Meg Cabot - Princess in the Spotlight

     “Well,” she said. “That was just terrible, wasn’t it?”

     I said, “Is there any way I can demand a retraction? Because I didn’t mean to say that my Gifted and Talented teacher doesn’t do anything and that my school was full of sex addicts. It’s not, you know.”

     “I cannot imagine what that woman was thinking,” Grandmère said. I was pleased she was on my side for once. Then she went on, and I saw that she wasn’t talking about anything to do with me. “She failed to show a single picture of the palace! And it is at its most beautiful in the autumn. The palm trees look magnificent. This is a travesty, I tell you. A travesty. Do you realize the promotional opportunities that have been wasted here? Absolutely wasted?”

     “Grandmère, you have to do something,” I wailed. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to show my face at school tomorrow.”

     “Tourism has been down in Genovia,” Grandmère reminded me, “ever since we banned cruise ships from docking in the bay. But who needs day-trippers? With their sticky-film cameras and their awfulBermuda shorts. If that woman had only shown a few shots of the casinos. And the beaches! Why, we have the only naturally white sand along theRiviera . Are you aware of that, Amelia?Monaco has to import their sand.”

     “Maybe I could transfer to another school. Do you think there’s a school inManhattan that will take someone with a one point zero in Algebra?”

     “Wait—“ Grandmère’s voice became muffled. “Oh, no, there we are. It’s back on, and they’re showing some simply lovely shots of the palace. Oh, and there’s the beach. And the bay. Oh, and the olive groves. Lovely. Simply lovely. That woman might have a few redeeming qualities after all. I suppose I will have to allow your father to continue seeing her.”

     She hung up. My own grandmother hung up on me. What kind of a reject am I, anyway?

     I went into my mom’s bathroom. She was sitting on the floor, looking unhappy. Mr. Gianini was sitting on the edge of the bathtub. He looked confused.

     Well, who can blame him? A couple of months ago, he was just an Algebra teacher. Now he’s the father of the future sibling of the princess of Genovia.

     “I need to find another school to go to from now on,” I informed them. “Do you think you could help me out with that, Mr. G? I mean, do you have any pull with the teachers’ association, or anything?”

     My mother went, “Oh, Mia. It wasn’t that bad.”

     “Yes, it was,” I said. “You didn’t even see most of it. You were in here throwing up.”

     “Yes,” my mother said. “But I could hear it. And what did you say that wasn’t true? People who excel at sports have traditionally been treated like gods in our society, while people whose brilliance is cerebral are routinely ignored, or worse, mocked as nerds or geeks. Frankly, I believe scientists working on cures for cancer should be paid the salaries professional athletes are receiving. Professional athletes aren’t out there saving lives, for God’s sake. They entertain. And actors. Don’t tell me acting is art. Teaching. Now there’s an art. Frank should be making what Tom Cruise does, for teaching you how to multiply fractions the way he did.”

     I realized my mother was probably delusional with nausea. I said, “Well, I think I’ll just be going to bed now.”

     Instead of replying, my mother leaned over the toilet and threw up some more. I could see that in spite of all my warnings about the potential lethality of shellfish for a developing fetus, she’d ordered jumbo prawns in garlic sauce from Number One Noodle Son.

     I went to my room and went online. Maybe, I thought, I could transfer to the same school Shameeka’s father is shipping her off to. At least then I’d already have one friend—if Shameeka would even speak to me after what I’d done, which I doubted. No one at Albert Einstein High, with the exception of Tina Hakim Baba, who was obviously clueless, was ever going to speak to me again.

     Then an instant message flashed across my computer screen. Someone wanted to talk to me.

     But who? Jo-C-rox??? Was it Jo-C-rox?????

     No. Even better! It was Michael. Michael, at least, still wanted to talk to me.

     I have printed out our conversation and stuck it here:

CRACKING:Hey. Just saw you on TV. You were good.

FTLOUIE:What are you talking about? I made a complete and utter fool of myself. And what about Mrs. Hill? They’re probably going to fire her now.

CRACKING:Well, at least you told the truth.

FTLOUIE:But all these people are mad at me now! Lilly’s furious!

CRACKING:She’s just jealous because you had more people watching you in thatone fifteen -minute segment than all the people who’ve ever watched all of her shows put together.

