Princess in the Spotlight (12 page)

F
T
L
OUIE:
Can I get back to you? I may have a family obligation that evening.

C
RAC
K
ING:
Sure. Just let me know. Well, see you tomorrow.

F
T
L
OUIE:
Yeah. I can’t wait.

C
RAC
K
ING:
Don’t worry. You were telling the truth. You can’t get in trouble for telling the truth.

Ha! That’s what he thinks. There’s a reason I lie all the time, you know.

TOP FIVE BEST THINGS ABOUT BEING IN LOVE WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND’S BROTHER

TOP FIVE WORST THINGS ABOUT BEING IN LOVE WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND’S BROTHER

Oh, God! No sooner had I set foot in Homeroom today than I was summoned to the principal’s office!

I was hoping it was so that she could make sure I’m not carrying any contraband cough syrup, but it’s more likely because of what I said last night on TV. Particularly, I would guess, the part about how divisive and clique-ridden it is around here.

Meanwhile, all the other people in this school who have never been invited to a party given by a popular kid have rallied around me. It’s like I’ve struck a blow for dweebs everywhere, or something. The minute I walked into school today, the hip-hoppers, the brainiacs, the drama freaks, they were all, “Hey! Tell it like it is, sistah.”

No one’s ever called me sistah before. It is somewhat invigorating.

Only the cheerleaders treat me the way they always have. As I walk down the hall, their eyes flick over me, from the top of my head all the way down to my shoes. And then they whisper to each other and laugh.

Well, I suppose it is amusing to see a five-foot-nine, flat-chested amazon like myself roaming loose in the halls. I’m surprised no one has thrown a net over me and hauled me off to the Natural History Museum.

Of my own friends, only Lilly—and Shameeka, of course—aren’t entirely thrilled with last night’s performance. Lilly’s still unhappy about my spilling the beans about the socioeconomic division of our school population.
Not unhappy enough to turn down a ride to school in
my limo this morning, however.

Interestingly, Lilly’s chilly treatment of me has only served to bring her brother and I closer. This morning in the limo on the way to school, Michael offered to go over my Algebra homework with me, and make sure my equations were all right.

I was touched by his offer, and the warm feeling I had when he pronounced all my problems correct didn’t have anything to do with pride, but everything to do with the way his fingers brushed against mine as he handed the piece of paper back to me. Could he be Jo-C-rox?
Could he?

Uh-oh. Principal Gupta is ready to see me now.

Principal Gupta is way concerned about my mental health.

“Mia, are you really so unhappy here at Albert Einstein?”

I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or anything, so I said no. I mean, the truth is, it probably wouldn’t matter what school somebody stuck me in. I will always be a five-foot-nine freak with no breasts, no matter where I go.

Then Principal Gupta said something surprising: “I only ask because last night during your interview, you said you weren’t popular.”

I wasn’t quite sure where she was going with this. So I just said, “Well, I’m not,” with a shrug.

“That isn’t true,” Principal Gupta said. “Everyone in the school knows who you are.”

I still didn’t want her to feel bad, like it was her fault I’m a biological sport, so I explained very gently, “Yes, but that’s only because I’m a princess. Before that, I was pretty much invisible.”

Principal Gupta said, “That simply isn’t true.”

But all I could think was,
How would you even know? You aren’t out there. You don’t know what it’s like
.

And then I felt even worse for her, because she is so obviously living in principal fantasy world.

“Perhaps,” Principal Gupta said, “if you took part in more extracurricular activities, you’d feel a better sense of belonging.”

This caused my jaw to drop.

“Principal Gupta,” I couldn’t help exclaiming. “I am barely passing Algebra. All of my free time is spent attending review sessions so that I can scrape by with a D.”

“Well,” Principal Gupta said, “I am aware of that—”

“Also, after my review sessions, I have princess lessons with my grandmother, so that when I go to Genovia in December for my introduction to the people I will one day rule, I do not make a complete idiot of myself, like I did last night on TV.”

“I think the word
idiot
might be a little strong.”

“I really don’t have time,” I went on, feeling more sorry for her than ever, “for extracurricular activities.”

“The yearbook committee meets only once a week,” Principal Gupta said. “Or perhaps you could join the track team. They won’t begin training until the spring, and by that time, hopefully, you won’t be having princess lessons anymore.”

I just blinked at her, I was so surprised.
Me? Track?
I can barely walk without tripping over my own gargantuan feet. God knows what would happen if I tried running.

And the yearbook committee? Did I really look like someone who wants to remember one single thing about my high school experience?

“Well,” Principal Gupta said, I guess realizing from my facial expression that I was not enthused by either of these suggestions. “It was just an idea. I do think you would be much happier here at Albert Einstein if you joined a club. I am aware, of course, of your friendship with Lilly Moscovitz, and I sometimes wonder if she might not be . . . well, a negative influence on you. That television show of hers is quite acerbic.”

I was shocked by this. Poor Principal Gupta is more deluded than I thought!

“Oh, no,” I said. “Lilly’s show is actually quite positive. Didn’t you see the episode dedicated to fighting racism in Korean delis? Or the one about how a lot of clothing stores that cater to teens are prejudiced against larger-size girls, since they don’t carry enough things in size twelve, the size of the average American woman? Or the one where we tried to hand-deliver a pound of Vaniero cookies to Freddie Prinz Jr.’s apartment because he’d been looking a little thin?”

