Then, thankfully, Perin changed the subject.

“Uh-oh, looks like they did it again,” she said, pointing to the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili. Because he was sitting in his usual place by himself, disgustedly picking pieces of corn from his bowl of chili, and flicking them onto his lunch tray.

“That poor guy,” Perin said with a sigh. “I feel so bad whenever I see him sitting alone like that. I know how that feels.”

There was a painful pause as we all recalled how Perin had sat by herself at the beginning of the school year because she was new. Until we adopted her, that is.

“I thought he got a girlfriend,” Tina said. “Didn't you say you saw him buying prom tickets last year, Mia?”

“Yes,” I replied, with a sigh. “But I was wrong. It turned out he was only asking the people who were selling the prom tickets if they knew where the closest F train station was.”

Which, incidentally, is what inspired my short story about him.

“It's so sad,” Tina said, gazing in the direction of the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili. “It makes me think that what happens in Mia’s short story about him could happen in real life.”

!!!!!

“Maybe we should ask him to sit with us,” I said. Because the last thing I need, on top of everything else, is the guilt of having caused some guy to commit suicide by not being nicer to him.

“No, thank you,” Boris said. “I have enough problems digesting this disgusting food without having to do so in the company of a bonafide weirdo.”

“Hello,” Lilly said under her breath. “Pot, this is kettle. You’re black.”

“I heard that,” Boris said, looking pained.

“You were meant to,” Lilly sang.

Then Lilly pulled a bunch of flyers from her Hello Kitty Trapper Keeper. She’d clearly been down in the office, photo-copying something. She started passing the photocopies around.

“Everybody, give these out in your afternoon classes,” she said. “Hopefully by tomorrow we’ll get enough submissions to run our first issue by the end of this week.”

I looked down at the bright pink flyer. It said:

HEY YOU!

Are you sick and tired of being told what’s hot and what’s not by the so-called media?

Do you want to read stories written by your peers, about issues that really matter to you, instead of the stream of pap we are fed by teen magazines and our parents’ newspapers?

Then submit your original articles, poetry, short stories, cartoons, manga, novellas, and photos to Albert Einstein High School’s first ever literary magazine

FAT LOUIE’S PINK BUTTHOLE!!!!

Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole now accepting submissions for Volume I, Issue I

Oh my God.

OH MY GOD.

“Before you go all reactionary about the name of our literary magazine, Mia,” Lilly began—I guess because she must have noticed my lips turning white—“may I just point out that it is extremely creative and that, if we stick with it, we will never have to worry about any other literary magazine in the world having the same name?”

“Because it’s named after my cat’s butt!”

“Yes,” Lilly said. “It is. Thanks to the movies based on your life, your cat is famous, Mia. Everyone knows who Fat Louie is. That is why our magazine is going to sell. Because when people realize it has something to do with the princess of Genovia, they will snatch it right up. Because, for reasons that are beyond me, people are actually interested in you.”

“But the title isn’t about ME!” I wailed. “It’s about my cat! My cat’s butt, to be exact!”

“Yes,” Lilly said. “I will admit it’s a bit on the juvenile side. But that is why it will get people’s attention. They won’t be able to look away. I figure for the first cover, I’ll take a picture of Fat Louie’s butt, and then—”

She kept on talking, but I wasn’t listening. I COULDN’T listen.

Why must I be surrounded by so many lunatics?

Wednesday, March 3, Earth Science

Kenny just asked me to rewrite our worksheet on subduction zones. Not do the actual WORK over again (although it wouldn’t really be over again, since I didn’t do it in the first place—he did), but redo it on a new sheet that isn’t covered in pizza stains like the one we would be handing in if I weren’t redoing it, due to the fact that Kenny did it last night while he was eating his dinner.

I wish Kenny would be more careful with our homework. It’s a big pain for me to have to copy it over. Lilly’s not the only one with carpals, you know. I mean, SHE isn’t the one who has to sign a gazillion autographs for people every time she gets out of her limo in front of the Plaza. People have started LINING UP there every day after school because they know I’ll be coming for my princess lesson with Grandmère. I have to keep a Sharpie with me at all times just for that reason.

Writing Princess Mia Thermopolis over and over again is no joke. I wish my name weren’t so long.

Maybe I should just switch to writing HRH Mia. But would that seem stuck-up?

Kenny just showed me the Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole flyer and asked if I thought his thesis on brown dwarf stars would be suitable for publication.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “I have nothing to do with it.”

“But it’s named after your cat,” he said, looking dismayed.