FTLOUIE:No, that’s not why. She thinks I’ve betrayed our generation, or something, by revealing that cliques exist atAlbertEinsteinHigh School .

CRACKING:Well, that, and the fact that you claimed you don’t belong to any of them.

FTLOUIE:Well, I don’t.

CRACKING:Yes, you do. Lilly likes to think you belong to the exclusive and highly selective Lilly Moscovitz clique. Only you neglected to mention this, and that has upset her.

FTLOUIE:Really? Did she say that?

CRACKING:She didn’t say it, but she’s my sister. I know

the way she thinks.

FTLOUIE:Maybe. I don’t know, Michael.

CRACKING:Look, are you all right? You were a mess at school today . . . although now it’s clear why. That’s pretty cool about your mom and Mr. Gianini. You must be excited.

FTLOUIE:I guess so. I mean, it’s kind of embarrassing. But at least this time my mom’s getting married, like a normal person.

CRACKING:Now you won’t need my help with your Algebra homework anymore. You’ll have your own personal tutor right there at home.

     I had never thought of this. How awful! I don’t want my own personal tutor. I want Michael to keep helping me during G and T! Mr. Gianini is all right, and everything, but he’s certainly notMichael.

     I wrote really fast:

FTLOUIE:Well, I don’t know. I mean, he’s going to be awfully busy for a while, moving in, and then there’ll be the baby and everything.

CRACKING:God. A baby. I can’t believe it. No wonder you were wigging out so badly today.

FTLOUIE:Yeah, I really was. Wigging out, I mean.

CRACKING:And what about that thing this afternoon with Lana? That couldn’t have helped much. Though it was pretty funny, her thinking we were going out, huh?

     Actually, I didn’t see anything particularly funny about it. But what was I supposed to say? Gee, Michael, why don’t we give it a try?

     As if.

     Instead I said:

FTLOUIE:Yeah, she’s such a headcase. I guess it’s never occurred to her that two people of the opposite sex can just be friends, with no romantic involvement.

     Although I have to admit the way I feel about Michael—particularly when I’m over at Lilly’s and he comes out of his room with no shirt on—is quite romantic.

CRACKING:Yeah. Listen, what are you doing Friday night?

     Was he asking me out? Was Michael Moscovitz finally asking me OUT?

     No. It wasn’t possible. Not after the way I’d made a fool of myself on national television.

     Just to be safe, though, I figured I’d try for a neutral reply, in case what he wanted to know was whether I could come over and walk Pavlov because the Moscovitzes were going to be out of town, or something.

FTLOUIE:I don’t know. Why?

CRACKING:Because it’s Halloween, you know. I thought a bunch of us could get together and go seeThe Rocky Horror Picture Show over at the Village Cinema. . . .

     Okay. Not a date.

     But we’d be sitting beside each other in a darkened room! That counted for something. AndRocky Horror is sort of scary, so if I reached over and grabbed him, it might be okay.

FTLOUIE:Sure, that sounds . . .

     Then I remembered. Friday night was Halloween, all right. But it was also the night of my mom’s royal wedding! I mean, if Grandmère gets her way.

FTLOUIE:Can I get back to you? I may have a family obligation that evening.

CRACKING:Sure. Just let me know. Well, see you tomorrow.

FTLOUIE:Yeah. I can’t wait.

CRACKING: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

1. Get to see him in his natural environment, not just at school, thus allowing you access to vital information, like difference between his “school” personality and real personality.

2. Get to see him without a shirt on.

3. Get to see him all the time.

4. Get to see how he treats his mother/sister/housekeeper (critical clues as to how he will treat any prospective girlfriend).

5. Convenient: You can hang out with your friend and spy on the object of your affections at the same time.

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

1. Can’t tell her.

2. Can’t tell him, because he might tell her.

3. Can’t tell anyone else, because they might tell him, or worse, her.

4. He will never admit to his true feelings because you are his little sister’s best friend.

5. You are continuously thrust into his presence, knowing that he will never think of you as anything but his little sister’s best friend for as long as you live, and yet you continue to pine for him until every fiber of your being cries out for him and you think you are probably going to die even though your Biology teacher says it is physiologically impossible to die from a broken heart.

Tuesday, October 28, Principal Gupta’s office

     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.