When writing a play, do not fall in love with your leading lady. Especially if she has consumption. Also, don't drink anything green offered to you by a midget.
The Bell Jar
Don't let your mother read your book until after it's published (when there's nothing she can do about it).
Adaptation
Never trust a twin.
Isn't She Great, The Jacqueline Suzann Story
Publishers don't actually mind if you turn in a manuscript written on pink stationery. Also, sex sells.
How DARE Lilly suggest I've wasted my time watching TV?
And if I happen to choose a career in the medical profession, I am still golden, because I have seen practically every
episode of ER ever made.
Not to mention M*A*S*H.
Tuesday, May 6, Gifted and Talented
Horrible day so far, in every way:
1. Mr. G gave us a pop quiz in Algebra, which I flunked because I was too worked up over the whole Boris/ Lilly/prom thing last night to study. You would think my own stepfather would be kind enough to drop me a hint or two when he's going to
give a pop quiz. But apparently this would violate some teacher code of ethics.
As if. What about the stepfather code of ethics? Anyone ever thought about THAT?
2. Shameeka and I got caught passing notes again. Have to write a thousand-word essay on effects of global warming on ecosystems of South America.
3. I had no one to be my partner on the disease projects we are doing in Health and Safety because Lilly and I aren't speaking. She is doing the full-on avoidance thing. She even took the subway to school today instead of riding with Michael and me in the limo. Not that I mind. Plus when we drew diseases, I got Asperger's syndrome. Why couldn't I have got a cool disease, like Ebola fever? It is so unfair, especially as I am now considering a career in the health field.
At lunch I accidentally ate some sausage that was mistakenly baked into my supposedly cheese-only Individual Pizza. Also, Boris spent the whole period writing the word Lilly over and over again on his violin case. Lilly didn't even show at lunch. Hopefully she and Jangbu hopped a plane back to Tibet and won't be bothering any of us any more. Michael says he doesn't think so, though. He says he thinks she had another press conference.
5. Michael did not change his mind about the prom. Not that I brought it up, or anything. Just that I happened to be walking with him past the table where Lana and the rest of the Prom Committee are selling tickets, and Michael went, "Sucka," under his breath when he saw the guy who hates it when they put corn in the chilli buying prom tickets for himself and his girlfriend.
Even the guy who hates it when they put corn in the chilli is going to the prom. Everyone in the whole world is going to the prom. Except for me.
Lilly still isn't back from wherever it is she went off to before lunch. Which is probably just as well. I don't think Boris could take it if she walked in here right now. He found some correcting fluid in the supply closet, and he is using it to make little curlicues around Lilly's name on his violin case. I want to shake him and go, 'Snap out of it! She's not worth it!'
But I'm afraid it might loosen his stitches.
Plus Mrs. Hill, clearly due to yesterday's events, is fully sitting at her desk, flipping through Garnet Hill catalogues and keeping an eagle eye on us. I bet she got in trouble over the whole violin-virtuoso-globe-dropping thing. Principal Gupta is really very strict about bloodshed on school grounds.
Since I have nothing better to do, I am going to compose a poem that expresses my true feelings about everything that is going on. I intend to call Spring Fever. If it is good enough, I am going to submit it to The Atom. Anonymously, of course. If Lesley knew I wrote it, she'd never print it, since, as a cub reporter, I have not Paid My Dues.
But if she just FINDS it slipped under the door to The Atom's office, maybe she'll run it. The way I see it, I have nothing to lose. It's not like things can possibly get any worse.
Tuesday, May 6, St. Vincent s Hospital
Things just got worse. Very, very worse.
It's probably all my fault. All my fault because I wrote that before. About things not possibly being able to get any worse.
It turns out things most definitely CAN get worse than
- Flunking an Algebra quiz
- Getting in trouble in Bio. for passing notes
— Getting Asperger's syndrome as your Health and Safety project
- Your father trying to force you to spend most of your summer in Genovia
— Your boyfriend refusing to take you to the prom
— Your best friend calling you weak
- Her boyfriend needing stitches in his head from a self-inflicted globe wound
- Your grandmother trying to force you to have dinner with the Sultan of Brunei
What's worse is your pregnant mother passing out in the frozen-food department at the Grand Union.
I am totally serious. She landed face first in the Haagen Dazs. Thank God she bounced off the Ben and Jerry's and came to
rest on her back, or my potential brother or sister would have been crushed under the weight of his or her own mother.
The manager of the Grand Union apparently didn't have the slightest idea what to do. According to witnesses, he ran all around the store, flapping his arms and yelling, 'Dead woman in Aisle Four! Dead woman in Aisle Four!'
I don't know what would have happened if members of the New York Fire Department hadn't happened to have been there. I'm serious. Ladder Company Number 3 does all of its grocery shopping for the firehouse at the Grand Union - I know because Lilly and I, back when we were friends and first realized firemen are hot, used to go there all the time to watch them
as they picked through the nectarines and mangoes - and they happened to be there stocking up for the week when my mom went horizontal. They checked her pulse right away and figured out she wasn't dead. Then they called an ambulance and whisked her to St Vincent's, the closest ER.
Too bad my mom was unconscious the whole time. She would so totally have loved to have ridden in an ambulance with all those hot guys. Plus, you know, the fact that they were strong enough to lift her . . . and at her current weight, which is a lot ... that's pretty cool.
You can imagine when I was just sitting there, bored out of my skull in French, and my mobile phone rang . . . well, I freaked. Not because it was the first time anyone had ever called me, or even because Mademoiselle Klein fully confiscates any mobile phones that ring during her class, but because the only people who are allowed to call me on my mobile phone are my mom and Mr G, and then only to let me know that I need to get to home, because my sibling is about to be born.
Except that when I finally answered the phone - it took me a minute to figure out it was MY phone that was ringing: I kept looking around accusingly at everybody else in class, who just blinked confusedly back at me - it wasn't my mom or Mr G to tell me the baby was coming. It was Assistant Fire Chief Pete Logan, to ask me if I knew a Helen Thermopolis and, if so, could I come to St Vincent's hospital immediately. The firemen had found my mom's mobile phone in her purse, and dialled the only number she had in her address book . . .