But Hank said, “Heck, no. I want to go to school with you, Mia. I always wanted to see what it was like at a real New York City high school.” He lowered his voice, so Mamaw and Papaw wouldn’t hear. “I hear the girls in New York City have all got their belly buttons pierced.”

Hank was in for a real big disappointment if he thought he’d see any pierced navels in my school—we wear uniforms, and you aren’t even allowed to tie the ends of your shirt into a halter top, a la Britney Spears.

But I couldn’t see a way to get out of having him accompany me for the day. Grandmère was always going on about how princesses have to be gracious. Well, I guess this is my big test.

So I said, “Okay.” Which didn’t sound very gracious, but what else could I say?

Then Mamaw surprised me by grabbing me and giving me a hug good-bye. I don’t know why I was so surprised. This was a very grandmotherly thing to do, of course. But I guess, seeing as how the grandmother I spend the most time with is Grandmère, I wasn’t expecting it.

As she hugged me, Mamaw said, “Why, you aren’t anything but skin and bones, are you?” Yes, thank you, Mamaw. It is true, I am mammarily challenged. But must you shout it out in the lobby of the SoHo Grand? “And when are you going to stop shooting up so high? I swear, you’re almost taller than Hank!”

Which was, unfortunately, true.

Then Mamaw made Papaw give me a hug good-bye, too. Mamaw had been very soft when I hugged her. Papaw was the exact opposite, very bony. It was sort of amazing to me that these two people had managed to turn my strong-willed, independent-minded mother into such a gibbering mess. I mean, Grandmère used to lock my dad in the castle dungeon when he was a kid, and he wasn’t half as resentful toward her as my mom was toward her parents.

On the other hand, my dad is in deep denial and suffers from classic Oedipal issues. At least according to Lilly.

When I got home, my mom had moved from the closet to her bed, where she lay covered with Victoria’s Secret and J. Crew catalogs. I knew she must be feeling a little better. Ordering things is one of her favorite hobbies.

I said, “Hi, Mom.”

She looked out from behind the Spring Bathing Suit edition. Her face was all bloated and splotchy. I was glad Mr. Gianini wasn’t around. He might have had second thoughts about marrying her if he’d gotten a good look at her just then.

“Oh, Mia,” she said when she saw me. “Come here and let me give you a hug. Was it horrible? I’m sorry I’m such a bad mother.”

I sat down on the bed beside her. “You aren’t a bad mother,” I said. “You’re a good mother. You just aren’t feeling well.”

“No,” my mother said. She was sniffling, so I knew the reason she looked bloated and horrible was that she’d been crying. “I’m a terrible person. My parents came all the way from Indiana to see me, and I sent them to a hotel.”

I could tell my mom was having a hormonal imbalance and wasn’t herself. If she’d been herself, she wouldn’t have thought twice about sending her parents to a hotel. She has never forgiven them for

a. not supporting her decision to have me,

b. not approving of the way she was raising me, and

c. voting for George Bush Sr., as well as his son.

Hormonal imbalance or not, though, the truth is, my mother does not need this kind of stress. This should be a really happy time for her. It says in all the stuff I’ve read about pregnancy that preparing for the birth of your child should be a time of joy and celebration.

And it would be, if Grandmère hadn’t come around and ruined it all by sticking her nose where no one wants it.

She has got to be stopped.

And I’m not just saying that on account of how much I really, really want to go to Rocky Horror on Friday with Michael.

Tuesday, October 28, 11 p.m.

Another e-mail from Jo-C-rox!

This one said:

JOCROX: Dear Mia,

Just a note to tell you I saw you last night on TV. You looked beautiful, as always. I know some people at school have been giving you a hard time. Don’t let them get you down. The majority of us think you rock the world.

Your Friend

Isn’t that the sweetest? I wrote back right away:

FTLOUIE: Dear Friend,

Thank you so much. PLEASE won’t you tell me who you are? I swear I won’t tell a soul!!!!!!!!!!!

Mia

He hasn’t written back yet, but I think my sincerity really shows, considering all the exclamation points.

I am slowly wearing him down, I just know it.

ENGLISH JOURNAL

My most profound moment was

ENGLISH JOURNAL

Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

I believe that Mr. Emerson was talking about the fact that you are only given one life to live, and so you had better make the best of it. This idea is best illustrated by a movie I saw on the Lifetime Channel while I was sick. The movie was called Who Is Julia? In this movie, Mare Winningham portrays Julia, a woman who wakes up one day after an accident to discover that her body has been completely destroyed and her brain transplanted into someone whose body was okay but whose brain had ceased functioning. Since Julia formerly was a fashion model and now her brain is in a housewife’s body (Mare Winningham’s), she is understandably upset. She goes around banging her head against things because she is no longer blond, five foot ten, and a hundred and ten pounds.

But finally, through Julia’s husband’s undying devotion to her—despite her iffy new looks and a brief kidnapping by the housewife’s psychotic husband, who wants her to come back home to do his laundry—Julia realizes that looking like a model isn’t as important as not being dead.