Sadly, that grim day rolled around all too quickly, and I was forced to spend the latter months of the summer in Genovia, where I saved the bay (at least, if all goes as planned) from being overrun by killer algae that were dumped into the Mediterranean by the Oceanographic Museum & Aquarium in next-door Monaco (even though they deny it. Just like they deny that Princess Stephanie was driving the car when she and her mom went over that cliff. Whatever.).

Which is what I ended up writing about. For Ms. Martinez, I mean. You know, about how I surreptitiously ordered (and charged to the offices of the Genovian defense ministry) and then released ten thousand Aplysia depilans marine snails into the Bay of Genovia after reading on the Internet that they are the killer algae’s only natural enemy.

I honestly don’t know why everybody got so angry about it. The algae were strangling the sea kelp that supports hundred of species in that bay! And those snails are as toxic as the algae, so it’s not like anything down there is going to eat them and throw off the existing food chain. They’ll die off naturally as soon as their only source of nutrients—the algae—is gone. And then the bay will be back to normal. So what’s the big deal?

Seriously, it’s as if they think I didn’t consider all this before I did it. It’s almost as if people don’t realize that I am not like a normal teen, concerned solely with partying and Jackass, but am actually Gifted, as well as Talented. Well, sort of.

I left out the part in my writing sample about how everybody got so mad about the snails, though. Still, I just know Ms. Martinez is going to be impressed. I mean, I used a lot of literary allusions and everything. Maybe, with her support, I might even get to write something other than the cafeteria beat on the school paper this year! Or start a novel and get it published, just like that girl I read about in the paper who wrote that scathing tell-all about the kids in her school, and now no one will talk to her and she has to go to school online or whatever.

Well, actually, I don’t think I’d like that.

But I wouldn’t mind not having to write about buffalo bites anymore.

Oh no, Lilly is IMing me again. Doesn’t she realize it is past eleven? I need to get my sleep in order to look my best for—

Huh. I was going to say for Michael. But I won’t even be seeing him at school tomorrow.

So what do I even care about how I look?

FTLOUIE: What do you want?

WOMYNRULE: God, touchy much? Are you done talking to my brother yet?

FTLOUIE: Yes.

WOMYNRULE: You two make me sick. You know that, don’t you?

Poor Lilly. She and Boris went out for so long that she still isn’t used to not having a boyfriend who calls to say good night. Not that Michael was going to bed yet when he called, but he knew I was. Michael doesn’t have to get to sleep early because even though he is taking eighteen credit hours this semester—so that he can graduate in three years instead of four and take a year off before he starts graduate school and I start college so we can work together with Greenpeace at saving the whales—he purposely only chose classes that start after ten so he can sleep in.

You have to admire a man who is so good at planning ahead. I can barely even figure out what I’m going to have for lunch every day, so this is extremely impressive to me.

But Michael is an excellent planner. It would only have taken him about half an hour to move into his dorm at Columbia over the weekend (if the elevators hadn’t broken down), because he had everything so organized. I went with the rest of his family to help, and to see what his room was like, and to, you know, see him for the first time since getting back from Genovia, and all. I don’t know how much Columbia charges for its student housing, but I wasn’t very impressed. Michael’s room is very cinderblocky, with a view of an air shaft.

Not that Michael even cares. All he was concerned about was whether it had enough data jacks. He didn’t even look in the bathroom to see if it had one of those smelly vinyl shower curtains or the even smellier rubber ones (I looked for him: rubber one. Ew.).

Guys are so weird.

I didn’t meet his roommate because he hadn’t moved in yet, but the sign on the door said his name was Doo Pak Sun. I hope Doo Pak turns out to be nice and not allergic to cat hair or anything. Because I plan on being in their room a LOT.

Still, I felt bad for Lilly, on account of her not having a one true love and all, so I thought I’d try to cheer her up.

FTLOUIE: But it must be nice to have the apartment all to yourself now. I mean, isn’t that what you always wanted? No Michael to drink all the Sunny D and eat all the Honey Nut Cheerios?

WOMYNRULE: Whatever! Suddenly I have to do all MY chores AND Michael’s, too. And who do you think has to take care of Pavlov now?

FTLOUIE: Like Michael’s not paying you.

WOMYNRULE: Only twenty bucks a week. Hello, I worked it out, and that is only like a dollar a pooper-scooperful.

FTLOUIE: TMI!!!!!!!!!!!!

WOMYNRULE: Whatever. I suppose you LOVE scooping up after Fat Louie.

FTLOUIE: Fat Louie’s poops are cute, just like he is. Same with Rocky’s.

WOMYNRULE: Um, NOW who is giving TMI, baby-licker?

FTLOUIE: I am choosing to ignore that. Hey, do you think the part in Dr. Gupta’s letter about not wearing shorts beneath your school skirt is because Lana always wore Josh’s lacrosse uniform shorts under her skirt last year? You know, to show that Josh was her property?

WOMYNRULE: I don’t know and I don’t care. Listen, about tomorrow—

FTLOUIE: What?