Hank said that no, he hadn’t.

     I should have known right then that something was up, but I didn’t. The bell rang, and Lilly said she wanted to take Hank to the auditorium to show him the part of theMy Fair Lady set that she had painted herself (a street lamp). Feeling that even a momentary alleviation from Hank’s constant stream of reminders of our last visit together—“Remember that time we left our bikes in the front yard and you were all worried somebody might come in the night and steal them?”—would be a relief, I said, “Okay.”

     And that was the last any of us saw of them.

     I blame myself. Hank is apparently simply too attractive to be released amongst the general population. I ought to have recognized that. I ought to have recognized that the pull of an uneducated but completely gorgeous farm boy from Indiana would be stronger than the pull of a not-so-attractive musical genius from Russia.

     Now I have turned my best friend into a two-timer AND a class ditcher. Lilly has never skipped a class in her life. If she gets caught, she will get detention. I wonder if she’ll think sitting in the cafeteria for an hour after school with the other juvenile delinquents will be worth the fleeting moments of teenage lust she and Hank are sharing.

     Michael is no help. He isn’t worried about his sister at all. In fact, he seems to find the situation highly amusing. I have pointed out to him that for all we know, Lilly and Hank could have been kidnapped by Libyan terrorists, but he says he finds that unlikely. He thinks it more reasonable to assume that they are enjoying an afternoon showing at the Sony Imax.

     As if. Hank is totally prone to motion sickness. He told us all about it when we drove past the cable car to Roosevelt Island this morning on the way to school.

     What are Mamaw and Papaw going to say when they find out I lost their grandson?

 

TOP FIVE PLACES LILLY AND HANK COULD BE

 

1. Transit Museum

2. Enjoying some corned beef at 2nd Avenue Deli

3. Looking up Dionysius Thermopolis’s name on the wall of immigrants at Ellis Island

4. Getting tattoos on St. Marks’ Place

5. Making wild passionate love back in his room at the SoHo Grand

     OH, GOD!

 

Wednesday, October 29, World Civ

 

     Still no sign of them.

 

Wednesday, October 29, Bio

 

     Still nothing.

 

 

 

 

HOMEWORK

 

Algebra: solve problems #3, 9, 12 on pg. 147

English: Profound Moment!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

World Civ: read Chapter 10

G&T: please

French: 4 sentences: une blague, la montagne, la mer, il y a du soleil

Biology: ask Kenny

     I am so sure—who can concentrate on homework when your best friend and cousin are missing in New York City????

 

Wednesday, October 29, Algebra Review

 

     Lars says he thinks it would be precipitous at this point to call the police. Mr. Gianini agrees with him. He says Lilly is ultimately quite sensible, and it is unrealistic to believe that she might let Hank fall into the hands of Libyan terrorists. I was, of course, only using Libyan terrorists as an example of the type of peril that might befall the two of them. There is another scenario which is much more disturbing:

     Supposing Lilly is in love with him.

     Seriously. Supposing Lilly, against all reason, has fallen madly in love with my cousin Hank, and he has fallen in love with her. Stranger things have happened. I mean, maybe Lilly is starting to realize that, yeah, Boris is a genius, but he still dresses funny and is incapable of breathing through his nose. Maybe she’s willing to sacrifice those long intellectual conversations she and Boris used to have for a boy whose only asset is what is commonly referred to as booty.

     And Hank, maybe he’s been dazzled by Lilly’s superior intellect. I mean, her IQ is easily a hundred points higher than his.

     But can’t they see that in spite of their mutual attraction, this relationship can only lead to ruin? I mean, suppose they DO IT, or something? And suppose that in spite of all those public service announcements on MTV, they neglect to practice safe sex, like my mom and Mr. G? They’ll have to get married, and then Lilly will have to go live in Indiana in a trailer park, because that’s where all teen mothers live. And she’ll be wearing Wal-Mart housedresses and smoking Kools while Hank goes off to the rubber tire factory and makes five fifty an hour.

     Am I the only one who can see where all of this is heading? What is wrong with everyone?

 

 

 

     First—grouping (evaluate with grouping symbols beginning with the innermost one)

     Second—evaluate all powers

     Third—multiply and divide left to right

     Fourth—add and subtract in order left to right

 

Wednesday, October 29, 7 p.m.

 

     It’s all right. They’re safe.

