Princess in Training pd-6

by Meg Cabot

  “What’s going on, Mom?” I asked.

  Boy, did I get an earful.

  “My mother,” Mom shouted, above Rocky’s screams. “She’s threatening to come here, with Papaw. Because she hasn’t seen the baby.”

  “Um,” I said. “Okay. And that’s bad because…”

  My mom just looked at me with her eyes all wide and crazy.

  “Because she’s my MOTHER,” she shouted. “I do not want her coming here.”

  “I see,” I said, as if this made sense. “So you’re—”

  “Going there,” my mom finished, as Rocky’s screaming hit new decibels.

  “No,” Mr. G was saying into the phone. “Two seats. Just two seats. The third person is an infant.”

  “Mom,” I said, reaching out and taking Rocky from her, careful to avoid the spit-up still spewing from his mouth like lava from freaking Krakatoa. “Do you really think that’s such a good idea? Rocky’s a bit young for his first plane ride. I mean, all that recycled air. Someone with Ebola or something could sneeze and next thing you know, the whole plane could come down with it. And what about the farm? Didn’t you hear about all those school kids who got E. coli from that petting zoo in Jersey?”

  “If it will keep my parents from coming here,” Mom said, “I’m willing to risk it. Do you have any idea what kind of minibar bill they racked up the time your father put them up at the SoHo Grand?”

  “Okay,” I said, between verses of “Independent Woman,” which always has a soothing effect on Rocky. He is much more into R & B than rock. “So when are we going?”

  “Not you,” Mom said. “Just Frank and me. And Rocky, of course. You can’t go. You have school. Frank’s taking a vacation day.”

  I knew it had sounded too good to be true. Not the potential risks to my little brother’s health but, you know, that I might get to escape to Indiana, instead of facing election hell back at school and the potential breakup with my boyfriend.

  Which reminded me.

  “Um, Mom,” I said, as I followed her into Rocky’s room, where she’d apparently been engaged in putting away his clean laundry before Mamaw’s blow fell. “Can I talk to you about something?”

  “Sure.” Although my mom didn’t exactly sound like she was much in the mood to talk. “What?”

  “Uh…” Well, she HAD told me once that I could talk to her about ANYTHING. “How old were you the first time you had sex?”

  I fully expected her to say “I was in college,” but I guess she was so busy trying to cram all of Rocky’s MY MOMMY IS MAD AS HELL AND SHE VOTES onesies into his tiny dresser, that she didn’t think about what she was saying beforehand. She just went, “Oh, God, Mia, I don’t know. I must have been, what, about fifteen?”

  And then it was like she realized what she’d just said and she sucked in her breath really fast and looked at me all wide-eyed and went, “NOT THAT I’M PROUD OF IT!!!”

  Because she must have remembered at the same time I did that I am fifteen.

  The next thing I knew, she was blathering a mile a minute.

  “It was Indiana, Mia,” she cried. “It’s not like there was so much else to do. And it was, like, twenty years ago. It was the eighties! Things were different back then!”

  “Hello,” I said, because I’ve fully seen every episode of I Love the 80s, including I Love the 80s Strikes Back. “Just because people wore leg warmers all the time—”

  “I don’t mean that!” Mom cried. “I mean, people actually thought George Michael was straight. And that Madonna would be a one-hit wonder. Things were DIFFERENT then.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. Except, moronically, “I can’t believe you and Dad Did It for the first time when you were FIFTEEN.”

  And then, noticing my mother’s expression, I was like, “Oh, my God. That’s right!” Because she didn’t even meet Dad until she was in college. “MOM!!! Who WAS it?”

  “His name was Wendell,” my mom said, her eyes going all dreamy, either because Wendell had been a total hottie, or because Rocky had finally quit crying, and was instead drooling all over the lion patch on my uniform blazer, so that for once, the loft was filled with blissful silence. “Wendell Jenkins.”

  WENDELL???? The man my mom gave the precious flower of her virginity to was named WENDELL????

  I seriously would NOT have sex with someone named Wendell.

  But then, I am having grave reservations about having sex with anyone, so my opinion probably isn’t worth much.

  “Wow,” my mom said, still looking dreamy. “I haven’t thought of Wendell in ages. I wonder whatever happened to him.”

