Give Me Five pd-5

by Meg Cabot

  would not have computers, or vaccinations against many major diseases, or antibiotics, or even that mobile you are talking into—'

  'Yeah,' Lana said briskly. 'Whatever. The answer is still no.'

  Then she went back to her phone conversation.

  I stood there for a minute, feeling colour rush into my face. I must really be making progress with my impulse control, since I didn't reach out and grab her mobile from her and crush it beneath my Doc Martens as I might once have. Being the proud owner of a mobile 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 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 mobile 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 for 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 behaviour 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 lamely (although they did publish my poem ... TRES TRES 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, Lesley 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 Assistant

  Fire Chief Logan and the rest of Ladder Company Number Three, 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, Gifted and Talented

  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 is actually not very nice. There are weird stains on the carpet.

  But whatever. The point is that the hotel-workers' union has just joined the busboys in their strike. 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 Grandmere's. I mean, she never should have brought a dog into a restaurant in the first place, even if it IS OK 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 watched 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 said LIVING WAGES FOR LIVING BEINGS.

  She is so busted. She has an unexcused absence for the day. Principal Gupta will be so calling the Drs Moscovitz tonight.

  Michael just shook his head disgustedly at the sight of his sister on a channel other than Fifty-Six. I mean, he is fully on the side of the busboys - they SHOULD be paid a living wage, of course. But Michael is 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.

  Although they went away when I realized that the TV in the Teachers' Lounge is forty inches, whereas all the TVs in the

  student media room are only twenty-seven.

  Wednesday, May 7, The Plaza

  This is unbelievable. I mean, truly. When I walked into the hotel lobby today, all ready for my princess lesson with

  Grandmere, I was completely unprepared for the chaos that met me at the door. The place is a zoo.

  The doorman with the gold epaulettes who usually holds the limo door open for me? Gone.

  The bellboys who so efficiently pile up everybody's luggage on to those brass carts? Gone.

  The polite concierge at the reception desk? Gone. And don't even ask about the line for high tea at the Palm Court. It was

  out of control.

  Because of course there was no hostess to seat anybody, or waiters to take anybody's orders.

  It was amazing. Lars and I practically had to fight off this family of twelve from like Iowa or whatever who were trying to crowd on to our elevator with the lifesize gorilla they'd just bought at FAO Schwartz across the street. The dad kept yelling, 'There's room! There's room! Come on, kids, squeeze.' Finally Lars was forced to show the dad his sidearm and go, 'There's no room. Take the next elevator, please,' before the guy backed off, looking pale.

  This never would have happened if the elevator attendant had been there. But this afternoon the porters' union declared a sympathy strike, and joined the restaurant and hotel workers in walking off the job.

  You would think after everything we'd gone through just to get to my princess lesson on time, Grandmere would have had some sympathy for us when we walked through the door. But instead she was just standing in the middle of the suite, squawking into the phone.

  'What do you mean, the kitchen is closed?' she was demanding. 'How can the kitchen be closed? I ordered lunch hours ago, and still haven't received it. I am not hanging up until I speak to the person in charge of Room Service. He knows who I am.'

  My dad was sitting on the couch across from Grandmere's TV, watching - what else? - New York One with a tense expression on his face. I sat down beside him, and he looked at me, as if surprised to see me there.

  'Oh, Mia,' he said. 'Hello. How is your mother?'

  'Fine,' I said, because, even though I hadn't seen her since breakfast, I knew she had to be OK, since I hadn't got any calls

  on my mobile phone. 'She's alternating between Gatorade and PediaLyte. She likes the grape kind. What's happening with

  the strike?' My dad just shook
his head in a defeated way. 'The union representatives are meeting with the Mayor's office. They're hoping to work out a negotiation soon.'

  I sighed. 'You realize, of course, that none of this would have happened if I had never been born. Because then I wouldn't

  have had a birthday dinner.'

  My dad looked at me kind of sharply, and went, 'I hope you're not blaming yourself for this, Mia.'

  I almost went, 'Are you kidding? I blame Grandmere.' But then I realized from the earnest expression on my dad's face that I had like this huge sympathy quotient going for me, and so instead I went, in this doleful voice, 'It's just too bad I'm going to be in Genovia for most of the summer. It might have been nice if I could have, you know, spent the summer volunteering with an organization seeking to help those unfortunate busboys . . .'

  My dad so didn't fall for it, though. He just winked at me and said, 'Nice try.'

  Geez! Between him wanting to whisk me off to Genovia for July and August, and my mother offering to take me to her gynaecologist, I am getting way mixed messages from my parental units. It's a wonder I haven't developed a multiple personality. Or Asperger's syndrome. If I don't already have it.

  While I was sitting there sulking over my failure to keep from having to spend my precious summer months on the freaking

  Cote d'Azur, Grandmere started signalling me from the phone. She kept snapping her fingers at me, then pointing at the door

  to her bedroom. I just sat there blinking at her until finally she put her hand over the receiver and hissed, Amelia! In my bedroom! Something for you!'

  A present? For me? I couldn't imagine what Grandmere could have got me - I mean, the orphan was enough of a gift for

  one birthday. But I wasn't about to say no to a present ... at least, not so long as it didn't involve the hide of some

  slaughtered mammal.

  So I got up and went to the door to Grandmere's bedroom, just as someone must have taken Grandmere off hold, since as I turned the knob she was hollering, 'But I ordered that cob salad FOUR HOURS AGO. Do I need to come down there to make it myself? What do you mean, that would be a public health violation? What public? I want to make a salad for myself, not the public!'

