Princess in the Spotlight pd-2

by Meg Cabot

  Then as everyone in the entire cafeteria looked on—including, I noticed, Lana Weinberger and all her cronies over at the cheerleaders’ table—my cousin Hank laid such a kiss on Lilly Moscovitz, I thought he just might suck that Ring Ding right back up again.

  When he was done kissing her, Hank let go. And Lilly, looking as if someone had just poked her with an electric prod, sank slowly back down to her seat. Hank adjusted the lapels of his leather coat and turned to me.

  “Mia,” he said. “Tell Mamaw and Papaw they’re going to have to find somebody to cover my shift at the hardware store. I ain’t—I mean, I’m not —going back to Versailles. Ever.”

  And with that, he strode from our cafeteria like a cowboy walking away from a gunfight he’d just won.

  Or I suppose I should say he started to stride from the cafeteria. Unfortunately for Hank, he didn’t make it out quite fast enough.

  Because one of the people who had observed that searing kiss he’d laid on Lilly was none other than Boris Pelkowski.

  And it was Boris Pelkowski—Boris Pelkowski, with his retainer and his sweater tucked into his pants—who stood up and said, “Not so fast, hot shot.”

  I’m not sure if Boris had just seen the movie Top Gun or what, but that hot shot came out sounding pretty menacing, considering Boris’s accent and all.

  Hank kept going. I don’t know if he hadn’t heard Boris, or if he wasn’t about to let some little violin-playing genius mess up his great exit.

  Then Boris did something completely reckless. He reached out and grabbed Hank by the arm as he went by and said, “That’s my girl you had your lips all over, pretty boy.”

  I am not even joking. Those were his exact words. Oh, how my heart thrilled to hear them! If only some guy (okay, Michael) would say something like that about me. Not the Josiest girl he’d ever met, but his girl. Boris had actually referred to Lilly as his girl! No boy has ever referred to me as his girl. Oh, I know all about feminism and how women aren’t property and it’s sexist to go around claiming them as such. But, oh! If only somebody (okay, Michael) would say I was his girl!

  Anyway, Hank just went, “Huh?”

  And then, from out of nowhere, Boris’s fist went sailing into Hank’s face. Pow!

  Only it didn’t really sound like pow. It sounded more like a thud. There was a sickening crunch of bones splintering. All of us girls gasped, thinking that Boris had marred Hank’s perfect cover-guy face.

  But we needn’t have worried: It was Boris’s hand that made the crunching sound, not Hank’s face. Hank escaped completely unscathed. Boris is the one who has to have his knuckles splinted.

  And you know what that means:

  No more Mahler.

  Whoopee!!!

  It’s unprincess-like of me, however, to gloat over another’s misfortune.

  Friday, October 31, French

  I borrowed Lars’s cell phone and called the SoHo Grand between lunch and fifth period. I mean, I figured someone should let Mamaw and Papaw know that Hank was all right. Well, a Ford model, but all right.

  Mamaw must have been sitting by the phone, since she picked up on the first ring.

  “Clarisse?” she said. “I still haven’t heard from them.”

  Which is weird. Because Clarisse is Grandmère’s name.

  “Mamaw?” I said. “It’s me, Mia.”

  “Oh, Mia.” Mamaw laughed a little. “I’m sorry, honey. I thought you were the princess. I mean, the dowager princess. Your other grandma.”

  I went, “Uh, yeah. Well, it’s not. It’s me. And I’m just calling to tell you that I heard from Hank.”

  Mamaw shrieked so loud, I had to hold the cell phone away from my ear.

  “WHERE IS HE?” she yelled. “YOU TELL HIM FROM ME THAT WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON HIM, HE’S—“

  “Mamaw,” I cried. It was kind of embarrassing, because all sorts of people in the hallway heard her yelling and were looking at me. I tried to make myself inconspicuous by hunching behind Lars.

  “Mamaw,” I said, “he got a contract with Ford Models, Inc. He’s the newest Calvin Klein underwear model. He’s going to be a big celebrity, like—“

  “UNDERWEAR?” Mamaw yelled. “Mia, you tell that boy to call me RIGHT NOW.”

  “Well, I can’t really do that, Mamaw,” I said. “On account of the fact that—“

  “RIGHT NOW,” Mamaw repeated, “or he’s in BIG TROUBLE.”

