I could wear them to the prom. If things worked out with Jo-C-rox, I mean.
“It would be a shame to have to send them back,” Grandmère said with a sigh, “because your mother is being so stubborn.”
Then again, maybe not.
“Couldn’t I keep them for another occasion?” I asked. Hint, hint.
“Oh, no,” Grandmère said. “Pink is so inappropriate for anything but a wedding.”
Why me?
When my lesson was over—apparently today’s consisted of sitting there listening to my two grandmothers complain about how their children (and grandchildren) don’t appreciate them—Grandmère stood up and said to Mamaw, “So we understand each other, Shirley?”
And Mamaw said, “Oh, yes, Your Highness.”
This sounded very ominous to me. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that my dad hasn’t done a single solitary thing to bail Mom out of what is clearly going to be a very messy situation. According to Grandmère, a limo is going to swing by our place tomorrow evening to pick up me, Mom, and Mr. Gianini, and whisk us off to the Plaza. It’s going to be pretty obvious to everyone when my mom refuses to get into the car that there isn’t going to be any wedding.
I think I am going to have to take matters into my own hands. I know Dad assured me that everything is under control, but we’re talking Grandmère. GRANDMÈRE!
During the ride downtown I tried pumping Mamaw for information—you know, about what she and Grandmère meant when they said they “understood” one another.
But she wouldn’t tell me a thing . . .except that she and Papaw were too tired, what with all the sightseeing they’ve been doing—not to mention worrying about Hank, whom they still hadn’t heard from—to go out for dinner tonight, and were going to stay in and order room service.
Which is just as well, because I’m pretty sure if I have to hear one more person say the words “medium rare,” I might hurl.
More Thursday, October 30, 9 p.m.
Well, Mr. Gianini is all moved in. I have already played nine games of foozball. Boy, are my wrists tired.
It’s not really weird having him here on a permanent basis, because he was always hanging around before anyway. The only difference really is the big TV, the pinball machine, the foozball table, and the drum set in the corner where we normally keep Mom’s life-size metallic gold bust of Elvis.
But the coolest thing is the pinball machine. It’s called Motorcycle Gang, and it has all these very realistic drawings of tattooed, leather-wearing Hell’s Angels on it. Also, it has pictures of the Hell’s Angels’ girlfriends—who don’t have very much clothing on at all—bending over and sticking out their enormous bosoms. When you sink a ball, the pinball machine makes the noise of a motorcycle engine revving very loudly.
My mother took one look at it and just stood there, shaking her head.
I know it’s misogynistic and sexist and all, but it’s also really, really neat.
Mr. Gianini told me today that he thought it would be all right for me to call him Frank now, considering the fact that we are practically related. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. So I just call him Hey. I go, “Hey, can you pass the parmesan?” and “Hey, have you seen the remote control?”
See? No names needed. Pretty clever, huh?
Of course, it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing. There’s the small fact that tomorrow, there’s supposedly going to be this huge celebrity wedding that I know has not been canceled, and that I also know my mother still hasn’t the slightest intention of attending.
But when I ask her about it, instead of freaking out, my mom just smiles all secretively, and says, “Don’t worry about it, Mia.”
But how can I help worrying about it? The only thing that is definitely off is my mom and Mr. G’s trip to the courthouse. I asked if they still wanted me to come dressed as the Empire State Building, thinking I should probably start working on my costume, and all, and my mom just got this furtive look in her eyes and said why don’t we just hold off on that.
I could kind of tell she didn’t want to talk about it, so I clammed up and went and called Lilly. I figured it was about time she gave me some explanation as to just what was going on here.
But when I called her, the line was busy. Which meant there was a good chance Lilly or Michael was online. I took a gamble and instant-messaged Lilly. She wrote back right away.
FTLOUIE: Lilly, just where did you and Hank disappear to today? And don’t lie and say you weren’t together.
WmnRule: I fail to see what business it is of yours.
FTLOUIE: Well, let’s just say that if you want to hang on to your boyfriend, you better come up with a good explanation.
WmnRule: I have a very good explanation. But I am not likely to share it with you. You’ll just blab it to Beverly Bellerieve. Oh, and twenty-two million viewers.
FTLOUIE: That is so totally unfair. Look, Lilly, I’m worried about you. It isn’t like you to skip school. What about your book about high school society? You may have missed out on some valuable material for it.
WmnRule: Oh, really? Did something happen today worth recording?
FTLOUIE: Well, some of the seniors snuck into the teachers’ lounge and put a fetal pig in the mini-fridge.
WmnRule: Gosh, I’m so sorry I missed that. Is there anything else, Mia? Because I am trying to research something on the Web right now.
Yes, there was something else. Didn’t she know how wrong it was to be seeing two boys at the same time? Especially when some of us don’t even have one boy? Couldn’t she see how selfish and mean-spirited that was?