  I opened the door to Grandmere's room. It is, being the bedroom of the penthouse suite of the Plaza Hotel, a very fancy

  room, with lots of gold leaf all over everything, and freshly cut flowers all over the place . . . although with the strike, I

  doubted Grandmere'd be getting new floral arrangements anytime soon.

  Anyway, as I stood there, looking around the room for my present, and totally saying this little prayer - Phase don't let it

  be a mink stole. Please don't let it be a mink stole - my gaze fell upon this dress that was lying across the bed. It was the colour of Jennifer Lopez's engagement ring from Ben Affleck - the softest pink imaginable - and was covered all over in sparkling pink beading. It was off the shoulder with a sweetheart neckline and this huge, filmy skirt.

  I knew right away what it was. And even though it wasn't black or slit up the side, it was still the most beautiful prom dress

  I had ever seen. It was prettier than the one Rachael Leigh Cook wore in She's All That. It was prettier than the one Drew Barrymore wore in Never Been Kissed. And it was way, way prettier than the gunnysack Molly Ringwald wore in Pretty in Pink. It was even prettier than the prom dress Annie Potts gave Molly Ringwald to wear in Pretty in Pink, before Molly

  went mental with the pinking shears and screwed the whole thing up.

  It was the prettiest prom dress I had ever seen.

  And as I stood there gazing at it, a huge lump rose in my throat. Because of course, I wasn't going to the prom.

  So I shut the door and turned around and went back to sit on the couch next to my dad, who was still staring, transfixed,

  at the television screen.

  A second later, Grandmere hung up the phone, turned to me, and said, 'Well?'

  'It's really beautiful, Grandmere,' I said sincerely.

  'I know it's beautiful,' she said. Aren't you going to try it on?'

  I had to swallow hard in order to talk in anything that sounded like my normal voice.

  'I can't,' I said. 'I told you, I'm not going to the prom, Grandmere.'

  'Nonsense,' Grandmere said. 'The Sultan called to cancel our dinner tonight - Le Cirque is closed - but this silly strike will be over by Saturday. And then you can go to your little prom.'

  'No,' I said. 'It's not because of the strike. It's because of what I told you. You know. About Michael.'

  'What about Michael?' my dad wanted to know. Only I really don't like saying anything negative about Michael in front of my father, because he is always just looking for an excuse to hate him, since he is a dad and it is a dad's job to hate his daughter's boyfriend. So far my dad and Michael have managed to get along, and I want to keep it that way. 'Oh,' I said lightly. 'You know. Boys don't really get into the prom the way girls do.'

  My dad just grunted and turned back to the TV 'You can say that again,' he said. He's one to talk! He went to an all-boys

  high school! He didn't even HAVE a prom!

  'Just try it on,' Grandmere said. 'So I can send it back if it needs fitting.'

  'Grandmere,' I said. 'There's no point. . .' But my voice trailed off because Grandmere got That Look in her eye. You know

  the one. The look that, if Grandmere were a trained assassin and not a dowager princess, would mean somebody is about to get iced.

  So I got up off the couch and went back into Grandmere's room and tried on the dress. Of course it fitted perfectly, because Chanel has all my measurements from the last dress Grandmere bought there for me, and God forbid I should grow or anything, particularly in the chest area.

  As I stood there gazing at my reflection in the floor-length mirror, I couldn't help thinking how convenient the off-the-shoulder thing is. You know, in the event Michael and I ever wanted to get to second base.

  But then I remembered we aren't actually going anywhere together where I would actually get to wear this dress, since

  Michael had put the whole kibosh on the prom, so it was kind of a moot point. Sadly, I peeled off the dress and put it

  back on Grandmere's bed. Probably there'll be some function I'll end up wearing it to in Genovia this summer. Some

  function Michael won't even be there to attend. Which is just so typical.

  I came out of the bedroom just in time to see Lilly on TV She was addressing a room full of reporters at what looked like the Chinatown Holiday Inn again. She was going, 'I would just like to say that none of this would be happening if the Dowager Princess of Genovia would publicly admit her culpability in her failure to control her dog, and in bringing said dog into a dining establishment.'

  Grandmere's jaw dropped. My dad just kept staring stonily into the TV

  As proof of this claim,' Lilly said, holding up a copy of today's edition of The Atom, 'I offer this editorial written by the Dowager Princess's own granddaughter.'

  And then I listened in horror as Lilly, in a sing-song voice, read my article out loud. And I must say, hearing my own words thrown back at me in that manner really made me cognizant of just how stupid they sounded ... far more so than, say, hearing them read in my own voice.

  Oops. Dad and Grandmere are staring at me. They do not look happy. In fact, they look kind of ...

  Wednesday, May 7,10 p.m., the Loft

  I really don't get why they're so upset. It is a journalist's duty to report the truth, and that is what I did. If they can't take the heat, they both need to get out of the kitchen. I mean, Grandmere DID take her dog into that restaurant, and Jangbu DID only trip because Rommel darted out in front of him. They cannot deny this. They can wish it hadn't happened and they can wish

  that Lesley Cho had not asked me to write an editorial about it.

  But they cannot deny it, and they cannot blame me for exercising my journalistic rights. Not to mention m
y journalistic integrity.

  Now I know how the great reporters before me must have felt. Ernie Pyle, for his hard-hitting reportage during World War II. Ethel Payne, first lady of the black press during the civil rights movement. Margaret Higgins, the first woman to win a Pulitzer for international reporting. Lois Lane, for her tireless efforts on behalf of the Daily Planet. Those Woodward and Bernstein guys, for the whole Watergate thing, whatever that was about.

  I know now exactly what it must have been like for them. The pressure. The threats of grounding. The phone calls to their mothers.

  That's the part that hurt the most, really. That they would bother my poor dehydrated mother, who is busy trying to bring a