by Meg Cabot
Oooooh, a Sailor Moon marathon…
Sailor Moon is so lucky to be a cartoon character. If I were a cartoon character, I’m sure I would have none of the problems I am having right now.
And even if I did, they would all be solved by the end of the episode.Sunday, September 13, 3 p.m., my room, the Plaza
Okay, this is just a violation of my personal rights. I mean, if I want to wallow in bed all day, I should be allowed to. If that’s what SHE felt like doing, and I went barreling into HER private room and told her to stop feeling sorry for herself and sat down and started yammering away at her, you can bet SHE never would have gone along with it. She’d just have thrown a Sidecar at me, or whatever.
But somehow it’s all right for HER to do that to me. Come barreling into my room, I mean, and tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself.
Now she’s dangling this gold necklace in front of me. It’s got a pendant almost as big as Fat Louie’s head swinging from it. There are jewels all over the pendant. It looks like something 50 Cent might wear on his night off, while he’s working out or just hanging with his homies, or something.
“Do you know what you are looking at here, Amelia?” Grandmère is asking me.
“If you’re trying to hypnotize me into not biting my nails anymore, Grandmère,” I said, “it won’t work. Dr. Moscovitz already tried.”
Grandmère ignored that.
“What you are looking at here, Amelia, is a priceless artifact of Genovian history. It belonged to your namesake, St. Amelie, the beloved patron saint of Genovia.”
“Um, sorry, Grandmère,” I said. “But I was named after Amelia Earhart, the brave aviatrix.”
Grandmère snorted. “You most certainly were not,” she said. “You were named after St. Amelie, and no one else.”
“Um, excuse me, Grandmère,” I said. “But my mom very definitely told me—”
“I don’t care what that mother of yours told you,” Grandmère said. “You were named after the patron saint of Genovia, pure and simple. St. Amelie was born in the year 1070, a simple peasant girl whose greatest love was tending to her family’s flock of Genovian goats. As she tended her father’s herd, she often sang traditional Genovian folk songs to herself, in a voice that was rumored to be one of the loveliest, most melodic of all time, much nicer than that horrible Christina Aguilera person you seem to like so much.”
Um, hello. How does Grandmère even know this? Was she alive in the year 1070? Besides, Christina has, like, a seven-octave range. Or something like that.
“One fine day when Amelie was fourteen years old,” Grandmère went on, “she was guarding the herd near the Italian/Genovian border, when she happened to spy, billeted in a copse, an Italian count and the army of hired mercenaries he’d brought with him from his nearby castle. Fleet of foot as the goats she so loved, Amelie stole near enough to the miscreants to discover their dire purpose in her beloved land. The count planned to wait until nightfall, then seize control of the Genovian palace and its populace, and add them to his own already sizeable holdings.
“A quick-thinking girl, Amelie hurried back to her flock. The sun was already low in its zenith, and Amelie knew she would not be able to return to her village and inform the villagers of the count’s dastardly plan until it was far too late, and he would already be on the move. And so instead, she began to sing one of her plaintive folk tunes, pretending to be oblivious of the scores of hardened soldiers just a few hillocks over….
“It was then that a miracle occurred,” Grandmère went on. “One by one, the loathsome mercenaries dropped off, lulled to sleep by Amelie’s lilting voice. And when finally the count, too, sunk into the deepest of slumbers, Amelie scurried back to his side, and—taking the little axe she kept with her for cutting away the brambles that often clung to the coats of her beloved goats—she whacked off the head of the Italian count, and held it high for his suddenly wakeful army to see.
“‘Let this be a warning to anyone who dares to dream of defiling my beloved Genovia,’ Amelie cried, waving the count’s lifeless skull.
“And with that, the mercenaries—terrified that this small, seemingly defenseless girl was an example of the kind of fighters they would encounter if they set foot on Genovian soil—gathered their things and rode quickly back whence they came. And Amelie, returning to her family with the count’s head as proof of her astonishing tale, was quickly hailed the country’s savior, and lived long and well in her native land for the rest of her days.”
Then Grandmère reached out and undid a latch on the pendant, causing the thing to spring open and reveal what was nestled inside….
“And this,” she said, all dramatically, “is all that remains of St. Amelie today.”
I looked at the thing inside the locket.
“Um,” I said.