  “You don’t KNOW?” I cried, loudly enough that Rocky kind of gave a little start in my arms. But he calmed down after a quick verse of Pink’s “Trouble.”

  “Well, I mean, I know he graduated,” my mom said, quickly. “And I’m pretty sure he married April Pollack, but—”

  “Oh, my GOD!” This was shocking. No wonder Mom is the way she is! “He was two-timing you????”

  “No, no,” my mom said. “He started going out with April after he and I broke up.”

  I nodded knowingly. “You mean he loved you and left you?” Just like Dave Farouq El-Abar and Tina Hakim Baba!

  “No, Mia,” my mom said, with a laugh. “Good grief, you have an uncanny ability to turn everything into a country western song. I mean he and I went out, and it was great, but I eventually realized…well, I wanted out of Versailles, and he didn’t, so I left, and he stayed. And married April Pollack.”

  Just like Dean married that other girl on Gilmore Girls!

  “But…” I stared at my mom. “You loved him?”

  “Of course I loved him,” my mom said. “Gosh, Wendell Jenkins. I haven’t thought of him in ages.”

  GEEZ! I can’t believe my mother is not still in contact with the boy who relieved her of her virginity! What kind of school did she GO to back then, anyway?

  “Why are you asking me all these questions, Mia?” my mom finally wanted to know. “Are you and Michael—”

  “No,” I said, hastily shoving Rocky back into her arms.

  “Mia, it’s perfectly all right if you want to talk to me about—”

  “I don’t,” I said, fast. Real fast.

  “Because if you—”

  “I don’t,” I said again. “I have homework. Bye.”

  And I went into my room and locked the door.

  There must be something wrong with me. I’m serious. Because you could totally tell when Mom was remembering having sex with Wendell Jenkins, that she’d had a good time. Doing It. Everyone seems to have a good time Doing It. Like in movies and on TV and everything. Everyone seems to think Doing It is just, like, the pinnacle of experiences.

  Everyone except for me. Why am I the only person who, when she thinks about Doing It, feels nothing but…sweaty? And not in a good way. This can’t be a normal reaction. This has to be yet another genetic anomaly in my makeup, like absence of mammary glands and size-ten feet. I am totally lacking in the Do It gene.

  I mean, I WANT to Do It. I mean, I guess that’s what I want, you know, when Michael and I are kissing, and I smell his neck, and I get that feeling like I want to jump on him. Surely this is an indication that I want to Do It.

  Except that to Do It you actually have to take your CLOTHES OFF. In FRONT OF THE OTHER PERSON. I mean, unless you’re one of those Orthodox Jews who do it through a hole in the sheet like Barbra Streisand in Yentl.

  And I do not think I am ready to TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF in front of Michael. It is bad enough taking them off in front of Lana Weinberger in the locker room first thing in the morning. I don’t think I could ever take them off in front of a BOY. Especially not a boy I am actually in love with and hope to marry someday, if he ever asks me and if I ever get over this whole spastic not-wanting-to-take-my-clothes-off-in-front-of-him thing.

  Although, I definitely wouldn’t mind seeing Michael with HIS clothes off.

  Is this a double
standard?

  I wonder if my mom felt the same about Wendell Jenkins. She MUST have, or she wouldn’t have Done It with him.

  And yet here she is, more than twenty years later, and she doesn’t even know where he IS now.

  Wait, I bet I could find him. I could do a Yahoo! People search!

  OH, MY GOD!!! HERE HE IS!!!! WENDELL JENKINS!!! I mean, there’s no picture, but he works for…OH, MY GOD, HE WORKS FOR THE VERSAILLES POWER COMPANY!!!! HE IS THE GUY WHO FIXES THE POWER LINES WHEN YOUR LIGHTS GO OUT BECAUSE OF A TORNADO OR WHATEVER!!!!

  I cannot believe my mom gave the flower of her virginity to a guy who now works for the VERSAILLES POWER COMPANY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Not that there is anything wrong with someone who works for the power company. It is no different than being a high school Algebra teacher, I guess.

  But at least Mr. G doesn’t have to wear a JUMPSUIT to work.