     Apparently, Hank got back to the hotel around five, and Lilly showed up at her apartment, according to Michael, a little before that.

     I would seriously like to know where they were, but all either of them will say is, “Just walking around.”

     Lilly adds, “God, could you be a little more possessive?”

     I am so sure.

     But I have bigger things to worry about. Right as I was about to step into Grandmère’s suite at the Plaza for my princess lesson today, Dad appeared, looking nervous.

     Only two things make my dad nervous. One is my mother.

     And the other is his mother.

     He said in a low voice, “Listen, Mia, about the wedding situation . . .”

     I said, “I hope you had a chance to talk to Grandmère.”

     “Your grandmother has already sent out the invitations. To the wedding, I mean.”

     “What?”

     Oh, my God. Oh, my God. This is a disaster. Adisaster!

     My dad must have known what I was thinking from my expression, since he went, “Mia, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Just leave it to me, all right?”

     But how can I not worry? My dad is a good guy and all. At least he tries to be, anyway. But we’re talkingGrandmère here.GRANDMÈRE. Nobody goes up against Grandmère, not even the prince of Genovia.

     And whatever he might have said to her so far, it certainly hasn’t worked. She and Vigo are more deeply absorbed than ever in their nuptial planning.

     “We have had acceptances already,” Vigo informed me proudly when I walked in, “from the mayor, and Mr. Donald Trump, and Miss Diane Von Furstenberg, and the royal family of Sweden, and Mr. Oscar de la Renta, and Mr. John Tesh, and Miss Martha Stewart—“

     I didn’t say anything. That’s because all I could think was what my mother was going to say if she walked down the aisle and there was John Tesh and Martha Stewart. She might actually run screaming from the room.

     “Your dress arrived,” Vigo informed me, his eyebrows waggling suggestively.

     “My what?” I said.

     Unfortunately Grandmère overheard me and clapped her hands so loudly she sent Rommel scurrying for cover, apparently thinking a nuclear missile or something had gone off.

     “Do not ever let me hear you saywhat again,” Grandmère fire-breathed at me. “Say, I beg your pardon.”

     I looked at Vigo, who was trying not to smile. Really! Vigo actually thinks it’s funny when Grandmère gets mad.

     If there is a Genovian medal for valor, he should totally get it.

     “I beg your pardon, Mr. Vigo,” I said, politely.

     “Please, please,” Vigo said, waving his hand. “Just Vigo, none of this mister business, Your Highness. Now tell me. What do you think of this?”

     And suddenly, he pulled this dress from a box.

     And the minute I saw it, I was lost.

     Because it was the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. It looked just like Glinda the Good Witch’s dress fromThe Wizard of Oz —only not as sparkly. Still, it was pink, with this big poofy skirt, and it had little rosettes on the sleeves. I had never wanted a dress as much as I wanted that one the minute I laid eyes on it.

     I had to try it on. I just had to.

     Grandmère supervised the fitting, while Vigo hovered nearby, offering often to refresh her Sidecar. In addition to enjoying her favorite cocktail, Grandmère was smoking one of her long cigarettes, so she looked more officious than usual. She kept pointing with the cigarette and going, “No, not that way,” and “For God’s sake, stop slouching, Amelia.”

     It was determined that the dress was too big in the bust (what else is new?) and would have to be taken in. The alterations would take until Friday, but Vigo assured us he’d see that they were done in time.

     And that’s when I remembered what this dress was actually for.

     God, what kind of daughter am I? I am terrible. I don’t want this wedding to happen. My mother doesn’t want this wedding to happen. So what am I doing, trying on a dress I’m supposed to be wearing at this event nobody but Grandmère wants to see happen, and which, if my dad succeeds, isn’t going to happen anyway?

     Still, I thought my heart might break as I took off the dress and put it back on its satin hanger. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, let alone worn. If only, I couldn’t help thinking, Michael could see me in this dress.

     Or even Jo-C-rox. He might overcome his shyness and be able to tell me to my face what he’d been able to tell me before only in writing . . .and if it turns out he isn’t that chili guy, maybe we could actually go out.

     But there was only one appropriate place to wear a dress like this, and that was in a wedding. And no matter how much I wanted to wear that dress, I certainly didn’t want there to be a wedding. My mother was barely holding on to her sanity as it was. A wedding at which John Tesh was in attendance—and who knows, maybe even singing—might push her over the edge.