“It’s all right, Amelia,” Grandmère said, encouragingly. “You may touch it. It’s a right reserved only for the Renaldo royal family. You may as well take advantage of it.”
I reached out and touched whatever was inside the locket. It looked—and felt—like a rock.
“Um,” I said again. “Thanks, Grandmère. But I don’t know how my touching some saint’s rock is supposed to make me feel better.”
“That is no rock, Amelia,” Grandmère said, scornfully. “That’s St. Amelie’s petrified heart!”
EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!
THIS is what Grandmère busted in here to show me? THIS is how she tries to cheer me up? By having me pick up some dead saint’s petrified HEART????
WHY CAN’T I HAVE A NORMAL GRANDMA WHO TAKES ME TO SERENDIPITY FOR FROZEN HOT CHOCOLATE WHEN I’M DOWN, instead of making me fondle petrified body parts??????
And, okay, I GET it. I GET that I’m named after a woman who performed an incredible act of bravery and saved her country. I GET what Grandmère was trying to do: instill some of St. Amelie’s chutzpah into me in time for my big debate against Lana tomorrow.
But I’m afraid her plan totally backfired, because the truth is, except for a fondness for goats, Amelie and I have NOTHING in common. I mean, sure, Rocky stops crying when I sing to him. But it’s not like anybody’s rushing out to make me a saint.
Also, I highly doubt St. Amelie’s boyfriend was all “I’m not going to wait around forever.” Not if she still had that axe on her.
It’s all just so depressing. I mean, even my own grandmother thinks I can’t beat Lana Weinberger without divine intervention. That is just so nice.
Oh, great. Time to go home.Sunday, September 13, 9 p.m., the loft
I’m sooooooooo glad to be back. It feels like I’ve been gone for SO MUCH LONGER than just two days. Seriously. It feels like a YEAR since I last lay on this bed, with Fat Louie curled around my feet, purring his head off, and the dulcet tones of Lash in my ears, since I don’t have to listen for Rocky’s mournful cry, because my mom cured him of the crying-to-get-attention thing. Apparently, she did it by leaving him with Mamaw and Papaw to babysit while she and Mr. G went to a classic car show in the parking lot of the Kroger Sav-On, because that was the closest thing to a cultural event that was actually going on in Versailles this past weekend.
By the time they got home—four hours later—Mamaw and Papaw were still sitting exactly where they’d been when Mom and Mr. G left (in front of the TV, watching reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos) and Rocky was sound asleep. All Mamaw said was, “Well, he’s got a set of lungs on him, I’ll say that fer’im.”
Anyway, Mom says Mr. G was a real trooper, and that if she hadn’t been sure he loved her before, she definitely knows it now, because no other man would willingly have put up with as many indignities as he endured on her behalf, one of which included riding on Papaw’s tractor (Mr. G says the closest to a tractor he’s ever been before is the Zamboni at a Rangers game). Mr. G says he was particularly impressed by the road signs he saw along the highway from the Indianapolis International Airport, urging him to repent his sins and be saved. Although, h
e reports that sadly, the Versailles County Bank appears to have taken down the IF BANK IS CLOSED, PLEASE SLIDE MONEY UNDER THE DOOR sign I loved so much.
I was very pleased to hear that they followed all of my advice and kept Rocky far away from hay threshers, copperhead snakes, and Hazel, Mamaw’s goat. Mom did say something about how it wasn’t actually necessary for me to have called every three hours to let them know that there was no cyclone activity on Doppler radar in their area, but that she appreciated my sisterly vigilance on Rocky’s behalf.
Later, while Mr. G was struggling to fit their suitcases back into the crawl space, I asked Mom if she’d happened to look up Wendell Jenkins, and she was all, “Why would I?”
“Because,” I said. “I mean, you loved him.”
“Sure,” Mom said. “Twenty years ago.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you loved Dad fifteen years ago, and you see still see him.”
“Because I have a child with him,” my mom said, looking at me sort of strangely. “Believe me, Mia, if it weren’t for you, your dad and I probably wouldn’t have anything to do with each other. We’ve both moved on, just like Wendell and I moved on.”
Then my mom went on, “If I hadn’t met Frank, maybe I’d regret breaking up with Wendell or your dad. But I’m married to the man of my dreams. So, in answer to your question, Mia, no, I didn’t look up Wendell Jenkins this weekend.”
