I'd been putting away. 'I guess I could return his call.' My heart was swelling at the
very idea. In a minute - less than a minute, if I could get my mom out of my room fast enough - I'd be talking to Michael!
And there wouldn't be that weird swooshing sound there always is when you call from across die ocean. Because there
was no ocean separating us! Just Washington Square Park. 'Returning calls probably doesn't count as chasing. That would probably be OK.'
My mom, who was sitting on the end of my bed, just shook her head.
'Really, Mia,' she said. 'You know I don't like to contradict your grandmother ...' This was the biggest lie I'd heard since the Prince of Liechtenstein told me I waltzed divinely, but I let it slide, on account of Mom's condition. '. . . but I really don't
think you should be playing mind games with boys. Particularly a boy you care about. Particularly a boy like Michael.'
'Mom, if I want to spend the rest of my life with him, I have to play games with Michael,' I explained to her, patiently.
'I certainly can't tell him the truth. If he were ever to learn the depths of my passion for him, he'd run like a startled fawn.'
My mom looked stunned. A what?'
'A startled fawn,' I explained. 'See, Tina told her boyfriend Dave Farouq El-Abar how she really feels about him, and he
pulled a total David Caruso on her.'
My mom blinked. A who?'
'David Caruso,' I said. I felt sorry for my mom. Clearly she had only managed to snag Mr. Gianini by the skin of her teeth.
I couldn't believe she didn't know this stuff. 'You know, he disappeared for a really long time. Dave only resurfaced when
Tina managed to scrounge Wresdemania tickets for the Garden. And ever since, Tina says things have been really awkward.' Done unpacking, I shooed Fat Louie out of the suitcase, closed it, and put it on the floor. Then I sat next to my mom on the bed. 'Mom,' I said. 'I do not want that to happen to me and Michael. I love Michael more than anything in the entire world, except for you and Dad and Fat Louie.'
I just said the you and Dad part to be polite. I think I love Michael more than I love my mom and dad. It sounds terrible
to say, but I can't help it, it is just how I feel.
But I will never love anyone or anything as much as I love Fat Louie.
'So don't you see?' I said to her. 'What Michael and I have, I don't want to mess it up. He's my Romeo in black jeans.' Even though of course I have never seen Michael in black jeans. But I am sure he has some. It is just that we have a dress code
at our school, so usually when I see him he is in grey flannel pants, as that is part of our uniform.
It seemed to take my mom a minute to digest all this. When she had, all she said was, 'I respect that you want to take things with Michael slowly, Mia. But I do think that if you haven't seen a boy in a month, and he leaves a message for you, the
decent thing to do is to call him back. If you don't, I think you can pretty much guarantee he is going to run. And not like a startled fawn, either.'
I blinked at my mom. She had a point. I saw then that Grandmere's scheme — you know, of always keeping the man you
love guessing as to whether or not you love him back — had some pitfalls. Such as, he could just decide you don't like him, and take off, and maybe fall in love with some other girl of whose affection he could be assured, like Judith Gershner,
president of the Computer Club and all-round prodigy, even though supposedly she is dating a boy from Trinity, but you
never know, that could be a ruse to lull me into a false sense of security about Michael and put my guard down, thinking he
is safe from Judith's fruit-fly-cloning clutches . . .
'Mia,' my mom said, looking at me all concerned. 'Are you all right?'
I tried to smile, but I couldn't. How, I wondered, could Tina and I have overlooked this very serious flaw in our plan? Even now, Michael could be on the phone to Judith, or some other equally intellectual girl, talking about quasars or photons or whatever it is smart people talk about.
'Mom,' I said, standing up. 'You have to go. I have to call him.'
I was glad the panic that was clutching my throat wasn't audible in my voice.
'Oh, Mia,' my mom said, looking pleased. 'I really think you should. Charlotte Bronte is, of course, a brilliant author, but
you've got to remember, she wrote Jane Eyre back in the 1840s, and things were a little different then.'
'Mom,' I said. Lilly and Michael's parents, the Drs. Moscovitz, have this totally hard and fast rule about calling after eleven
on schoolnights. It is verboten. And guess what, it was practically eleven. And my mom was still standing there, keeping
me from having the privacy I would need if I were going to make this all-important call.
'Oh,' she said, smiling. Even though she is pregnant, my mom is still somewhat of a babe, with all this long black hair that
curls just rig
ht. Clearly I had inherited my dad's hair, which I've actually never seen, since he's always been bald since
I've known him.
DNA is so unfair.
Anyway, FINALLY she left - pregnant women move SO slowly, I swear you would think evolution would have made
