“What are you talking about? He’s delighted that you mentioned my bodyguard. Now he thinks anyone who’d had plans to kidnap me will definitely think twice. Oops, there’s another call. It’s probably my grandmother in Dubai. They have a satellite dish. I’m sure she heard you mention me! ‘Bye!”

Tina hung up. Great. Even people in Dubai saw my interview. I don’t even know where Dubai is.

The phone rang again. It was Grandmère.

“Well,” she said. “That was just terrible, wasn’t it?”

I said, “Is there any way I can demand a retraction? Because I didn’t mean to say that my Gifted and Talented teacher doesn’t do anything and that my school was full of sex addicts. It’s not, you know.”

“I cannot imagine what that woman was thinking,” Grandmère said. I was pleased she was on my side for once. Then she went on, and I saw that she wasn’t talking about anything to do with me. “She failed to show a single picture of the palace! And it is at its most beautiful in the autumn. The palm trees look magnificent. This is a travesty, I tell you. A travesty. Do you realize the promotional opportunities that have been wasted here? Absolutely wasted?”

“Grandmère, you have to do something,” I wailed. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to show my face at school tomorrow.”

“Tourism has been down in Genovia,” Grandmère reminded me, “ever since we banned cruise ships from docking in the bay. But who needs day-trippers? With their sticky-film cameras and their awful Bermuda shorts. If that woman had only shown a few shots of the casinos. And the beaches! Why, we have the only naturally white sand along the Riviera. Are you aware of that, Amelia? Monaco has to import their sand.”

“Maybe I could transfer to another school. Do you think there’s a school in Manhattan that will take someone with a one point zero in Algebra?”

“Wait—“ Grandmère’s voice became muffled. “Oh, no, there we are. It’s back on, and they’re showing some simply lovely shots of the palace. Oh, and there’s the beach. And the bay. Oh, and the olive groves. Lovely. Simply lovely. That woman might have a few redeeming qualities after all. I suppose I will have to allow your father to continue seeing her.”

She hung up. My own grandmother hung up on me. What kind of a reject am I, anyway?

I went into my mom’s bathroom. She was sitting on the floor, looking unhappy. Mr. Gianini was sitting on the edge of the bathtub. He looked confused.

Well, who can blame him? A couple of months ago, he was just an Algebra teacher. Now he’s the father of the future sibling of the princess of Genovia.

“I need to find another school to go to from now on,” I informed them. “Do you think you could help me out with that, Mr. G? I mean, do you have any pull with the teachers’ association, or anything?”

My mother went, “Oh, Mia. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yes, it was,” I said. “You didn’t even see most of it. You were in here throwing up.”

“Yes,” my mother said. “But I could hear it. And what did you say that wasn’t true? People who excel at sports have traditionally been treated like gods in our society, while people whose brilliance is cerebral are routinely ignored, or worse, mocked as nerds or geeks. Frankly, I believe scientists working on cures for cancer should be paid the salaries professional athletes are receiving. Professional athletes aren’t out there saving lives, for God’s sake. They entertain. And actors. Don’t tell me acting is art. Teaching. Now there’s an art. Frank should be making what Tom Cruise does, for teaching you how to multiply fractions the way he did.”

I realized my mother was probably delusional with nausea. I said, “Well, I think I’ll just be going to bed now.”

Instead of replying, my mother leaned over the toilet and threw up some more. I could see that in spite of all my warnings about the potential lethality of shellfish for a developing fetus, she’d ordered jumbo prawns in garlic sauce from Number One Noodle Son.

I went to my room and went online. Maybe, I thought, I could transfer to the same school Shameeka’s father is shipping her off to. At least then I’d already have one friend—if Shameeka would even speak to me after what I’d done, which I doubted. No one at Albert Einstein High, with the exception of Tina Hakim Baba, who was obviously clueless, was ever going to speak to me again.

Then an instant message flashed across my computer screen. Someone wanted to talk to me.

But who? Jo-C-rox??? Was it Jo-C-rox?????

No. Even better! It was Michael. Michael, at least, still wanted to talk to me.

I have printed out our conversation and stuck it here:

CRACKING: Hey. Just saw you on TV. You were good.

FTLOUIE: What are you talking about? I made a complete and utter fool of myself. And what about Mrs. Hill? They’re probably going to fire her now.

CRACKING: Well, at least you told the truth.

FTLOUIE: But all these people are mad at me now! Lilly’s furious!

CRACKING: She’s just jealous because you had more people watching you in that one fifteen-minute segment than all the people who’ve ever watched all of her shows put together.

FTLOUIE: No, that’s not why. She thinks I’ve betrayed our generation, or something, by revealing that cliques exist at Albert Einstein High School .

CRACKING: Well, that, and the fact that you claimed you don’t belong to any of them.