Wow. That is just…I don’t know. So nice. About Mr. G being the man of my mom’s dreams. I mean, I hope he realizes it. How lucky he is. Because whereas I strongly suspect there are a lot of women out there who might consider my dad, being a rich prince and all, the man of their dreams, I don’t think there are a whole lot of ladies who are going, “Hmmm, I wish I could meet a poor, flannel-shirt wearing, drum-playing Algebra teacher named Frank Gianini,” like my mom evidently did.
Anyway, that’s kind of nice. That both my mom and I are with the men of our dreams at the same time…
Except that mine is about to break up with me.
But would the man of my dreams REALLY tell me he’s not going to wait around for me forever? Wouldn’t the man of my dreams be willing to wait around for all ETERNITY to have me? I mean, look at Tom Hanks in the movie Cast Away. He TOTALLY waited for Helen Hunt. For FOUR years.
And okay, it’s not like he had much of a choice since there weren’t exactly any other girls running around on that island with him, but whatever.
Anyway, when I got home, I found a message from Michael on the answering machine. It was almost exactly like the one he’d left for me at the hotel, asking me to call.
And when I turned on my computer, there was an e-mail from him, too, saying basically the same thing he’d said in both phone messages: to call him.
No way am I falling for that one. I’m not calling him, just so he can break up with me.
Ooooooo nooooooooo Instant Message!
Let it be Michael.
No, don’t let it be Michael.
Let it be Michael.
No, don’t let it be Michael.
Let it be Michael.
No, don’t let it be Michael.
Let it be Michael.
ILUVROMANCE: Hey! It’s me!
Oh. It’s Tina.
FTLOUIE: Hi, T.
ILUVROMANCE: Just wanted to say thanx again for the GR8 time on Friday nite. It was SO MUCH fun.
FTLOUIE: OK. Thanks.
ILUVROMANCE: Hey, what’s the matter?
FTLOUIE: Nothing.
ILUVROMANCE: SOMETHING is the matter. You haven’t used a single exclamation point yet! What’s wrong? Did you and Michael have The Talk?
Sometimes I think Tina must be psychic.
FTLOUIE: Yes. And Tina, it was AWFUL. He totally shot down the idea of Doing It on prom night, and says he can’t afford the Four Seasons. He was nowhere NEAR as nice as Boris about it. He even said he wasn’t going to wait around for me forever!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ILUVROMANCE: NO! He did NOT say that!!!!
FTLOUIE: He totally did!!! Tina, I don’t know what to do. My world is collapsing around me. It’s like Lana was TOTALLY RIGHT.
ILUVROMANCE: That is not possible, Mia. You must have misunderstood.
FTLOUIE: Believe me, I didn’t. Michael wants to Do It and isn’t going wait around forever for me to make up my mind about it, either. I can’t believe this. All this time, you know, I thought he was the man of my dreams!!!!
ILUVROMANCE: Mia, Michael IS the man of your dreams. But just because you’ve found your one true love doesn’t mean that your relationship isn’t going to be fraught with hardship from time to time.
FTLOUIE: It doesn’t?
ILUVROMANCE: Oh, gosh, no! The road to romantic bliss is filled with many potholes and speed bumps. People think that once they’ve found that special someone, everything is smooth sailing. But nothing could be farther from the truth. Good relationships only stay that way through hard work and personal sacrifice on the part of both participants.
FTLOUIE: Then…what should I do?
ILUVROMANCE: Well…I don’t know. How did you leave things?
FTLOUIE: Um, Lars banged on the door and said it was time for me to go home. And I haven’t spoken to Michael since.
ILUVROMANCE: Well, what are you doing sitting there writing to ME? Get on the phone and call Michael right now!!!
FTLOUIE: You really think I should?
ILUVROMANCE: I KNOW you should. Let him know how much you love him and how hard this is for you and how much you’re hurting inside. Then TALK to him, Mia. Remember, communication is the key.
FTLOUIE: Well, if you really think it’ll help, I guess I could—
WOMYNRULE: Hey, Mia. So tomorrow’s the big day. Are you ready?
FTLOUIE: Lilly, where have you been? Your mother was looking for you. You haven’t been messing around with those nuns again, have you? You know Sergeant McLinsky told you to leave them alone.
WOMYNRULE: For your information, little missy, I have spent the entire day working tirelessly on YOUR behalf. You are going to ACE that debate tomorrow, thanks to some info I was just able to independently confirm. Although, one of these days, I WILL bring those nuns down. They are up to no good in there, of THAT I can assure you.
