Princess in the Spotlight (16 page)

Which, to the best of my knowledge, he had not.

Then Lilly didn’t show up for lunch.

She wasn’t even very subtle about it, either. We were doing the Presidential Fitness exam in PE, and just as it was her turn to climb the rope, Lilly started complaining that she had cramps.

Since Lilly complains that she has cramps every single time the Presidential Fitness exam rolls around, I wasn’t suspicious. Mrs. Potts sent Lilly to the nurse’s office, and I figured I’d see her at lunch, miraculously recovered.

But then she didn’t show up for lunch. A consultation with the nurse revealed that Lilly’s cramps had been of such severity, she’d decided to go home for the rest of the day.

Cramps. I am so sure. Lilly doesn’t have cramps. What she has is the hots for my cousin!

The real question is, how long can we keep this from Boris? Remembering the Mahler we’d been subjected to yesterday, everyone is being careful not to remark how coincidental it is that Lilly is sick and Hank is missing in action at the same time. Nobody wants to have to resort to the gym mats again. Those things were heavy.

As a precaution, Michael is trying to keep Boris busy with a computer game he invented called Decapitate the Backstreet Boy. In it, you get to hurl knives and axes and stuff at members of the Backstreet Boys. The person who cuts the heads off the most Backstreet Boys moves up to another level, where he gets to cut off the heads of the boys in 98 Degrees, then ‘N Sync, etc. The player who cuts off the most heads gets to carve his initials on Ricky Martin’s naked chest.

I can’t believe Michael only got a B on this game in his computer class. But the teacher took points off because he felt it wasn’t violent enough for today’s market.

Mrs. Hill is letting us talk today. I know it’s because she doesn’t want to have to listen to Boris play Mahler, or worse, Wagner. I went up to Mrs. Hill after class yesterday and apologized for what I said on TV about her always being in the teachers’ lounge, even though it was the truth. She said not to worry about it. I’m pretty sure this is because my dad sent her a DVD player, along with a big bunch of flowers, the day after the interview was broadcast. She’s been a lot nicer to me since then.

You know, I find all of this stuff about Lilly and Hank very difficult to process. I mean,
Lilly
, of all people, turning out to be such a slave to lust. Because she can’t genuinely be in love with Hank. He’s a nice enough guy and all—and very good-looking—but let’s face it, his elevator does
not
go all the way up.

Lilly, on the other hand, belongs to Mensa—or at least she could if she didn’t think it hopelessly bourgeois. Plus Lilly isn’t exactly what you’d call a traditional beauty—I mean,
I
think she’s pretty, but according to today’s admittedly limited ideal of what “attractive” is, Lilly doesn’t really pass muster. She’s much shorter than me, and kind of chunky, and has that sort of squished-in face. Not really the type you’d expect a guy like Hank to fall for.

So what do a girl like Lilly and a guy like Hank have in common, anyway?

Oh, God, don’t answer that.

HOMEWORK

Algebra: pg. 123, problems 1–5, 7

English: in your journal, describe one day in your life; don’t forget profound moment

World Civ: answer questions at end of Chapter 10

G&T: bring one dollar on Monday for earplugs

French: une description d’une personne, trente mots minimum

Biology: Kenny says not to worry, he’ll do it for me

Another huge shock. If my life continues along this roller-coaster course, I may have to seek professional counseling.

When I walked in for my princess lesson, there was Mamaw—
Mamaw
—sitting on one of Grandmère’s tiny pink couches, sipping tea.

“Oh, she was always like that,” Mamaw was saying. “Stubborn as a mule.”

I was sure they were talking about me. I threw down my bookbag and went, “I am
not
!”

Grandmère was sitting on the couch opposite Mamaw, a teacup and saucer poised in her hands. In the background, Vigo was running around like a little windup toy, answering the phone and saying things like, “No, the orange blossoms are for the wedding party, the roses are for the centerpieces,” and “But
of course
the lamb chops were meant to be appetizers.”

“What kind of way is that to enter a room?” Grandmère barked at me in French. “A princess never interrupts her elders, and she certainly never throws things. Now come here and greet me properly.”

