by Meg Cabot
Dear Dr. Carl Jung,
Hi. Sorry about my last letter. I was kind of…you know…cuckoo.
Well, you know all about that. I mean, you devoted your entire career to the study of cuckoos like me.
Anyway, just wanted to say not to worry. Things are better now. I think I finally get it. You know, the whole transcendence thing. It’s not about what’s happening INSIDE you. It’s what you put OUT that matters.
Well, not, you know, put out like sex. But I mean what you put out into the universe. It’s about being kind to others, and telling the truth instead of lying all the time, and using your powers for good and not evil. Like, if your boyfriend is having a party, you should just go and try to have a good time, instead of resorting to elaborate schemes to try to make him think you’re a party girl.
And if your friend is going to run a story in a magazine that could really hurt someone’s feelings, you should stop her.
Right?
Anyway, I’m seriously going to devote the rest of my life to Telling the Truth and Doing Good Works. I really mean that. Because I know now that it’s the only way I’m going to achieve self-actualization, and that people like my grandmother and Lana Weinberger who resort to lies and blackmail and abuse the law of supply and demand will never find spiritual enlightenment.
Anyway, seeing as how I have now pledged to walk the Path of Truth and all of that, do you think there’s a chance that part of my self-actualization, when it comes after I perform all my good works, could be getting my boyfriend to forgive me for being such a freak? Because I seriously miss him.
I hope that’s not asking too much. I honestly don’t mean to be selfish. It’s just, you know. I love him, and all.
Hopefully,
Your friend,
Mia Thermopolis
Wednesday, March 10, Homeroom
So Lilly isn’t speaking to me, apparently. She wasn’t waiting outside her building this morning for us to pick her up and take her to school. And when I ran inside to buzz her apartment, no one answered.
But I know she’s not home sick because I saw her just now outside Ho’s Deli, buying a soy latte.
When I waved, she just turned her back.
So now BOTH the Moscovitzes are ignoring me.
This is not a very nice way to start my first day on the Path to Righteousness.
Wednesday, March 10, PE
Okay, so I know skipping gym is probably not the most direct path to achieving transcendence from the ego.
But it’s for a totally good cause!
Even Lars thinks so. Which is convenient since I’m going to need his help carrying the stuff. I mean, I don’t have the upper body strength to lift 3,700 pieces of paper.
At least, not all at once.
Wednesday, March 10, U.S. Economics
Okay. So I guess I still have a ways to go on the path to righteousness. I mean, I really THOUGHT I was doing the right thing.
At first.
I totally remembered Lilly’s locker combination from the time she got the flu and I had to bring her her books.
And when I opened her locker door, the stack of a thousand copies of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole, Volume I, Issue 1, was just sitting right there, waiting to be sold today at lunch.
It was so easy to grab them.
Well, okay, not THAT easy, because they were heavy. But Lars and I split the pile between us, and I was frantically looking around for a place to hide them—someplace Lilly would never find them, because you so know she’s going to look—when I spied the men’s room.
Well, come on! How’s she going to look for them there?
So Lars and I staggered in there, with these giant armfuls of paper, and I barely had time to register the fact that in the men’s rooms at AEHS, there is no mirror over the sinks, and also no doors on the bathroom stalls (which is completely sexist if you ask me, because don’t boys need privacy and to see how their hair looks, too?) before I realized we were not alone in there.
Because John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth was standing at one of the sinks, wiping his hands on a paper towel!!!!!
“Mia?” J.P. looked back and forth from Lars to me. “Um, hey. What’s up?”
Both Lars and I had frozen. I went, “Um. Nothing.”
But J.P. didn’t believe me. Obviously.
“What’s all that?” he asked, nodding at the huge stacks of papers we were each sagging under.
“Um,” I said, desperately trying to think of some kind of excuse I could give him.
Then I remembered I’m supposed to be treading the Path of Truth, and all, and I had pledged to the memory of Dr. Carl Jung not to lie anymore.
