Beverly said a bunch of stuff about how adorable I was and how that wouldn’t be necessary. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember exactly what she said, but I just got this overwhelming feeling that everything would be just fine.
Beverly is just one of those people who make you feel good about yourself. I don’t know how she does it.
No wonder my dad hasn’t let her out of his hotel room since Saturday.
Two cars, one going north at 40 mph and one going south at 50 mph, leave town at the same time. In how many hours will they be 360 miles apart?
Why does it matter? I mean, really.
Monday, October 27, Bio
Mrs. Sing, our Biology teacher, says it is physiologically impossible to die of either boredom or embarrassment, but I know that isn’t true, because I am experiencing heart failure right now.
That is because after G and T, Michael and Lilly and I were walking down the hall together, since Lilly was going to Psych and I was going to Bio and Michael was going to Calc, which are all right across the hall from one another, and Lana Weinberger walked right up to us—RIGHT UP TO MICHAEL AND ME—and held up two of her fingers and waggled them at us, and went, “Are you two going out?”
I could seriously die right now. I mean, you should have seen Michael’s face. It was like his head was about to explode, he turned that red.
And I’m sure I wasn’t all that pale myself.
Lilly didn’t help by letting out this giant horse laugh and going, “As if!”
Which caused Lana and her cronies to burst out laughing, too.
I don’t see what’s so funny about it. Those girls obviously haven’t seen Michael Moscovitz with his shirt off. Believe me, I have.
I guess because the whole thing was so ridiculous and everything, Michael just kind of ignored it. But I’m telling you, it’s getting harder and harder for me not to ask him if he is Jo-C-rox. Like I keep trying to find ways to work Josie and the Pussycats into the conversation. I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help it!
I don’t know how much longer I can stand being the only girl in the ninth grade who doesn’t have a boyfriend.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: problems on pg. 135
English: “Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
Write feelings about this quote in journal
World Civ: questions at the end of Chapter 9
G&T: N/A
French: plan an itinerary for a make-believe trip to Paris
Biology: Kenny’s doing it
Remind Mom to make appointment with licensed geneticist. Could she or Mr. G be a carrier for the genetic mutation Tay-Sachs? It is common in Jews of Eastern European origin and in French Canadians. Are there any French Canadians in our family? FIND OUT!
Monday, October 27, After school
I never thought I would say this, but I am worried about Grandmère.
I am serious. I think she has officially lost it.
I walked into her hotel suite for my princess lesson today—since I am scheduled to have my official introduction to the Genovian people sometime in December, and Grandmère wants to be sure I don’t insult any dignitaries or whatever during it—and guess what Grandmère was doing?
Consulting with the royal Genovian event planner about my mother’s wedding.
I am totally serious. Grandmère had the guy flown in. All the way from Genovia! There they sat at the dining table with this huge sheet of paper stretched in front of them, on which were drawn all these circles, and to which Grandmère was attaching these tiny slips of paper. She looked up when I came in and said, in French, “Oh, Amelia. Very nice. Come and sit down. We have much to discuss, you and Vigo and I.”
I think my eyes must have been bulging out of my head. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was totally hoping what I was seeing was, you know . . .not what I was seeing.
“Grandmère,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Grandmère looked at me with her drawn-on eyebrows raised higher than ever. “Planning a wedding, of course.”
I swallowed. This was bad. WAY bad.
“Um,” I said. “Whose wedding, Grandmère?”
She looked at me very sarcastically. “Guess,” she said.
I swallowed some more. “Uh, Grandmère?” I said. “Can I talk to you a minute? In private?”
But Grandmère just waved her hand and said, “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Vigo. He has been dying to meet you. Vigo, Her Royal Highness, the Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Renaldo.”
She left out the Thermopolis. She always does.
Vigo jumped up from the table and came rushing over to me. He was way shorter than me, about my mom’s age, and had on a gray suit. He seemed to share my grandmother’s penchant for purple, since he was wearing a lavender shirt in some kind of very shiny material, along with an equally shiny dark purple tie.
“Your Highness,” he gushed. “The pleasure is all mine. So delightful finally to meet you.” To Grandmère, he said, “You’re right, madame, she has the Renaldo nose.”
“I told you, did I not?” Grandmère sounded smug. “Uncanny.”
“Positively.” Vigo made a little picture frame out of his index fingers and thumbs and squinted at me through it.
“Pink,” he said, decidedly. “Absolutely pink. I do so love a pink maid of honor. But the other attendants will be in ivory, I think. So Diana. But then, Diana was always so right.”