Me:
Nothing. Your aversion to corn, I mean.
J.P.:
Yeah. Parents. They mess you up, you know?
Me:
Tell me about it.
J.P.:
Can’t live with them. Can’t afford to live without them. Speaking of which, what do you think of this poem:
They pay for your food,
And lodging and school.
All they ask in return
Is that you follow their rules.
You have no control
Your destiny’s not your own
At least till you’re eighteen
And you can finally leave home.
Me:
Whoa. That is good! You should submit it to Lilly’s magazine!
J.P.:
Thanks. I might submit it—along with the Principal Gupta poem. Are you going to have anything in it? Lilly’s ’zine, I mean?
Me:
No.
Because of course the only thing I’ve written lately (besides journal entries) is “No More Corn!” And I already told Lilly she can’t publish it. Something I’m especially glad of now, because I really don’t think, considering the story J.P. just told me about WHY he hates corn, that he would think it’s funny. My short story about him, I mean.
Oh, God. Grandmère wants me for the strangulation scene.
I wish someone would strangle ME. Because then Michael and I wouldn’t NEED 2 TALK. Because I’d just be dead.
Sunday, March 7, 9 p.m., the loft
I can’t believe this. Why does everything have to go from bad to worse? First of all, I still haven’t been able to reach Michael. He’s not answering his cell and he’s not online, and Doo Pak says he’s not in their room and that he has no idea where “Mike” might be.
Except that I have a pretty good idea: as far away from me as he can possibly get.
Just my luck, too, that out of the two Moscovitz siblings, the one I least want to hear from is the one who won’t stop IMing me. I just got this from Lilly in response to my reminder that I don’t want her putting “No More Corn!” in her magazine.
WOMYNRULE: Um, sorry, it’s staying in. It’s my best piece. By the way, are you wearing your beret to the party?
FTLOUIE: Would you shut up already about that stupid beret? And what party? What are you talking about? And Lilly, you can’t publish my story without my permission. And I’m retracting my permission for you to publish it.
WOMYNRULE: THE AIDE DE FERME PARTY YOUR GRANDMOTHER IS HAVING. And you can’t. Because once a piece is submitted to the editorial offices of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole, it becomes the property of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.
FTLOUIE: Okay, a) stop calling it that, and b) THERE ARE NO EDITORIAL OFFICES FOR YOUR MAGAZINE. THE EDITORIAL OFFICES ARE YOUR BEDROOM. And Aide de Ferme is a benefit, not a party.
WOMYNRULE: I meant offices in the figurative sense. Now, seriously. If you aren’t wearing your beret, can I?
This is horrible. Poor J.P.!
What is UP with the Moscovitz siblings? I mean, I can understand Michael hating me, but why is Lilly being such a freak about this story thing?
If I weren’t so exhausted I’d order the limo to come back and take me over to Lilly’s first, so I could beat some sense into her, and then up to Michael’s, so I could apologize in person.
But I’m too tired to do anything but take a bath and go to bed.
I seriously don’t know how Paris Hilton does it—TV appearances, managing her own jewelry and makeup line, AND partying every night to all hours? No wonder she lost her dog that one time and thought it had been kidnapped….
Though the chances of me ever losing Fat Louie are slim to none, since he’s way too heavy to carry around on a little pillow the way Paris carries Tinkerbell. Besides which, if I even tried something like that, he’d claw my face off.
Monday, March 8, Homeroom
So this morning I “borrowed” my mom’s credit card again and had one of those giant cookies sent to Michael. Only this time I made sure to send it to his dorm address. I am having the cookie makers write the word, “Sorry” in frosting on a 12-inch chocolate-chocolate chip.
I realize sending a cookie—even a 12-inch one with the word “Sorry” written on it in frosting—is a woefully inadequate way of expressing one’s remorse for sexy dancing with another guy in front of one’s boyfriend.
But I can’t afford to get Michael what he really wants, which is a ride on the space shuttle.
After I ordered the cookie, I walked out of my room and found Rocky hanging on to fistfuls of Fat Louie’s fur and shrieking, “Kee! Kee! Kee!”
Poor Fat Louie looked as if he had just swallowed a sock.
But really what he had swallowed was his impulse to slash my baby brother to ribbons. Fat Louie is such a good cat, he was just LETTING Rocky hang on to him.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t have a look of naked panic on his big orange face. I could tell that in ten more seconds, he’d have cracked like an eggshell.
I came to the rescue, of course, and was like, “Mom! Can’t you watch your child for ONE SINGLE SOLITARY MINUTE?”
But, of course, Mom hadn’t even had her coffee yet and so was incapable of controlling her kid, much less actually seeing anything that wasn’t happening unless it involved Diane Sawyer on the TV screen in front of her.