So I had no choice but to say, “Well, the truth is, these are copies of my short story for Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole, which I stole out of Lilly’s locker and am trying to hide in the men’s room, because I don’t want anyone to read them.”
J.P. raised his eyebrows. “Why? You don’t think your story’s any good?”
I REALLY wanted to say yes.
But since I swore I’d tell the truth from now on, I was forced to say, “Not exactly. The truth is, I wrote this story, um, about you. But way before I had ever met you! And it’s really stupid and embarrassing, and I don’t want you to read it.”
J.P.’s eyebrows went up even MORE.
But he didn’t look mad. He looked—actually, he sort of looked like he was kind of flattered.
“You wrote a story about me, huh?” He leaned against one of the sinks. “But you don’t want me to read it. Well, I can see your dilemma. Still, I don’t think hiding them, even in the men’s room, is going to work. She’s bound to get someone to look in here, don’t you think? I mean, it’s the first place I’d look, if I were Lilly.”
The thing was, after he said it, I knew he was right. Hiding the copies in the men’s room wasn’t going to keep Lilly from finding them.
“What else can we do with them?” I wailed. “I mean, where can we put all this so she won’t find it?”
J.P. appeared to think about this for a moment. Then he straightened up and said, “Follow me,” and walked past us, back out into the hallway.
I looked at Lars. He shrugged. Then we followed J.P. out into the hall, where we found him pointing…
…at one of the recycling bins. One of the ones I’d ordered, that said PAPER, CANS, AND BATTLES on it.
My shoulders sagged with disappointment.
“She’ll totally look there,” I wailed. “I mean, it even says PAPER on it.”
“Not,” J.P. said, “if we put it all in the crusher.”
Which was when he tossed the paper towel he’d used to dry his hands into the can section of the recycling bin…
…which immediately sprang to life, and began its crushing action, smushing the paper towel to shreds.
“Voilà,” J.P. said. “Your problem is solved. Permanently.”
But as the recycling bin’s internal crushing device finally quieted down, I looked down at the stack of magazines in my arms.
And knew that I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. As much as I hated that horrible cover, and the story I’d written beneath it, I knew I couldn’t destroy something Lilly had worked so hard on.
“Princess?” Lars shifted his armload of magazines and nodded toward the hallway clock. “The bell is about to ring.”
“I—” I looked from the pinkly glowing magazine cover to J.P.’s face, then back again. “I can’t do it. J.P., I’m sorry. But I just can’t. She would be so hurt…and she’s going through a really tough time right now. Even if she doesn’t know it.”
J.P. nodded.
“Hey,” he said. “I understand.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think you do. My story about you is really stupid. I mean, REALLY stupid. And everyone is going to read it. And know that it’s about you. Which I admit makes ME look like the fool, not you. But people might…you know. Laugh. When they read it. And I really don’t want to hurt your feeli
ngs any more than I want to hurt Lilly’s.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about me,” J.P. said. “I’m a loner, remember? I don’t care what other people think of me. With the exception of a select few.”
“Then…” I nodded at the pile of magazines in my arms. “If I put these back where I found them, and Lilly sells them at lunchtime, you won’t care?”
“Not a bit,” J.P. said.
And he even helped Lars and me stuff them all back into Lilly’s locker.
Then the bell rang, and everyone started pouring out into the hallway and going to their lockers, and so we had to say good-bye, or we’d have been late to our next class.
The saddest part is, Lilly will never know the sacrifice J.P. is making on her behalf. He TOTALLY likes her. It’s so OBVIOUS.
Wednesday, March 10, English
Hey, are you nervous about tonight? Our big debut? I know I am!
To tell you the truth, I haven’t really had a chance to think about it.
Really? Oh my gosh—you still haven’t heard from Michael?
No.
Probably because he’s going to surprise you with a big bouquet of roses after the performance tonight!
I wish I lived in Tinaland.
Wednesday, March 10, Lunch
I walked into the caf, and there she was. At the booth she set up, underneath all these signs she made, advertising today’s sale of the first issue of the school’s new literary ’zine.