  “Um,” I said. The bell was ringing anyway. “Okay, Mamaw. Is, um, the, uh, wedding still on?”

  “The WHAT?”

  “The wedding,” I said, wishing I could, just for once, be a normal girl who did not have to go around asking people if the royal marriage of her pregnant mother and her Algebra teacher was still on.

  “Well, of course it’s still on,” Mamaw said. “What do you think?”

  “Oh,” I said. “You, um, talked to my mom?”

  “Of course I did,” Mamaw said. “Everything is all set.”

  “Really?” I was immensely surprised. I could not picture my mother going along with this thing. Not in a million years. “And she said she’d be there?”

  “Well, of course she’ll be there,” Mamaw said. “It’s her wedding, isn’t it?”

  Well . . .sort of, I guess. I didn’t say that to Mamaw, though. I said, “Sure.” And then I hung up, feeling crushed.

  For entirely selfish reasons, too, I confess. I was a little bit sad for my mom, I guess, since she really had tried to put up a resistance against Grandmère. I mean, she really had tried. It wasn’t her fault, of course, that she’d been going up against such a inexorable force.

  But mostly I felt sad for myself. I would NEVER escape in time for Rocky Horror. Never, never, never. I mean, I know the movie doesn’t even start until midnight, but wedding receptions last way longer than that.

  And who knows if Michael will ever ask me out again? I mean, not once today has he acknowledged that he is, in fact, Jo-C-rox, nor has he mentioned Rocky Horror. Not once. Not even so much as a reference to Rachel Leigh Cook.

  And we talked at length during G and T. AT LENGTH. That is on account of how some of us who saw last year’s groundbreaking episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is were understandably confused by Lilly’s helping Hank to realize his dream of supermodel stardom. The segment was titled “Yes, You as an Individual Can Bring Down the Sexist, Racist, Ageist, and Sizeist Modeling Industry” (by “criticizing ads that demean women and limit our ideas of beauty” and “finding ways to make your protest known to the companies advertised” and “letting the media know you want to see more varied and realistic images of women.” Also, Lilly urged us to “challenge men who judge, choose, and discard women on the basis of appearance”).

  The following exchange took place during Gifted and Talented (Mrs. Hill has returned to the teachers’ lounge—permanently, one can only hope) and included Michael Moscovitz, who, as you will see, did NOT ONCE mention Jo-C-rox or Rocky Horror :

  Me: Lilly, I thought you found the modeling industry as a whole sexist and racist and belittling to the human race.

  Lilly: So? What’s your point?

  Me: Well, according to Hank, you helped him realize his dream of becoming a you know what. A model.

  Lilly: Mia, when I recognize a human soul crying out for self-actualization, I am powerless to stop myself. I must do what I can to see that that person’s dream is realized.

  [Gee, I haven’t noticed Lilly doing all that much to help me realize my dream of French-kissing her brother. But on the other hand, I have not exactly made that dream known to her.]

  Me: Um, Lilly, I hadn’t noticed that you had a real foothold in the modeling industry.

  Lilly: I don’t. I merely taught your cousin how to make the most of his God-given talents. Some simple lessons in elocution and fashion, and he was well on his way to landing that contract with Ford.

  Me: Well, why did it have to be such a big secret?

  Lilly: Do you have any idea how fragile
the male ego is?

  [Here Michael broke in.]

  Michael: Hey!

  Lilly: I’m sorry, but it’s true. Hank’s self-esteem had already been reduced to nothing thanks to Amber, Corn Queen of Versailles County. I couldn’t allow any negative comments to ruin what little self-confidence he had left. You know how fatalistic boys can be.

  Michael: Hey!

  Lilly: It was vital that Hank be allowed to pursue his dream without the slightest fatalistic influence. Otherwise, I knew, he didn’t stand a chance. And so I kept our plan a secret even from those I most cared about. Any one of you, without consciously meaning to, might have torpedoed Hank’s chances with the most casual of comments.

  Me: Come on. We’d have been supportive.

  Lilly: Mia, think about it. If Hank had said to you, ‘Mia, I want to be a model,’ what would you have done? Come on. You would have laughed.

  Me: No, I wouldn’t have.

