"Thank you for this, Mia," she said, holding up the copy of the cost breakdown I'd given her. "But I'm afraid what you're proposing would be far too cost-prohibitive for us at this time—"
"But as you can see by our projections," I said desperately, "if you were to just take a small amount of money away from, say, the Intramural Athletics Fund-"
At this, suddenly everyone was paying attention.
"Not the lacrosse team!" one father in a Bur- berry raincoat bellowed. "Not soccer," cried another, looking up from his BlackBerry with a panicked expression on his face.
"Not cheerleading! " Mr. Taylor, Shameeka's dad, gave me a dirty look that could have rivaled one of Grandmère's.
"You see the problem, Mia?" Principal Gupta shook her head.
"But if each team just gave up a little—"
"I'm sorry, Mia," Principal Gupta said. "I'm sure you worked very hard on this. But your track record where financial matters are concerned hasn't exactly been the most stellar—" I couldn't believe she'd be so heartless as to bring up the slight miscalculation that had caused me to bankrupt the student government several weeks earlier. Especially considering the fact that, with the help of my grandmother and her tireless work on behalf of the Genovian olive growers, I had more than replenished the empty coffers. "And I haven't heard any other complaints about our current P.E. curriculum. I move that we conclude this meeting—"
"I second the motion," cried Mrs. Hill, my Gifted and Talented teacher, in an obvious ploy to get home in time for Dancing with the Stars.
"This meeting of the Albert Einstein High School Parent Teacher Association is adjourned," Principal Gupta said.
Then she and everybody else booked out of there like winged monkeys were on their tails. I looked down at Lars, the only person left in the room besides me.
“'The first resistance to social change is to say it's not necessary,'" he said, obviously quoting some- body.
"Sun Tzu?" I asked, since The Art of War is Lars's favorite book.
"Gloria Steinem," he confessed. "I was reading one of your mother's magazines in the bathroom the other day." Lars has apparently never heard of the phrase Too Much Information. "Let's go home, Princess."
And so we did.
Wednesday, April 28, 10 p.m., limo ride home
How am I ever going to rule an entire country some- day when I can't even get my high school to install a row of stationary bikes in the gym?
Wednesday, April 28, 10:30 p.m., the loft
At least I have the comforting words of my boyfriend to soothe my frazzled nerves when I get home after a long day of fighting for the rights of the unathletically inclined students of Albert Einstein High. Even if I hardly ever get to talk to him—except via Instant Messaging—because he's so busy with his college courses, and I'm so busy with Geometry, princess les- sons, student council, and keeping my baby brother from sticking his tongue in a light socket.
SKINNERBX: DO you realize it's only three days till the big day?
FTLOUIE: What day would that be?
SKINNERBX: Your sweet sixteen!
FTLOUIE: Oh, right. I forgot. Sorry. Stupid school stuff is bumming me out.
SKINNERBX: Poor baby. So what do you want for your birthday?
FTLOUIE: Just you.
SKINNERBX: Are you serious???? Because that can totally be arranged. Doo Pak is going to be gone for the weekend on a Korean Student Association camp- out in the CatskilIs
Yikes! All I meant was that I wanted a little time alone with him—something that seems to happen more and more rarely, now that he's opted for accelerated graduation, doing all of his course work in three years instead of four, and his parents splitting up, and all, so that he has to have dinner every Friday night with either his mom or dad, so that each of them feels like they're getting their fair share of Michael time.
And, being the supportive girlfriend that I am, I totally understand about his being there for his parents during this stressful time in their lives. Mr. Dr. Moscovitz doesn't seem to really like his new rental apartment on the Upper West Side very much, even though he lives just a New York Times-throw from Michael's dorm, and can drop by to visit him there anytime he wants (and frequently does so—thank God he has to buzz Michael's room to be let up and can't just come strolling in, or there might have been some awkward moments), and there are plenty of other psychotherapists in the neighborhood for him to hang out with.
And Lilly says life with her mother is practically unbearable, since Mrs. Dr. Moscovitz has put them both on low-carb diets, and banished bagels from the breakfast table entirely, and meets with her trainer, like, four times a week.
But what about MY share of Michael time? I mean, I am the girlfriend. Even if I am still not pre- pared to go as far as he might want to go, making- out-wise.
Which is actually a good thing, considering what Mr. Dr. Moscovitz could have walked in on, that one time.
FTLOUIE: I didn't mean that literally! I meant maybe we could have a nice dinner, just you and me.
SKINNERBX: Oh. Sure. But you can have that any- time. I mean, what do you REALLY want?
What DO I really want? World peace, of course. An end to emissions of the greenhouse gases that are causing global warming. For the Drs. Moscovitz to get back together, so I can see my boyfriend on Friday nights again. To not be a princess anymore. To have things go back to the way they used to be, when things were simpler . . . like that time we all went ice-skating at RockefellerCenter, and I bit my tongue—only without the tongue-biting part. And the part where Michael was there with Judith Gershner and I was there with Kenny Showalter.
But you know.
Aside from that.
But none of these things is something Michael can actually get me. He has no control over world peace, global warming, his parents, or the fact that they close the skating rink at RockefellerCenter on April 1, so I've never been able to go ice-skating on my birthday.
And he certainly has no control over the fact that I'm a princess. Unfortunately.
FTLOUIE: Seriously, Michael. Except for a nice dinner, I don't want anything.
SKINNERBX: Are you SURE? Because that's not what you said at Christmas.
What did I say I wanted at Christmas? I can't even remember now. I hope he's not thinking of getting me another Fiesta Giles action figure. Because now that Buffy's only on in reruns, it just makes me sad to look at her and her friends, on their little plastic stands in the cemetery on my dresser. In fact, I've been thinking of replacing them with a lavender plant since the smell of lavender is sup- posed to be soothing, and I need all the soothing I can get.
Or the Napoleon Dynamite-Style Time Machine Modulus Mr. Gianini confiscated off a kid in his freshman Algebra class and gave to me. Whichever fits better.
Besides, Michael doesn't have time to be bidding on eBay. He needs to spend what little free time he has with me.
Okay, I have to put a kibosh on the gift thing. It's got to be really hard on Michael, figuring out what to get for a girl who can basically get anything she wants from her palace. He's just a poor, hardworking student. It's just not fair to him. Or any boy who might happen to be dating a princess.
FTLOUIE: I have an idea. Let's make a rule: From now on, we can only give each other presents we've MADE.
SKINNERBX: Are you serious?
FTLOUIE: Serious as L. Ron Hubbard was that we're all descended from aliens.
SKINNERBX: Okay. You're on.
WOMYNRULE: POG, are you online with my brother again?
Crud. It's Lilly.
FTLOUIE: Yes. What do you want?
WOMYNRULE: Just to remind you that SHE FLEW IN ON A HELICOPTER.