  I wonder if April Pollack, the girl who became Mrs. Wendell Jenkins instead of my mom, is on here.

  OH, MY GOD! She is!!!! APRIL POLLACK WAS ELECTED CORN PRINCESS OF VERSAILLES, INDIANA, IN 1985!!!!!!!!!!!

  My mom Did It with a guy who later went on to marry a corn princess.

  Which is very ironic, considering my mom later went on to have the illegitimate child of a prince! Hello, I wonder if Wendell even knows this. That his ex, Helen Thermopolis, is the mother of the heir to the throne of GENOVIA. I bet he wouldn’t feel so good about having dumped her for Miss Corn Princess April if he knew THAT, would he????

  Although, I guess he didn’t really dump her, if it’s true what my mom said about her and Wendell wanting different things.

  Could this happen to me and Michael? Could we want different things someday? In twenty years, will Michael be married, not to the princess of Genovia, but to some CORN PRINCESS????

  AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! SOMEONE IS IMing ME!!!! Who could it be NOW?

  Help! It’s Michael!

  SKINNERBX: Hey!

  Since going Mac, Michael’s changed his IM address. It used to be LinuxRulz.

  SKINNERBX: How was your first day back?

  Oh, my God. He hasn’t heard. Well, how WOULD he? It’s not like he was there. Or like Lilly would tell him. Since they don’t live together anymore.

  FTLOUIE: It was…the usual.

  Well, it WAS. My life is a constant roller coaster…joy followed by crushing disappointments, with occasional patches where nothing at all happens and I just admire the scenery.

  I figured I should change the subject.

  FTLOUIE: How was YOUR first day?

  SKINNERBX: Fantastic! Today in my Economics of Sustainable Development class the professor talked about how in the next 10 to 20 years, petroleum, the cheapest and most effective fuel on the planet—you know, what we use in cars and to heat our homes and in ChapStick and all—will run out. See, 100 years ago, when petroleum was first discovered, the world population was only two billion. Now, with six billion people—a population explosion almost directly caused by more easily accessible fuel—the earth cannot maintain that many people with the amount of petroleum it has left. Since the population isn’t getting any smaller, oil consumption isn’t going to decrease, so in about two decades—maybe more, but probably less, at the rate we’re going—we’re going to run out, and if we don’t find a way to get at the petroleum buried deep beneath the seas—without destroying the environment—or start converting to nuclear or hydro or solar power, everyone will be plunged back into the dark ages, and people worldwide will starve and/or freeze to death.

  FTLOUIE: So, in other words…in about ten to fifteen years, we’re all going to die?

  SKINNERBX: Basically. How about you? What did YOU learn today?

  Um, that you are going to dump me if I don’t put out.

  But, of course, I couldn’t SAY that. So I just told Michael about how this weekend my mom and Mr. G are making an emergency trip to Indiana to introduce Rocky to his Hoosier grandparents. And how Lilly has stabbed me in the back ONCE AGAIN, this time by nominating me for student council president but how she’d said not to worry about it since she “has a plan”; also about how I hate Geometry already.

  SKINNERBX: Wait…your parents are going to Indiana this weekend?

  FTLOUIE: Not my parents. My mom and Mr. G.

  I love Mr. G and all, I guess, but it still weirds me out when anyone refers to him as my parent or my dad. I already have a dad.

  I forgive Michael for this common mistake, however, as he does not know—as I do—what it’s like to come from a broken home.

  FTLOUIE: What do you think your sister could be up to, anyway? I mean, I would be the worst student council president EVER.

  SKINNERBX: What day are they leaving?

  Why is Michael fixated on the fact that Mom and Mr. G are going out of town? This is totally the LEAST of my problems.

  FTLOUIE: I don’t know. Friday, I guess.

  Which reminded me:

  FTLOUIE: Do you still want me to come over on Saturday to meet Doo Pak?

  SKINNERBX: Sure. Or if you want, I could come over there.

  FTLOUIE: With Doo Pak?

  SKINNERBX: No. I meant by myself.

  FTLOUIE: Well, if you want to. But I don’t know why you would, nobody’s going to be here but me.

  Oh, no. Rocky’s crying again.

  I’m not a baby-licker. I’m NOT.

