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.

 

More Thursday, October 30, 9 p.m.

 

     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.

 

 

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

 

WmnRule: I fail to see what business it is of yours.

 

FTLOUIE:Well, let’s just say that if you want to hang on to your boyfriend, you better come up with a good explanation.

 

WmnRule: 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.

 

FTLOUIE: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.

 

WmnRule: Oh, really? Did something happen today worth recording?

 

FTLOUIE:Well, some of the seniors snuck into the teachers’ lounge and put a fetal pig in the mini-fridge.

 

WmnRule: 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 haveone boy? Couldn’t she see how selfish and mean-spirited that was?

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

 

 

FTLOUIE:Well, Boris was pretty upset, Lilly. I mean, he totally suspects something.

 

WmnRule: 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 aboutour 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!

 

JOCROX:So are you going toRocky Horror tomorrow?

 

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

     Jo-C-rox is going toRocky 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.

     Right?

     I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to jump up from my computer and run around my room and scream and laugh at the same time.

     Instead—and I don’t know where I got the presence of mind to do this, I wrote back:

 

FTLOUIE:I hope so.

 

     I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Michael is Jo-C-rox.

     Right?

     What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

 

Friday, October 31, Homeroom

 

     I woke with the strangest feeling of foreboding. I couldn’t figure out why for a few minutes. I lay there in bed, listening to the rain patter against my window. Fat Louie was at the end of my bed, kneading the comforter and purring very loudly.

     Then I remembered: Today, according to my grandmother, is the day my pregnant mother is supposed to marry my Algebra teacher in a huge ceremony at the Plaza Hotel, with musical accompaniment courtesy of John Tesh.

     I lay there for a minute, wishing my temperature was one hundred and two again, so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed and face what was sure to be a day of drama and hurt feelings.

     And then I remembered my e-mail from the night before, and jumped right out of bed.

     Michael is my secret admirer! Michael is Jo-C-rox!

     And with any luck, by the end of the night, he’ll have admitted it to my face!

 

Friday, October 31, Algebra

 

     Mr. Gianini is not here today. Instead, we have a substitute teacher named Mrs. Krakowski.

     It is very strange that Mr. G isn’t here, because he was certainly in the loft this morning. We played a game of foozball before Lars showed up in the limo. We even offered Mr. G a ride to school, but he said he was coming in later.

     Reallylater, it looks like.

     A lot of people aren’t here today, actually. Michael, for instance, didn’t catch a ride with us this morning. Lilly says that is because he had last-minute problems printing out a paper that is due today.

     But I wonder if it is really because he is too scared to face me after admitting that he is Jo-C-rox.

     Well, not that he actually admitted it. But he sort of did.

     Didn’t he?

 

     Mr. Howell is three times as old as Gilligan. The difference in their ages is 48. How old are Mr. Howell and Gilligan?

 

T=Gilligan

3T=Mr. Howell

 

3T–T=48

2T=48

T=24

 

     Oh, Mr G, where ARE you?

 

Friday, October 31, G & T

 

     Okay.

     I will never underestimate Lilly Moscovitz again. Nor will I suspect her of having anything but the most altruistic motives. This I hereby solemnly swear in writing.

     It was at lunch when it happened:

     We were all sitting there—me, my bodyguard, Tina Hakim Baba and her bodyguard, Lilly, Boris, Shameeka, and Ling Su. Michael, of course, sits over with the rest of the Computer Club, so he wasn’t there, but everybody else who mattered was.

     Shameeka was reading aloud to us from some of the brochures her father had gotten from girls’ schools in New Hampshire. Each one filled Shameeka with more terror, and me with more shame for ever having opened my big mouth in the first place.

     Suddenly, a shadow fell over our little table.

     We looked up.

     There stood an apparition of such godlike stature that for a minute, I think even Lilly believed the chosen people’s long lost Messiah had finally shown up.

     It turned out it was only Hank—but Hank looking as I had certainly never seen him before. He had on a black cashmere sweater beneath a clinging black leather coat, and black jeans that seemed to go on and on over his long, lean legs. His golden hair had been expertly styled and cut, and—I swear—he looked so much like Keanu Reeves inThe Matrix that I actually might have believed he had wandered in off the set if it hadn’t been for the fact that on his feet, he wore cowboy boots. Black, expensive-looking ones, but cowboy boots, just the same.

     I don’t think it was my imagination that the entire crowd inside the cafeteria seemed to gasp as Hank slid into a chair at our table—the reject table, I have frequently heard it called.

     “Hello, Mia,” Hank said.