I went over and gave her a kiss on both cheeks, even though I didn’t want to. Then I went over to Mamaw and did the same thing. Mamaw giggled and went, “How continental!”

Grandmère said, “Now sit down, and offer your grandmother a madeleine.”

I sat down, to show how unstubborn I can be, and offered Mamaw a madeleine from the plate on the table in front of her, the way Grandmère had shown me to.

Mamaw giggled again and took one of the cookies. She kept her pinky in the air as she did so.

“Why, thanks, hon,” she said.

“Now,” Grandmère said, in English. “Where were we, Shirley?”

Mamaw said, “Oh, yes. Well, as I was saying, she’s always been that way. Just stubborn as the day is long. I’m not surprised she’s dug her heels in about this wedding. Not surprised at all.”

Hey, it wasn’t me they were talking about after all. It was—

“I mean, I can’t tell you we were thrilled when this happened the first time. ‘Course, Helen never mentioned he was a prince. If we had known, we’d have encouraged her to marry him.”

“Understandably,” Grandmère murmured.

“But this time,” Mamaw said, “well, we just couldn’t be more thrilled. Frank is a real doll.”

“Then we are agreed,” Grandmère said. “This wedding must—and will—take place.”

“Oh, definitely,” Mamaw said.

I half expected them to spit in their hands and shake on it, an old Hoosier custom I learned from Hank.

But instead they each took a sip of their tea.

I was pretty sure nobody wanted to hear from me, but I cleared my throat anyway.

“Amelia,” Grandmère said, in French. “Don’t even think about it.”

Too late. I said, “Mom doesn’t want—”

“Vigo,” Grandmère called. “Do you have those shoes? The ones that match the princess’s dress?”

Like magic, Vigo appeared, carrying the prettiest pair of pink satin slippers I have ever seen. They had rosettes on the toes that matched the ones on my maid-of-honor dress.

“Aren’t they lovely?” Vigo said, as he showed them to me. “Don’t you want to try them on?”

It was cruel. It was underhanded.

It was Grandmère, all over.

But what could I do? I couldn’t resist. The shoes fit perfectly, and looked, I have to admit, gorgeous on me. They gave my ski-like feet the appearance of being a size smaller—maybe even two sizes! I couldn’t wait to wear them, and the dress, too. Maybe if the wedding was called off, I could wear them to the prom. If things worked out with Jo-C-rox, I mean.

“It would be a shame to have to send them back,” Grandmère said with a sigh, “because your mother is being so stubborn.”

Then again, maybe not.

“Couldn’t I keep them for another occasion?” I asked. Hint, hint.

“Oh, no,” Grandmère said. “Pink is so inappropriate for anything but a wedding.”

Why me?

When my lesson was over—apparently today’s consisted of sitting there listening to my two grandmothers complain about how their children (and grandchildren) don’t appreciate them—Grandmère stood up and said to Mamaw, “So we understand each other, Shirley?”

And Mamaw said, “Oh, yes, Your Highness.”

This sounded very ominous to me. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that my dad hasn’t done a single solitary thing to bail Mom out of what is clearly going to be a very messy situation. According to Grandmère, a limo is going to swing by our place tomorrow evening to pick up me, Mom, and Mr. Gianini, and whisk us off to the Plaza. It’s going to be pretty obvious to everyone when my mom refuses to get into the car that there isn’t going to be any wedding.

I think I am going to have to take matters into my own hands. I know Dad assured me that everything is under control, but we’re talking Grandmère. GRANDMÈRE!

During the ride downtown I tried pumping Mamaw for information—you know, about what she and Grandmère meant when they said they “understood” one another.

But she wouldn’t tell me a thing . . . except that she and Papaw were too tired, what with all the sightseeing they’ve been doing—not to mention worrying about Hank, whom they still hadn’t heard from—to go out for dinner tonight, and were going to stay in and order room service.

Which is just as well, because I’m pretty sure if I have to hear one more person say the words “medium rare,” I might hurl.

Well, Mr. Gianini is all moved in. I have already played nine games of foozball. Boy, are my wrists tired.