FTLOUIE: Lilly, what are you talking about? What info? And your mother wants you to walk Pavlov.
WOMYNRULE: Already done. Hey, are you and my brother in a fight or something?
FTLOUIE: WHY???? DID HE ASK ABOUT ME????
WOMYNRULE: Well, that answers THAT question. And yes, he did ask if I’d heard from you. But right now I want you to put whatever personal differences you’re having with my brother OUT OF YOUR MIND. I need you to be at your best tomorrow for the BIG DEBATE. Go to bed early tonight—like right now, for instance—and eat a really good breakfast in the morning. AND THINK POSITIVE. There’s an abbreviated fourth period tomorrow, with an assembly in the gym for the debate. Then voting’s right after, at lunch. NO PRESSURE. But if you don’t do well at the debate, everything we’ve done so far—the posters, the networking at the soccer game, all of it—will have been for nothing.
FTLOUIE: NO PRESSURE??? Lilly, I’m under NOTHING BUT pressure!!!! The country over which I will one day rule is being kicked out of the EU. My grandmother made me touch a dead saint’s petrified heart. My boyfriend wants to Do It. My baby brother doesn’t need to be sung to anymore—
WOMYNRULE: My brother wants to WHAT???????
FTLOUIE: OMG. I didn’t mean to admit that.
WOMYNRULE: YOU CAN’T DO IT BEFORE I DO IT!!! I WILL KILL YOU!!!!
FTLOUIE: I AM NOT DOING IT. YET. I meant he WANTS to Do It. Someday.
WOMYNRULE: Oh, God. Then what’s the problem? ALL guys want to Do It, you should know that by now. Just tell him to cool his jets.
FTLOUIE: You can’t tell someone like your brother to cool his jets, Lilly. He is a MANLY man, and has a manly man’s needs. You wouldn’t tell BRAD PITT to cool his jets. No. Because BRAD PITT is a manly man. LI
KE YOUR BROTHER.
WOMYNRULE: Okay, only you, Mia, would call my brother a manly man. But whatever. Don’t think about all that tonight. Tonight, just concentrate on getting a good night’s sleep so you can be fresh for the debate tomorrow morning. And don’t worry. You’re gonna knock ’em dead.
FTLOUIE: LILLY!!! WAIT!!! I CAN’T DO IT!!! THE DEBATE, I MEAN!!! YOU HAVE TO DO IT FOR ME!!! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WANTS TO BE PRESIDENT ANYWAY!!!!!!!! I HAVE A FEAR OF PUBLIC SPEAKING!!!! NONE OF THE GREAT WOMEN OF GENOVIA HAVE BEEN GOOD IN FRONT OF CROWDS!!! WE’RE ONLY GOOD AT KILLING MARAUDERS!!! LILLY!!!!!!!!!!!!
WOMYNRULE: terminated
ILUVROMANCE: If it’s any consolation to you, Mia, I think you’ll do great tomorrow.
FTLOUIE: Thanks, Tina. But I have to go now. I think I’m going to be sick.Monday, September 14, 1 a.m.
I cannot do this. I canNOT do this. I am going to make the hugest fool of myself….
Why did I ever say I would do this?Monday, September 14, 3 a.m.
This isn’t fair. Haven’t I endured enough for one person in my lifetime? Why must total humiliation in front of my peers—once again—be added to it?Monday, September 14, 5 a.m.
Why won’t Fat Louie stop sleeping on my head?Monday, September 14, 7 a.m.
I’m going to die now.Monday, September 14, Homeroom
Really, if you think about it, I’m worrying for nothing. I mean, if the world really is going to end in ten to twenty years due to all of the accessible petroleum running out, you have to ask yourself, What’s the big deal?
And what about the ice caps melting? If that happens, New York won’t even exist anymore.
And the supervolcano in Yellowstone? Hello, nuclear WINTER.
And what about the killer algae? If my snails don’t work, the entire Mediterranean coast will be destroyed. It’s really only a matter of time before every seafloor in the entire world is carpeted with Caulerpa taxifolia. Life as we know it will cease, because there will no longer be any seafood…no shrimp scampi or lobster rolls or smoked salmon…since there won’t be any shrimp or lobster or salmon. Or anything else living in the ocean. Except killer algae.