  Lilly: Yes, you would have. Because to you, Hank is your whiny, allergy-prone cousin from the boondocks who doesn’t even know what a bagel is. But I, you see, was able to look beyond that, to the man Hank had the potential to become. . . .

  Michael: Yeah, a man who is destined to have his own pin-up calendar.

  Lilly: You, Michael, are just jealous.

  Michael: Oh, yeah. I’ve always wanted a big picture of myself in my underwear hanging up in Times Square.

  [Actually, I think that is something I would really enjoy seeing, but Michael was, of course, being sarcastic.]

  Michael: You know, Lil, I highly doubt Mom and Dad are going to be so impressed by your tremendous act of charity that they’re going to overlook the fact that you skipped school to do it. Especially when they find out you’ve got detention next week because of it.

  Lilly: (looking long-suffering) The most eleemosynary are often martyred.

  And that was it. That’s all he said to me, all day. ALL DAY.

  Note to self: look up eleemosynary

  POSSIBLE REASONS MICHAEL WON’T ADMIT HE IS JO-C-ROX

  1. He really is too shy to reveal his true feelings for me.

  2. He thinks I don’t feel the same way about him.

  3. He’s changed his mind and doesn’t like me after all.

  4. He doesn’t want to have to bear the social stigma of dating a freshman and he is just waiting until I am a sophomore before asking me out. (Except that by then he’ll be a freshman in college and won’t want to bear the social stigma of dating a high school girl.)

  5. He isn’t Jo-C-rox at all and it turns out I am obsessing about something written by that guy from the cafeteria who has the thing about corn.

  HOMEWORK

  Algebra: none (no Mr. G!)

  English: finish Day in a Life! Plus Profound Moment!

  World Civ: read and analyze one current event from Sunday Times (200 wd minimum)

  G&T: don’t forget the dollar!

  French: pg. 120, huit phrases (ex. A)

  Biology: questions at end of Chapter 12—get answers from Kenny!

  ENGLISH JOURNAL

  A Day In My Life by Mia Thermopolis

  (I chose to write about a night instead.

  Is that okay, Mrs. Spears?)

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31

  3:16 p.m.—Arrive home at SoHo loft with bodyguard (Lars). Find it ostensibly empty. Decide mother probably napping (something she does a lot these days).

  3:18 p.m.–3:45 p.m.—Play foozball with bodyguard. Win three out of twelve games. Decide must practice foozball in spare time.

  3:50 p.m.—Curious as to why riotous game of foozball—not to mention incredibly loud pinball machine—have not awakened mother from nap. Knock gently on bedroom door. Stand there hoping door does not open and reveal view of mother actually sharing bed with Algebra teacher.

  3:51 p.m.—Knock louder. Decide perhaps cannot be heard due to intense lovemaking session. Sincerely hope I will not be inadvertent witness to any nakedness.

  3:52 p.m.—After receiving no response to my knock, i go into mother’s bedroom. No one is there! Check of mother’s bathroom reveals crucial items such as mascara, lipstick, and bottle of folic acid tablets missing from medicine cabinet. Begin to suspect something is afoot.

  3:55 p.m.—Phone rings. I answer it. It is my father. Following conversation ensues:

  Me: Dad? Mom’s missing. And so is Mr. Gianini. He didn’t even come to school today.

  Father: You still call him Mr. Gianini even though he lives with you?

  Me: Dad. Where are they?

  Father: Don’t worry about it.

  Me: That woman is carrying my last chance at having a sibling. How can i help but worry about her?

  Father: Everything is under control.

  Me: How am I supposed to believe that?

  Father: Because i said so.

  Me: Dad, I think you should know, I have some very serious trust issues concerning you.

  Father: How come?

  Me: Well, Part of it might be the fact that up until about a month ago, you had lied to me for my entire life about who you are and what you do for a living.

  Father: Oh.

  Me: So just tell me. WHERE IS MY MOTHER?

  Father: She left you a letter. You can have it at eight o’clock.

  Me: Dad, eight o’clock is when the wedding is supposed to start.

  Father: I am aware of that.

  Me: Dad, you can’t do this to me. What am i supposed to tell—

  Voice: Phillipe, is everything all right?

  Me: Who is that? Who is that, Dad? is that Beverly Bellerieve?

  Father: I have to go now, Mia.

