So Lilly and I very quickly drew up the following list, and presented it to Tina, in the hope that she would see the error of

her ways:





Mia and Lilly's List of Romantic Heroines

and the Valuable Lessons Each Taught Us:

1. Jane Eyre from Jane Eyre:

Stick to your convictions and you will prevail.

2. Lorna Doone from Lorna Doone:

Probably you are secretly royalty and an heiress, only no one has told you yet (this applies to Mia Thermopolis, as well).

3. Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice:

Boys like it when you are smart-alecky.

4. Scarlett O'Hara from Gone with the Wind:

Ditto.

5. Maid Marian from Robin Hood:

It is a good idea to learn how to use a bow and arrow.

6. Jo March from Little Women:

Always keep a second copy of your manuscript handy in case your vindictive little sister throws your first draft

on the fire.

7. Anne Shirley from Anne of Green Gables:

One word: Clairol.

8. Marguerite St Juste from The Scarlet Pimpernel:

Check out your husband's rings before you marry him.

9. Cathy, from Wuthering Heights:

Don't get too big for your breeches or you too will have to wander the moors in lonely heartbreak after you die.

10. Juliet from Romeo and Juliet:

If you're going to fake your own death, it might be nice if you clued your husband in about it first, to avoid any

tragic mishaps later.


Tina, after reading the list, admitted tearfully that we were right, that romantic heroines really were her friends, and that she could not, in good conscience, forsake them. We were all just breathing a sigh of relief (except for Michael and Boris; they were playing on Michael's Gameboy) when Shameeka made a sudden announcement, even more startling than Tina's:

'I'm trying out for cheerleading.'

We were, of course, stunned. Not because Shameeka would make a bad cheerleader - she is the most athletic of us all,

also the most attractive, and knows almost as much as Tina does about fashion and make-up.

It was just that, as Lilly so bluntly put it, 'Why would you want to go and do something like that?'

'Because,' Shameeka explained, 'I am tired of letting Lana and her friends push me around. I am just as good as any of them. Why shouldn't I try out for the squad, even if I'm not in their little clique? I have just as good a chance of getting on the team

as anybody else.'

Lilly said, 'While this is unarguably true, I feel I must warn you, Shameeka, if you try out for cheerleading, you might actually

get on the squad. Are you prepared to subject yourself to the humiliation of cheering for Josh Richter as he chases after a

little ball?'

'Cheerleading has, for many years, suffered from the stigma of being inherently sexist,' Shameeka said. 'But I think the cheerleading community in general is making strides at asserting itself as a fast-growing sport for both men and women. It is

a good way to keep fit and active, it combines two things I love dearly, dance and gymnastics, and will look excellent on my college applications. That is, of course, the only reason my father is allowing me to try out. That and the fact that I won't be allowed to attend any post-game parties.'

I didn't doubt this last part. Mr Taylor, Shameeka's dad, is way strict.

But as for the rest of it, well, I wasn't sure.

'Does that mean that if you get on the squad,' I wanted to know, 'you'll stop eating lunch with us and go sit over there?'

I pointed at the long table across the cafeteria from ours, at which Lana and Josh and all of their school-spirit minded, incredibly well-coiffed cronies sat. The thought of losing Shameeka, who was always so elegant and yet at the same

time sensible, to the Dark Side made my heart ache.

'Of course not,' Shameeka said, disparagingly. 'Getting on to the Albert Einstein High School cheerleading squad is not

going to change my friendships with all of you one iota. I will still be the camera person for your television show . . .' she nodded to Lilly, '. . . and your Bio. partner . . .' to me, '. . . and your lipstick consultant. . .' to Tina, '. . . and your portrait model,' to Ling Su. 'I just may not be around as much, if I get on to the squad.'

We all sat there, reflecting upon this great change that might befall us. If Shameeka made the squad it would, of course,

strike a blow for geeky girls everywhere. But it would also necessarily rob of us Shameeka, who would be forced to

spend all of her free time practising doing the splits and taking the bus to Mount Kisco for away games with Phillips Prep.

The silence at the table was palpable . . . well, except for the bing-bing-bing of Michael's electronic game. Boys -apparently even perfect boys, like Michael - are immune to things like mood.

But I can tell you, the mood of this year so far has been pretty bad. In fact, if things don't start looking up soon, I may have

to write this entire year off as a do-over.

Still no clue as to what my secret talent might be. One thing I'm pretty sure it's not is psychology. It was hard work talking

Tina out of giving up her books! And we didn't manage to convince Shameeka not to try out for cheerleading. I guess I can

see why she'd want to do it -I mean, it might be a little fun.

Though why anyone would willingly want to spend that much time with Lana Weinberger is beyond me.








Thursday, January 21

French




Mademoiselle Klein is NOT happy with Tina and me for skipping yesterday.

Of course I told her we didn't skip, that we had a medical emergency that necessitated a trip to Ho's (for Tampax), but

I am not sure Mademoiselle Klein believes me. You would think she would show some feminine solidarity with the whole surfing-the-crimson-wave thing, but apparently not. At least she didn't write us up. She let us off with a warning and

assigned us a five-hundred-word essay each (in French, of course) about snails.

