It just goes to show that what one person considers a “bad attitude” might actually just be total frustration over being pushed beyond the brink of one’s mental and physical endurance.
That’s all I’m saying.
Monday, March 8, U.S. Economics
Elasticity
Elasticity is the degree to which a demand or supply curve reacts to a change in price.
Elasticity varies among products based on how essential that product is to the consumer.
I am thinking I lost a lot of elasticity in Michael’s eyes after that whole sexy-dancing thing.
Or maybe it was the beret.
Monday, March 8, English
Everyone is too tired to talk or even pass notes.
Also, apparently none of us read O Pioneers over the weekend.
Ms. Martinez says she is really disappointed in us.
Get in line, Ms. M. Get in line.
Monday, March 8, Lunch
J.P. is sitting with us again. He is the only one at the table (who is in the play—I mean, musical—anyway) who isn’t catatonic with exhaustion. He’s even written a new poem. It goes:
I always wanted
To be in a play
But the thrill of running lines
Grows fainter by the day
Now that I’m here,
I just want a reversal
I’m sick of blocking,
Sick of rehearsal
Someone please help us,
Hear our pleas as they’re made
Get us out of this mess—
I mean, musical—Braid!
Funny. I’d laugh, if my diaphragm didn’t hurt so much from lifting that stupid piano.
Still no word from Michael. I know he’s got his History of Dystopic Sci-Fi in Film midterm right now. So that would explain why he hasn’t called to thank me for the cookie.
It isn’t because he never wants to hear from or see me again, on account of the sexy dance.
Probably.
Monday, March 8, G & T
Okay, she’s gone mental.
Seriously. What’s WRONG with her? She expects us all to help her put her stupid literary magazine together—literally: She just wheeled in 3,700 pages that we are apparently supposed to collate and staple—but she still won’t pull “No More Corn!”
“Lilly,” I said. “PLEASE. We know J.P. now. We’re FRIENDS with him. You can’t run the story. It’s just going to hurt his feelings! I mean, I have him KILL himself at the end.”
“J.P. is a poet,” is all Lilly said back.
“SO? WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?”
“Poets kill themselves all the time. It’s a statistical fact. Amongst writers, poets have the shortest life expectancy. They are more likely to kill themselves than writers of prose or nonfiction. J.P. will probably agree with the way you’ve ended ‘No More Corn!’ since that’s the way he’s going to go someday anyway.”
“Lilly!”
But she won’t be swayed.
I have refused to help collate and staple on ethical grounds, so she’s got Boris doing it.
You can tell he doesn’t want to. He’s just too tired to practice his violin.
You know, I’m starting to wonder if selling candles wouldn’t have been simpler than all this.
Monday, March 8, Earth Science
Kenny wasn’t too tired last night to do our lab worksheet.
But he WAS too tired to not spill marinara sauce all over it.
I recopied it for free. I’ve officially given up on Alfred Marshall. He may work for Grandmère and Lana, but he hasn’t done squat for me.
Still no word from Michael. And his History of Dystopic Sci-Fi in Film midterm should be over by now.
I think it’s official.
He hates me.
HOMEWORK
PE: WASH GYM SHORTS!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE I FORGOT! U.S. Economics: Who knows? Too tired to care English: d/c (don’t care)
French: d/c
G&T: As if
Geometry: d/c
Earth Science: d/c (Kenny will tell me)
Monday, March 8, limo on the way home from the Plaza
I can’t believe it.
Really. It’s too much. After all that—
Okay. I have to get a grip. MUST. GET. A. GRIP.
It started out innocently enough. We were all lying there on the ballroom floor, exhausted from our final run-through.
Then somebody—I think it was Tina—went, “Um, Your Highness? My parents want to know where they can buy tickets to this show, so they can be sure to see it.”
“All of your parents’ names have already been put on the guest list,” Grandmère said, from where she sat, enjoying a post-rehearsal cigarette (apparently, she’s allowing herself to smoke after run-throughs, as well as after meals), “for Wednesday.”
“Wednesday?” Tina asked, a funny inflection in her voice.
“That is correct,” Grandmère said, exhaling a plume of blue smoke. Señor Eduardo coughed a little in his sleep as some of it drifted his way.
“But isn’t this Wednesday the night of the Aide de Ferme benefit?” someone else—I think it was Boris—asked.
“That is correct,” Grandmère said, again.
And that’s when it finally sunk in.
Lilly was the first one up.
“WHAT?” she cried. “You’re going to make us do this play in front of all the people coming to your PARTY?”
“It’s a musical,” Grandmère replied darkly. “Not a play.”
“You said, when I asked you last week, that we’d be putting Braid! on a week from that day!” Lilly shouted. “And that was Thursday!”
Grandmère puffed on her cigarette. “Oh, dear,” she said, not sounding in the least concerned. “I was off by one day, wasn’t I?”
“I am not,” Boris said, drawing himself up to his full height, “going to be strangled by some girl’s hair in front of Joshua Bell.”
“And I am not,” Lilly declared, “going to play someone’s mistress in front of Benazir Bhutto—no matter how long she supported the Taliban!”
“I don’t want to play a maid in front of celebrities,” Tina said meekly.
Grandmère very calmly stubbed her cigarette out on an empty plate someone had left on top of the piano. I saw Phil eyeing the smoking butt nervously from where he sat at the keyboard. Obviously, he is as nervous about contracting lung cancer from secondhand smoke as I am.
“So this,” Grandmère said, her Gitane-roughened voice projecting very loudly across the empty ballroom, “is the thanks I get, for taking your dull, average little lives, and injecting them with glamour and art.”
“Um,” Boris said. “My life already has art in it. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Your Royal Highness, but I’m a concert violinist, and I—”
“I tried,” Grandmère’s voice rang out, as she ignored him, “to do something to enrich your humdrum days of scholastic slavery. I tried to give you something meaningful, something you could look forward to. And this is how you repay me. By whining that you don’t want to share what we’ve worked so hard to create together with others. What kind of ACTORS are you????”
Everyone blinked at her. Because, of course, none of us considered himself an actor of any kind.
“Were you not,” Grandmère demanded, “put on this earth with a God-given obligation to share your talent with others? Would you dare to presume to DEFY God’s plan for you by DENYING the world the right to see you perform your art? Is THAT what you’re trying to tell me? That you want to DEFY God?”