Principal Gupta held up her hand. “I see that you feel very passionately about this,” she said. “And I must say, I am pleased. It is good to know you feel passionate about something, Mia, other than your antipathy toward athletes and cheerleaders.”

Then I felt worse than ever. I said, “I don’t feel antipathy toward them. I’m just saying that sometimes . . . well, sometimes it feels like they run this school, Principal Gupta.”

“Well, I can assure you,” Principal Gupta said. “That is not true.”

Poor, poor Principal Gupta.

Still, I did feel that I had to intrude upon the fantasy world in which she so obviously lives, just a little.

“Um,” I said. “Principal Gupta. About Mrs. Hill . . .”

“What about her?” Principal Gupta asked.

“I didn’t mean it when I said she’s always in the teachers’ lounge during my Gifted and Talented class. That was an exaggeration.”

Principal Gupta smiled at me in this very brittle way.

“Don’t worry, Mia,” she said. “Mrs. Hill has been taken care of.”

Taken care of! What does
that
mean?

I am almost scared to find out.

Well, Mrs. Hill didn’t get fired.

Instead, I guess they gave her a warning, or something. The upshot of it is, Mrs. Hill won’t budge from behind her desk here in the G and T lab.

Which means we have to sit at our desks and actually do our work. And we can’t lock Boris in the supply closet. We actually have to sit here and listen to him play.

Play
Bartok
.

And we can’t talk to one another, because we are supposed to be working on our individual projects.

Boy, is everyone mad at me.

But no one is madder than Lilly.

It turns out Lilly’s been secretly writing a book about the socioeconomic divisions that exist within the walls of Albert Einstein High School. Really! She didn’t want to tell me, but finally Boris blurted it out at lunch today. Lilly threw a fry at him and got ketchup all over his sweater.

I can’t believe Lilly has told Boris things that she hasn’t told me. I’m supposed to be her best friend. Boris is just her boyfriend. Why is she telling him cool things, like about how she’s writing a book, and not telling me?

“Can I read it?” I begged.

“No.” Lilly was really mad. She wouldn’t even look at Boris. He had already totally forgiven her about the ketchup, even though he will probably have to get that sweater dry-cleaned.

“Can I read just one page?” I asked.

“No.”

“Just one sentence?”

“No.”

Michael didn’t know about the book either. He told me right before Mrs. Hill came in that he offered to publish it in his webzine,
Crackhead
, but Lilly said, in quite a snotty voice, that she was holding out for a “legitimate” publisher.

“Am I in it?” I wanted to know. “Your book? Am I in it?”

Lilly said if people don’t stop bothering her about it, she is going to fling herself off the top of the school water tower. She is exaggerating, of course. You can’t even get up to the water tower anymore, since the seniors, as a prank a few years ago, poured a bunch of tadpoles into it.

I can’t believe Lilly’s been working on a book and never told me. I mean, I always knew she was going to write a book about the adolescent experience in post–Cold War America. But I didn’t think she was going to start it before we had graduated. If you ask me, this book can’t be very balanced. Because I hear things get way better sophomore year.

Still, I guess it does make sense that you would tell someone whose tongue has been in your mouth things you wouldn’t necessarily tell your best friend. But it makes me mad Boris knows things about Lilly that I don’t know. I tell Lilly everything.

Well, everything except how I feel about her brother.

Oh, and about my secret admirer.

And about my mom and Mr. Gianini.

But I tell her practically everything else.

DON’T FORGET:

I am winning friends and influencing people everywhere I go today. Kenny just asked me what I’m doing for Halloween. I said I might have a family obligation to attend, and he said if I could get out of it, he and a bunch of his friends from the Computer Club are going to
Rocky Horror
, and that I should come along.

I asked him if one of his friends was Michael Moscovitz, because Michael is treasurer of the Computer Club, and he said yes.

I thought about asking Kenny if he’s heard Michael mention whether or not he likes me, you know, in any special way, but I decided not to.

Because then Kenny might think I like him. Michael, I mean. And how pathetic would I look
then
?

Ode to M

Oh, M,

why can’t you see

that x = you

and y = me?

And that

you + me

= ecstasy,

and together we’d B

4ever happy?

What with all the backlash about my interview on
TwentyFour/Seven
, I completely forgot about Grandmère and Vigo, the Genovian event organizer!

I mean it. I swear I didn’t remember a thing about Vigo and the asparagus tips, not until I walked into Grandmère’s suite tonight for my princess lesson, and there were all these people scurrying around, doing things like barking into the phone: “No, that’s four
thousand
long-stemmed pink roses, not four
hundred
,” and calligraphy-ing place cards.

I found Grandmère sitting in the midst of all this activity, sampling truffles with Rommel—stylishly dressed in a chinchilla cape, dyed mauve—in her lap.

I’m not kidding. Truffles.

“No,” Grandmère said, putting a gooey half-eaten chocolate ball back into the box Vigo was holding out to her. “Not that one, I think. Cherries are so
vulgar
.”

“Grandmère.” I couldn’t believe this. I was practically hyperventilating, the way Grandmère had when she’d found out my mom was pregnant. “What are you
doing
? Who are all these people?”

“Ah, Mia,” Grandmère said, looking pleased to see me. Even though, judging from the remains in the box Vigo was holding, she’d been eating a lot of stuff with nougat in it, none of it got onto her teeth. This is one of the many royal tricks Grandmère had yet to teach me. “Lovely. Sit down and help me decide which of these truffles we should put in the gift box the wedding guests are getting as party favors.”