Uh-oh. Here comes Principal Gupta.
Monday, May 5, French
'Mia, is it true. About Boris? Did he really try to kill himself during fifth period by stabbing himself in the chest
with a protractor?
Of course not, Tina. He tried to kill himself by dropping a globe on his head.
OH, MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Is he going to be All right?
Yes, thanks to the quick action of Michael and me. He'll probably have a bad headache for a few days, though. The worst part was talking to Principal Gupta. Because of course she wanted to know why he did it. And I didn't want
Lilly to get in trouble, or anything. Not that it's Lilly's fault . . . Well, I guess it sort of is ...
Of course it is!!!! You don't think she could have handled the whole thing a little better? My God, she was
practically frenching Jangbu right in front of Boris! So What did you say to Principal UpChuck?
Oh, you know, the usual. Boris must have cracked under all the pressure AEHS teachers put on us, and why can't
the Administration cancel finals like they did in Harry Potter Two. Only she didn't listen, because it's not like anyone
is dead, or a giant snake was chasing us around, or anything.
Still it is fully the most romantic I have ever heard. Only in my wildest dreams would a man be so desperate to win back my heart that he's do something like drop a globe on his head.
I know! If you ask me, Lilly is totally rethinking the Jangbu thing. At least, I think so. I actually haven't seen her since it
all happened.
My God, who knew that all this time, inside Boris's spindly chest beat the heart of a Heathcliff-like lover?
Tcha! I wonder if his spirit is going to roam around East 75th Street the way Heathcliff's roamed around the moor.
You know, after Cathy died.
I kind of always thought Boris was cute! I mean, I know mouth-breathers annoy you, but you have to admit he has
very beautiful hands.
HANDS? Who cares about HANDS?????
Um..they are slightly important. Hello. They're what guys TOUCH you with.
You are sick, Tina. Very sick.
Although that might be the pot calling the kettle black, given my whole neck thing with Michael. But whatever. I have never ADMITTED that to anyone. Out loud.
Monday, May 5, in the limo on the way to princess lessons
I am so totally the star of the school. As if the princess thing were not enough, now it's going all around Albert Einstein that Michael and I saved Boris's life. My God, we are like the Dr. Kovach and Nurse Abby of AEHS!!!!!!!!! And Michael even LOOKS a little like Dr. Kovach. You know, with the dark hair and the gorgeous chest and all.
I don't even know why my mother is bothering with a midwife. She should just have me deliver the baby. I could so totally
do it. All I'd need is like some scissors and a catcher's mitt. Jeez.
God. I am going to have to rethink this whole writer thing. My talents may lie in a completely different sphere.
Monday, May 5, Lobby of the Plaza
Lars just told me that to get into medical school you actually have to have good grades in maths and science. I can see why you'd have to know science, but why MATHS?????? WHY?????? Why is the American educational system conspiring
against me to keep me from reaching my career goals?
Monday, May 5, on the way home from the Plaza
Trust Grandmere to burst my bubble. I was still riding high from the medical miracle I'd performed back at school -well, it WAS a miracle: a miracle I hadn't passed out from the sight of all that blood - when Grandmere was like, 'So when can I schedule your fitting at Chanel? Because I've put a dress on hold there that I think will be perfect for this little prom you're so excited about, but if you want it on time, you'll have to have it fitted in the next day or so.'
So then I had to explain to her that Michael and I still weren't going to the prom.
She didn't react to the news like a normal grandmother, of course. A normal grandmother would have been all sympathetic
and would have patted my hand and given me some home-baked cookies or a dollar or something.
Not my grandmother. Oh no. My grandmother was just like, 'Well, then you obviously didn't do as I instructed.'
Jeez! Blame the victim, Grandma!
'Whaddaya mean?' I blurted out. So of course Grandmere was all, 'What do I mean? Is that what you said? Then ask me properly.'
'What... do ... you . . . mean . . . Grandmere?' I asked her more politely, though inwardly, of course, I didn't feel very polite
at all.
'I mean that you haven't done as I said. I told you that, if you found the right incentive, your Michael would be only too happy to escort you to the prom. But clearly you would rather sit around and sulk than take the sort of action necessary to get what
it is that you want.'
I took umbrage at that.
'I beg your pardon, Grandmere,' I said, 'but I have done everything humanly possible to convince Michael to go to the prom.' Short, of course, of actually explaining to him why it was so important to me to go. Because I'm not so sure that even if I did tell Michael why it was so important to me he'd agree to go. And how much would THAT suck? You know, if I bared my
soul to the man I love, only to have him decide that his desire not to attend something as lame as the prom was stronger than
his desire to see my dream come true?
'On the contrary, you have not,' Grandmere said. She stubbed out her cigarette and, exhaling plumes of grey smoke from her nostrils - it is totally shocking how the weight of the Genovian throne rests solely on my slender shoulders, and yet my own grandmother remains unconcerned about the effects of her second-hand smoke on my lungs - went, 'I've explained this to you before, Amelia. In situations where opposing parties are striving to achieve detente, and yet are failing to reach it, it is always
in your best interest to step back and ask yourself what the enemy wants.'
I blinked at her through all the smoke. Tm supposed to figure out what Michael wants?'
'Correct.'
I shrugged. 'Easy. He doesn't want to go to the prom. Because it's lame.'
'No. That is what Michael doesn't want. What does he want?'