  Me: No, Dad, wait—

  CLICK

  4:00 p.m.–4:15 p.m.—Tear apartment apart, looking for clues as to where mother might have disappeared to. Find none.

  4:20 p.m.—Phone rings. Paternal grandmother on line. Requests to know if mother and I are ready for trip to salon for beauty makeover. Inform her that mother has left already (well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?). Grandmother suspicious. Inform her that if she has any questions to consult with her son, my father. Grandmother says she fully intends to do so. Also says limo will be by at five o’clock to pick me up.

  5:00 p.m.—Limo pulls up. Bodyguard and I Get into it. Inside is paternal grandmother (hereafter known as Grandmère) and maternal grandmother (hereafter known as Mamaw). Mamaw is very excited about upcoming nuptials—though excitement is somewhat dampened by cousin’s desertion to become male supermodel. Grandmère, on other hand, is mysteriously calm. Says son (my father) has informed her that bride has decided to make own hair and make-up plans. Remembering missing folic acid tablets, I say nothing.

  5:20 p.m.—Enter Chez Paolo.

  6:45 p.m.—Emerge from Chez Paolo. Amazed at difference Paolo has made with Mamaw’s hair. She no longer resembles mom in John Hughes film, but member of upscale country club.

  7:00 p.m.—Arrive at Plaza. Father attributes bride’s absence to her desire to nap before ceremony. When i surreptitiously force Lars to call home on his cell phone, however, no one answers.

  7:15 p.m.—Begins to rain again. Mamaw observes that rain on a wedding day is bad luck. Grandmère says, No, that’s pearls. Mamaw says, No, rain. First sign of division within formerly united ranks of grandmas.

  7:30 p.m.—I am ushered into little chamber just off the White and Gold Room, where i sit with the other bridesmaids (supermodels Gisele, Karmen Kass, and Amber Valetta, whom Grandmère has hired due to fact that my mother refused to supply her with list of her own bridesmaids). I have changed into my beautiful pink dress and matching shoes.

  7:40 p.m.—None of the other bridesmaids will talk to me, except to comment about how I look so “sweet.” All they can talk about is a party they went to last night where someone threw up on Claudia Schiffer’s shoes.

  7:45 p.m.—Guests begin to arrive. I fail to recognize my maternal grandfather without his baseball cap. He looks quite spry in his tux. a little like an elderly Matt
Damon.

  7:47 p.m.—Two people arrive who claim to be parents of the groom. Mr. Gianini’s parents from Long Island! Mr. Gianini Sr. calls Vigo “Bucko.” Vigo looks delighted.

  7:48 p.m.—Martha Stewart stands near door, chatting with Donald Trump about Manhattan real estate. She can’t find a building with a co-op board that will let her keep her pet chinchillas.

  7:50 p.m.—John tesh has cut his hair. Almost don’t recognize him. Looks faintly babe-like. Queen of Sweden asks him if he is friend of bride or groom. Says groom, for some inexplicable reason, though I happen to know from having looked through Mr. Gianini’s CDs that he owns nothing but the Rolling Stones and a little Who.

  7:55 p.m.—Everyone goes quiet as John Tesh sits down at baby grand. Pray that my mother is in different hemisphere and cannot see or hear this.

  8:00 p.m.—Everyone waits expectantly. I demand that my father, who has joined me and the supermodels, give me letter from my mother. Dad surrenders letter.

  8:01 p.m.—I read letter.

  8:02 p.m.—I have to sit down.

  8:05 p.m.—Grandmère and Vigo in deep consultation. They seem to have realized that neither the bride nor the groom have shown up.

  8:07 p.m.—Amber Valetta whispers that if we don’t get a move on, she’s going to be late for a dinner engagement with Hugh Grant.

  8:10 p.m.—A hush falls over the guests as my father, looking excessively princely in his tux (in spite of his bald head) strides to the front of the white and gold room. John Tesh stops playing.

  8:11 p.m.—My father makes the following announcement:

  Father: I want to thank all of you for taking the time out of your busy schedules to come here tonight. Unfortunately, the wedding between Helen Thermopolis and Frank Gianini will not take place . . .at least, not this evening. The happy couple have given us the slip, and this morning they flew to Cancun, where I understand they plan to be married by a justice of the peace.