Still, I did feel that I had to intrude upon the fantasy world in which she so obviously lives, just a little.

“Um,” I said. “Principal Gupta. About Mrs. Hill . . .”

“What about her?” Principal Gupta asked.

“I didn’t mean it when I said she’s always in the teachers’ lounge during my Gifted and Talented class. That was an exaggeration.”

Principal Gupta smiled at me in this very brittle way.

“Don’t worry, Mia,” she said. “Mrs. Hill has been taken care of.”

Taken care of! What does that mean?

I am almost scared to find out.

Tuesday, October 28, G & T

Well, Mrs. Hill didn’t get fired.

Instead, I guess they gave her a warning, or something. The upshot of it is, Mrs. Hill won’t budge from behind her desk here in the G and T lab.

Which means we have to sit at our desks and actually do our work. And we can’t lock Boris in the supply closet. We actually have to sit here and listen to him play.

Play Bartok.

And we can’t talk to one another, because we are supposed to be working on our individual projects.

Boy, is everyone mad at me.

But no one is madder than Lilly.

It turns out Lilly’s been secretly writing a book about the socioeconomic divisions that exist within the walls of Albert Einstein High School. Really! She didn’t want to tell me, but finally Boris blurted it out at lunch today. Lilly threw a fry at him and got ketchup all over his sweater.

I can’t believe Lilly has told Boris things that she hasn’t told me. I’m supposed to be her best friend. Boris is just her boyfriend. Why is she telling him cool things, like about how she’s writing a book, and not telling me?

“Can I read it?” I begged.

“No.” Lilly was really mad. She wouldn’t even look at Boris. He had already totally forgiven her about the ketchup, even though he will probably have to get that sweater dry-cleaned.

“Can I read just one page?” I asked.

“No.”

“Just one sentence?”

“No.”

Michael didn’t know about the book either. He told me right before Mrs. Hill came in that he offered to publish it in his webzine, Crackhead, but Lilly said, in quite a snotty voice, that she was holding out for a “legitimate” publisher.

“Am I in it?” I wanted to know. “Your book? Am I in it?”

Lilly said if people don’t stop bothering her about it, she is going to fling herself off the top of the school water tower. She is exaggerating, of course. You can’t even get up to the water tower anymore, since the seniors, as a prank a few years ago, poured a bunch of tadpoles into it.

I can’t believe Lilly’s been working on a book and never told me. I mean, I always knew she was going to write a book about the adolescent experience in post–Cold War America. But I didn’t think she was going to start it before we had graduated. If you ask me, this book can’t be very balanced. Because I hear things get way better sophomore year.

Still, I guess it does make sense that you would tell someone whose tongue has been in your mouth things you wouldn’t necessarily tell your best friend. But it makes me mad Boris knows things about Lilly that I don’t know. I tell Lilly everything.

Well, everything except how I feel about her brother.

Oh, and about my secret admirer.

And about my mom and Mr. Gianini.

But I tell her practically everything else.

DON’T FORGET:

1. Stop thinking about M.M.

2. English journal! Profound moment!

3. Cat food

4. Q-tips

5. Toothpaste

6. TOILET PAPER!

Tuesday, October 28, Bio

I am winning friends and influencing people everywhere I go today. Kenny just asked me what I’m doing for Halloween. I said I might have a family obligation to attend, and he said if I could get out of it, he and a bunch of his friends from the Computer Club are going to Rocky Horror, and that I should come along.

I asked him if one of his friends was Michael Moscovitz, because Michael is treasurer of the Computer Club, and he said yes.

I thought about asking Kenny if he’s heard Michael mention whether or not he likes me, you know, in any special way, but I decided not to.

Because then Kenny might think I like him. Michael, I mean. And how pathetic would I look then?

Ode to M

Oh, M,

why can’t you see

that x = you

and y = me?

And that

you + me

= ecstasy,

and together we’d B

4ever happy?

Tuesday, October 28, 6 p.m.,

On the way back to the loft from Grandmère’s

What with all the backlash about my interview on TwentyFour/Seven, I completely forgot about Grandmère and Vigo, the Genovian event organizer!

I mean it. I swear I didn’t remember a thing about Vigo and the asparagus tips, not until I walked into Grandmère’s suite tonight for my princess lesson, and there were all these people scurrying around, doing things like barking into the phone: “No, that’s four thousand long-stemmed pink roses, not four hundred,” and calligraphy-ing place cards.

I found Grandmère sitting in the midst of all this activity, sampling truffles with Rommel—stylishly dressed in a chinchilla cape, dyed mauve—in her lap.

I’m not kidding. Truffles.

“No,” Grandmère said, putting a gooey half-eaten chocolate ball back into the box Vigo was holding out to her. “Not that one, I think. Cherries are so vulgar.”