I knew I had to be, you know. Nice about it. On account of Lilly’s home life being unsatisfactory. Or going to become that way, anyway, even if she didn’t quite know it yet.
So I went up to her and was like, “One copy, please.”
And Lilly went, all businesslike, “That will be five dollars.”
I totally couldn’t help myself. I was like, “FIVE DOLLARS??? ARE YOU KIDDING????”
And Lilly went, “Well, it’s not cheap putting out a magazine, you know. And you were the one harping about how we have to make back the money we blew on the recycling bins.”
I coughed up the five bucks. But I had my doubts it would be worth it.
It wasn’t. Besides my story, and Kenny’s dwarf thesis, there were a couple of mangas, one of J.P.’s poems, and…
…all five of the short stories Lilly wrote for the Sixteen magazine contest. Five. She put FIVE of her own short stories in her magazine!
I could hardly believe it. I mean, I know Lilly thinks pretty highly of herself, but—
It was right then that Principal Gupta walked in. She NEVER comes into the cafeteria. Rumor has it once she stepped on a Tater Tot someone dropped and it grossed her out so much, she would never set foot in the caf again.
But today she crossed the caf, and, heedless of any Tater Tots that might have been underfoot, went right up to Lilly’s booth!
“Uh-oh,” Ling Su, next to me, said. “Looks like someone’s busted.”
“Maybe Gupta objects to the cover illustration,” Boris suggested.
“Um, I think it’s more likely she’s objecting to this story Lilly wrote,” Tina said, holding up her copy. “Did you guys READ this? It’s totally NC-17!”
I hadn’t actually read any of Lilly’s stories. She’d just told me about them. But even a rudimentary scan through them showed me that—
Oh, yes. Lilly was very, very busted.
And all copies of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole were being confiscated by Coach Wheeton, who had brought a large black trash bag for that purpose.
“This is a violation of our right to free speech!” Lilly was shouting, as Principal Gupta escorted her from the caf. “People, don’t just sit there! Get up and protest! Don’t let the man keep you down!”
But everyone just sat where they were, chewing. Students at AEHS are totally used to letting the man keep us down.
When Coach Wheeton, spying the copy of Lilly’s magazine in my hands, came up to me with his trash bag and went, “Sorry, Mia. We’ll see that you get your money back,” I dropped it in.
Because what else could I do?
J.P. and I just looked at each other.
I wasn’t sure whether or not it was my imagination, but he seemed to be LAUGHING.
I’m glad SOMEONE can see something funny in all this.
Then Tina took me aside….
“Listen, Mia,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but I think I just figured something out. I read this romance novel once where the heroine and her evil twin were both in love with the same guy, the hero. And the evil twin kept doing all this stuff to make the heroine look bad in front of him. The hero, I mean.”
“Yeah?” What did this have to do with me? I wondered. I don’t have a twin.
“Well, you know how you kept asking Lilly to pull ‘No More Corn!’, and she wouldn’t do it, even though she knew it would hurt J.P.’s feelings, and all, if he read it?”
What was she getting at? “Yeah?”
“Well, what if the reason Lilly refused to pull your story was because she WANTED J.P. to read it. Because she knew if he read it, he’d get mad at you for writing it, and then he wouldn’t like you anymore. And then he’d be free to like HER, instead.”
At first I was like, “No way. Lilly would never do something like that to me.”
But then I remembered the last thing she said to me during last night’s limo ride home from the Plaza:
I won’t be the person hurting him. You will. I didn’t write that story.
Oh my God! Could Tina be right? Does Lilly like J.P., but thinks he likes me? Could that really be why she was being so stubborn about pulling “No More Corn!”?
No. No, that can’t be right. Because Lilly doesn’t GET all weird and possessive about boys. She just doesn’t.
“I’m not saying she was doing it CONSCIOUSLY,” Tina said, when I mentioned this. “She probably hasn’t even admitted to HERSELF that she likes J.P. But SUBCONSCIOUSLY, this could be the reason why she refused to pull your story.”