  SKINNERBX: Mia? Are you still there?

  But how can they just sit there and listen to him cry like that? It’s just WRONG.

  SKINNERBX: Mia?

  FTLOUIE: Sorry, Michael, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.

  I wonder if there’s a Baby-lickers Anonymous I could join.Wednesday, September 9, Homeroom

  Well, Lana certainly didn’t waste any time launching her campaign for student council president into overdrive.

  When Lilly and I walked into school this morning, it was to find the hallways WALLPAPERED with giant full-color glossy posters of Lana with the words VOTE LANA written underneath them.

  Some of the posters are just like headshots, showing Lana tossing her long shimmery golden hair back and laughing, or with her chin cupped in her hands, smiling with the angelic sweetness of Britney on her first album cover. In the pictures, Lana doesn’t look at all like someone who might grab the back of another girl’s bra and hiss, “Why do you bother to wear one of these when you have nothing to put in it?”

  Or someone who might tell a girl in the jet line that college boys expect their girlfriends to Do It.

  Some of the other posters show Lana in full-on action shots, like jumping into the air and doing the splits in her cheerleading uniform. One of them shows Lana in her prom dress from last year, standing at the bottom of some staircase. I don’t know where, since there was no staircase like it at the actual prom. Maybe her apartment? I wouldn’t know, of course, having never been invited there.

  Lilly took one look at all the posters and then down at her own posters—yes, Lilly spent all last night, while I was learning about Wendell Jenkins, making campaign posters for me—and said a very bad word.

  Because even though Lilly’s posters are very nice—they say MIA RULES and PICK THE PRINCESS—they are only glitter poured over Elmer’s on white foam core (for rigidity). Lilly didn’t exactly blow up any full-color glossy headshots of me and plaster the school with them.

  “Don’t worry, Lilly,” I told her, very sympathetically. “I don’t want to be president anyway, so maybe this is for the best.”

  Even Boris noticed how sad Lilly was and felt bad for her, which I thought was really nice of him, given how she’d ripped his heart out of his chest and stomped all over it just last May.

  “Your posters are much nicer than Lana’s,” he told her. “Because they come from the heart, and not some photocopy shop.”

  But Lilly ripped her posters in half and stuffed them into a trash can outside the administrative offices anyway. There was glitter everywhere by the time she was done.

&
nbsp; She did say, kind of darkly, “She wants war? She’s got one.”

  But Lilly may have been referring to the fact that they are serving brandade for lunch today in the caf. With cod, the main ingredient in brandade, being nearly extinct due to overfishing, Lilly’s been conducting a very vocal campaign on her public access show against its use in New York City restaurants.

  I really wish those producers who optioned Lilly’s show would hurry up and find a studio to buy it already. Lilly really needs a new project. She has WAY too much time on her hands.

  I have not heard from Michael since I signed off last night. I’m hoping this means he is busy with the whole petroleum-running-out thing, and not, you know, that he’s breaking up with me because he’s realized I’m not exactly the Do It type.Wednesday, September 9, PE

  There should be a law against dodgeball.

  Also, what did I ever do to HER? I mean, she’s clearly winning this stupid election.

  What is the point of even HAVING a bodyguard if he is going to allow me to be pelted in the thigh with red rubber balls?

  I think that’s definitely going to leave a mark.Wednesday, September 9, Geometry

  “a if b” and “a only if b”

  The phrase “if and only if” is represented by the abbreviations “if” and by the symbol

  a b means both a b and b a.

  Is the converse of a true statement necessarily true?

  Excuse me, but

  WHAT???????????????

  There is a Euler diagram appearing on my thigh where Lana hit me with that ball.Wednesday, September 9, English

  Don’t you LOVE that pink sweater thing Ms. M’s wearing? She looks so totally Elle Woods in it! If Elle Woods had black hair, I mean.—T.

  Yes. It’s nice.

  R U OK? R U mad about what Lilly did? I think you’d make a reallly good student council prez, 4 what it’s worth.

  Thanks, Tina. Actually, I’d sort of forgotten about that. So much other stuff is happening.

  What other stuff? That thing with the snails?

  You KNOW about that????

  It was on the news last night. I guess those people in Monaco are kind of mad.