It’s not really weird having him here on a permanent basis, because he was always hanging around before anyway. The only difference really is the big TV, the pinball machine, the foozball table, and the drum set in the corner where we normally keep Mom’s life-size metallic gold bust of Elvis.

But the coolest thing is the pinball machine. It’s called Motorcycle Gang, and it has all these very realistic drawings of tattooed, leather-wearing Hell’s Angels on it. Also, it has pictures of the Hell’s Angels’ girlfriends—who don’t have very much clothing on at all—bending over and sticking out their enormous bosoms. When you sink a ball, the pinball machine makes the noise of a motorcycle engine revving very loudly.

My mother took one look at it and just stood there, shaking her head.

I know it’s misogynistic and sexist and all, but it’s also really, really neat.

Mr. Gianini told me today that he thought it would be all right for me to call him Frank now, considering the fact that we are practically related. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. So I just call him Hey. I go, “Hey, can you pass the parmesan?” and “Hey, have you seen the remote control?”

See? No names needed. Pretty clever, huh?

Of course, it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing. There’s the small fact that tomorrow, there’s supposedly going to be this huge celebrity wedding that I know has not been canceled, and that I also know my mother still hasn’t the slightest intention of attending.

But when I ask her about it, instead of freaking out, my mom just smiles all secretively, and says, “Don’t worry about it, Mia.”

But how can I help worrying about it? The only thing that is definitely off is my mom and Mr. G’s trip to the courthouse. I asked if they still wanted me to come dressed as the Empire State Building, thinking I should probably start working on my costume, and all, and my mom just got this furtive look in her eyes and said why don’t we just hold off on that.

I could kind of tell she didn’t want to talk about it, so I clammed up and went and called Lilly. I figured it was about time she gave me some explanation as to just what was going on here.

But when I called her, the line was busy. Which meant there was a good chance Lilly or Michael was online. I took a gamble and instant-messaged Lilly. She wrote back right away.

F
T
L
OUIE:
Lilly, just where did you and Hank disappear to today? And don’t lie and say you weren’t together.

W
MN
R
ULE
: I fail to see what business it is of yours.

F
T
L
OUIE:
Well, let’s just say that if you want to hang on to your boyfriend, you better come up with a good explanation.

W
MN
R
ULE
: I have a very good explanation. But I am not likely to share it with you. You’ll just blab it to Beverly Bellerieve. Oh, and twenty-two million viewers.

F
T
L
OUIE:
That is so totally unfair. Look, Lilly, I’m worried about you. It isn’t like you to skip school. What about your book about high school society? You may have missed out on some valuable material for it.

W
MN
R
ULE
: Oh, really? Did something happen today worth recording?

F
T
L
OUIE:
Well, some of the seniors snuck into the teachers’ lounge and put a fetal pig in the mini-fridge.

W
MN
R
ULE
: Gosh, I’m so sorry I missed that. Is there anything else, Mia? Because I am trying to research something on the Web right now.

Yes, there was something else. Didn’t she know how wrong it was to be seeing two boys at the same time? Especially when some of us don’t even have
one
boy? Couldn’t she see how selfish and mean-spirited that was?

But I didn’t write that. Instead, I wrote:

F
T
L
OUIE:
Well, Boris was pretty upset, Lilly. I mean, he totally suspects something.

W
mn
R
ULE
: Boris has got to learn that in a loving relationship, it is important to establish bonds of trust. That is something you might keep in mind yourself, Mia.

I realize, of course, that Lilly is talking about
our
relationship—hers and mine. But if you think about it, it applies to more than just Lilly and Boris, and Lilly and me. It applies to me and my dad, too. And me and my mom. And me and . . . well, just about everybody.

Was this, I wondered, a profound moment? Should I get out my English journal?

It was right after this that it happened: I got instant-messaged by someone else. By Jo-C-rox himself!

J
O
C
ROX:
So are you going to
Rocky Horror
tomorrow?

Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD. OH, MY GOD!

Jo-C-rox is going to
Rocky Horror
tomorrow.

And so is Michael.

Really, there is only one logical explanation that can be drawn from this: Jo-C-rox is Michael. Michael is Jo-C-rox. He HAS to be. He just HAS to be.