“No,” I said. “Come on, Tina. That’s crazy.”
“Is it?” Tina wanted to know. “Think about it, Mia. What HASN’T Lilly lost to you lately? First the school presidency. Then the part of Rosagunde. Now this. I’m just saying. It would explain a lot.”
Well, it would explain a lot. If it were true. But it’s not. J.P. doesn’t like me that way, and Lilly doesn’t like HIM that way.
And even if she did, she would never do something like that to me. I mean, she’s the person I love seventh best in the whole world. And I’m sure she loves me third. Or maybe fourth. On account of her not having a boyfriend, a younger sibling, a stepparent, or any pets of her own.
Wednesday, March 10, G & T
Lilly’s back. She’s looking really pale. Apparently, Principal Gupta called her parents.
Who came in to school. For a conference.
I don’t know what they talked about. At the conference, I mean. But apparently, Lilly has to run the content of the next issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole past Ms. Martinez before she’s allowed to sell it. Because Lilly never showed Ms. Martinez her short stories.
Or mine.
Or the name of the magazine. Which is being changed to The Zine.
Just The Zine.
Which is, as I told Lilly, in an effort to be kind, kinda catchy.
Lilly didn’t say anything back to me, like, “Thanks” or “I’m sorry.”
And I’m not saying anything to her, like, “Want to talk?” or “I’m sorry.”
But I wish I could.
I’m just afraid of what she’ll say back.
Wednesday, March 10, third-floor stairwell
Today must be some kind of record for me breaking school rules. Because Kenny and I just totally skipped Earth Science, and we’re up here with Tina, going over the choreography one last time before tonight’s performance.
Kenny says he’s so nervous, he wants to throw up. Tina, too.
Me? To tell t
he truth—and it’s my personal mission in life to ONLY tell the truth anymore—I could vomit up my intestines, I’m so freaked out.
Because tonight I am going to have to do something I have never done before in my life. And that’s kiss a boy.
A boy other than Michael, I mean.
Well, okay, except for Josh Richter, but he doesn’t count, because that was before Michael and I started going out.
But basically, tonight I am going to cheat on my boyfriend.
And okay, I know it’s not really cheating, since it’s just a play—I mean, musical—and we are only acting a part and don’t really like each other or anything.
But still. I’ll be kissing ANOTHER MAN. A man I, only last Saturday, sexy danced with. In front of my boyfriend.
Who didn’t like it very much. So much so, in fact, that he’s apparently not speaking to me now. So if he finds out about this kissing thing, I’m REALLY going to be dead.
And even if he doesn’t find out, I WILL KNOW.
How can I help but feel like I am betraying him somehow?
Especially if—and this is what worries me most—I end up LIKING it. Kissing J.P., I mean.
Oh, God. I can’t believe I even WROTE that.
Of COURSE I won’t like it. I only love one boy, and that’s Michael. Even if he doesn’t necessarily love me back right now. I could NEVER enjoy kissing someone else. NEVER.
Oh, God. WHY WON’T HE CALL?????
Wednesday, March 10, the big performance
He still hasn’t called.
And there are so many people here.
I’m serious.
I can’t actually see who any of them are because Grandmère won’t let us peek out from behind the curtains, because she says, “If you can see the audience, they can see you.” She says it’s unprofessional to be seen in costume until after the show has started.
Considering this is an amateur production, Grandmère sure is a stickler about us all acting professional.
Still, I can see there are like twenty-five rows of chairs, with like twenty-five seats across out there, and every seat is filled. That’s like…five thousand people!
Oh no, wait. Boris says it’s only six hundred and twenty-five.
Still. That is a LOT of people. Not ALL of them can be related to us, you know? I mean, obviously, there are CELEBRITIES out there. According to Netscape, which I checked just before I left for the Plaza, Grandmère’s Aide de Ferme benefit is sold out—donations for the Genovian olive growers have been pouring in all week from movie stars and rock musicians alike. Apparently, Grandmère’s benefit—with its musical tribute to Genovian history—is THE place to be tonight.