But that isn't even what I want to write about. What I want to write about is this:

MY DAD RULES!!!!!

And not just a country, either. He totally got me out of the contessa's black-and-white ball!!!!

What happened was - at least according to Mr G, who just caught me outside in the hall and filled me in - the filibuster

over the parking fees was finally broken (after thirty-six hours) and my mom was finally able to get through to my dad

(those in favour of charging for parking won. It is a victory for the environment as well as the Genovian Historical Society,

who felt that many of our narrower streets would not be able to withstand the rumble of recreational vehicles that would

ensue if we allowed free parking).

Anyway, my dad fully said that I did not have to go to the contessa's party. Not only that, but he said he had never heard anything so ridiculous in his life, that the only feud going on between our family and the royal family of Monaco is Grandmere's. Apparently she and the contessa have been in competition since finishing school, and Grandmere had just wanted to show off her granddaughter, about whom books and movies have been made. Apparently the contessa's only granddaughter is in rehab in Fresno, so you can sort of see where Grandmere was coming from, although, of course, what she'd been trying to do isn't very nice.

So I am free! Free to spend tomorrow night with my only love! I cat-on-the-roofed Michael for nothing! Everything is going

to be all right, despite my lack of lucky underwear, I can feel it in my bones.

I am so happy, I feel like writing a poem. I will shield it from Tina, however, because it is unseemly to gloat over one's own fortunes when the fortunes of another are so exceedingly wretched (Tina found out who Jasmine is: a girl who goes to Trinity, with Dave. Her father is an oil sheikh, too. Jasmine has aquamarine braces and her screenname is Iluvjustin2345).

Poem for Michael


Oh, Michael,

soon we'll be parkin'

in front of Grand Moff Tarkin

Enjoying veggie moo shu

to the beeps of R2D2

And maybe even holding hands

while gazing upon the Tatooine sands

And knowing that our love by far

has more fire power than the Death Star

And though they may blow up our planet

and kill every creature living on it

Like Leia and Han, in the stars above,

they can never destroy our love—

Like the Millennium Falcon in hyperdrive

our love will continue to thrive and thrive.

Homework:

Algebra: probs at end of Chapt. 11

English: in journal, describe feelings pertaining to reading John Donne's The Bait

Biology: Don't know, Shameeka is doing it for me

Health and Safety: Chapter 2: Environmental Hazards and You

G & T: figure out secret talent

French: Chapitre Onze, ecrivez une narratif, 300 words, double space, plus 500 wds on snails

World Civ.: 500 wds, describe origins of Armenian conflict







Thursday, January 21,

Limo on Way Home from Grandmere's




It takes a big person to admit she's wrong - Grandmere is the one who taught me that.

And if it's true, then I must be even bigger than my five feet nine inches. Because I've been wrong. I've been wrong about Grandmere. All this time, when I thought she was inhuman and perhaps even sent down from an alien moth-ership to

observe life on this planet and then report back to her superiors. Yeah, it turns out Grandmere really is human, just like me.

How did I find this out? How did I discover that the Dowager Princess of Genovia did not, after all, sell her soul to the

Prince of Darkness as I have often surmised?

I learned it today when I walked into Grandmere 's suite at the Plaza, fully prepared to do battle with her over the whole Contessa Trevanni thing. I was going to be all, 'Grandmere, Dad says I don't have to go, and guess what, I'm not going to.'

That's what I was going to say, anyway.

Except that when I walked in and saw her, the words practically died on my lips. Because Grandmere looked as if someone had run over her with a truck! Seriously. She was sitting there in the dark - she had had these purple scarves thrown over the lampshades because she said the light was hurting her eyes - and she wasn't even dressed properly. She had on a velvet lounging robe, a cashmere throw over her knees and some slippers and that was it, and her hair was all in curlers and if her eyeliner hadn't been tattooed on, I swear it would have been all smeared. She wasn't even enjoying a Sidecar, her favourite refreshment, or anything.

She was just sitting there, with Rommel trembling on her lap, looking like death warmed over.

'Grandmere,' I couldn't help crying out, when I saw her. 'Are you all right? Are you sick or something? Do you want me

to get your maid?'

But all Grandmere said was, in a voice so unlike her own normally quite strident one that I could barely believe it belonged

to the same woman, 'No, I'm fine. At least I will be. Once I get over the humiliation.'

'Humiliation? What humiliation?' I went over to kneel by her chair. 'Grandmere, are you sure you aren't sick? You aren't even smoking!'

'I'll be all right,' she said, weakly. 'It will be weeks before I'll be able to show my face in public. But I'm a Renaldo. I'm strong.

I will recover.'

Actually, Grandmere is technically only a Renaldo by marriage, but at that point I wasn't going to argue with her, because I thought there was something genuinely wrong, like her uterus had fallen out in the shower or something (this happened to one

of the women in the condo community down in Boca where Lilly and Michael's grandmother lives).

'Grandmere,' I said, kind of looking around, in case her uterus was lying on the floor somewhere or whatever. 'Do you want