So even if I wanted to compare keystrokes, say, on a suspect’s typewriter (like Jan did on The Brady Bunch when she suspected Alice of sending her that locket), I couldn’t. You can’t compare the type on laser printers, for God’s sake. It’s always the same.
But who could have sent me such a thing?
Of course, I know who I want to have sent it.
But the chances of a guy like Michael Moscovitz ever actually liking me as more than just a friend are like zero. I mean, if he liked me, he had a perfect opportunity to say something about it the night of the Cultural Diversity dance, when he was so nice to step in and ask me to dance, after Josh Richter dogged me so hard. And we didn’t just dance once, either. We danced a few times. Slow dances, too. And after the dance, we hung out in his room at the Moscovitzes’ apartment. He could have said something then, if he’d wanted to.
But he didn’t. He didn’t say a thing about liking me.
And why would he? I mean, I am a complete freak, what with my noticeable lack of mammary glands, my gigantism, and my utter inability ever to mold my hair into something remotely resembling a style.
We just got through studying people like me in Bio, as a matter of fact. Biological sports, we are called. A biological sport occurs when an organism shows a marked change from the normal type or parent stock, typically as a result of mutation.
That is me. That is so totally me. I mean, if you looked at me, and then you looked at my parents, who are both very attractive people, you would be all, What happened?
Seriously. I should go live with the X-men, I am such a mutant.
Besides, is Michael Moscovitz really the type of guy who’d say I was the Josiest girl in school? I mean, I am assuming the author is referring to Josie, the lead singer of Josie and the Pussycats, played by Rachael Leigh Cook in the movie. Except that in no way do I resemble Rachael Leigh Cook. I wish. Josie and the Pussycats started out as a cartoon about a girl band that solves crimes, like on Scooby Doo, and Michael doesn’t even watch the Cartoon Network, as far as I know.
Michael generally only watches PBS, the Sci Fi Channel, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Maybe if the letter had said I think you are the Buffiest girl I’ve ever met. . . .
But if it isn’t from Michael, who could it be from?
This is all so exciting, I want to call someone and tell them. Only who? Everyone I know is in school.
WHY DID I HAVE TO GET SICK????
Forget sticking my wet head out the window. I have to get better right away so I can go back to school and figure out who my secret admirer is!
TEMPERATURE CHART:
10:45 a.m.—99.2
11:15 a.m.—99.1
12:27 p.m.—98.6
Yes! YES! I am getting better! Thank you, Selman Waksman, inventor of the antibiotic.
2:05 p.m.—99.0
No. Oh, no.
3:35 p.m.—99.1
Why is this happening to me?
Later on Thursday
This afternoon while I was lying around with icepacks under the covers, trying to bring my fever down so I can go to school tomorrow and find out who my secret admirer is, I happened to see the best episode of Baywatch ever.
Really.
See, Mitch met this girl with this very fake French accent during a boat race, and they totally fell in love and ran around in the waves to this excellent soundtrack, and then it turned out the girl was engaged to Mitch’s opponent in the boat race—and not only that—she was actually the princess of this small European country Mitch had never heard of. Her fiancé was this prince her father had betrothed her to at birth!
While I was watching this, Lilly came over with my new homework assignments, and she started watching with me, and she totally missed the deep philosophical importance of the episode. All she said was, “Boy, does that royal chick need an eyebrow waxing.”
I was appalled.
“Lilly,” I croaked. “Can’t you see that this episode of Baywatch is prophetic? It is entirely possible that I have been betrothed since birth to some prince I’ve never even met, and my dad just hasn’t told me yet. And I could very likely meet some lifeguard on a beach and fall madly in love with him, but it won’t matter, because I will have to do my duty and marry the man my people have picked out for me.”
Lilly said, “Hello, exactly how much of that cough medicine have you had today? It says one teaspoon every four hours, not tablespoon, dorkus.”
I was annoyed at Lilly for failing to see the bigger picture. I couldn’t, of course, tell her about the letter I’d gotten. Because what if her brother was the one who wrote it? I wouldn’t want him thinking I’d gone blabbing about it to everyone I knew. A love letter is a very private thing.
But still, you would think she’d be able to see it from my perspective.
“Don’t you understand?” I rasped. “What is the point of me liking anybody, when it’s entirely possible that my dad has arranged a marriage for me with some prince I’ve never met? Some guy who lives in, like, Dubai, or somewhere, and who gazes daily at my picture and longs for the day when he can finally make me his own?”
Lilly said she thought I’d been reading too many of my friend Tina Hakim Baba’s teen romances. I will admit, that is sort of where I got the idea. But that is not the point.
“Seriously, Lilly,” I said. “I have to guard diligently against falling in love with somebody like David Hasselhoff or your brother, because in the end I might have to marry Prince William.” Not that that would be such a great sacrifice, and all.