But I didn’t write that. Instead, I wrote:
FTLOUIE: Well, Boris was pretty upset, Lilly. I mean, he totally suspects something.
WmnRule: Boris has got to learn that in a loving relationship, it is important to establish bonds of trust. That is something you might keep in mind yourself, Mia.
I realize, of course, that Lilly is talking about our relationship—hers and mine. But if you think about it, it applies to more than just Lilly and Boris, and Lilly and me. It applies to me and my dad, too. And me and my mom. And me and . . .well, just about everybody.
Was this, I wondered, a profound moment? Should I get out my English journal?
It was right after this that it happened: I got instant-messaged by someone else. By Jo-C-rox himself!
JOCROX: So are you going to Rocky Horror tomorrow?
Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD. OH, MY GOD!
Jo-C-rox is going to Rocky Horror tomorrow.
And so is Michael.
Really, there is only one logical explanation that can be drawn from this: Jo-C-rox is Michael. Michael is Jo-C-rox. He HAS to be. He just HAS to be.
Right?
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to jump up from my computer and run around my room and scream and laugh at the same time.
Instead—and I don’t know where I got the presence of mind to do this, I wrote back:
FTLOUIE: I hope so.
I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Michael is Jo-C-rox.
Right?
What am I going to do? What am I going to do?
Friday, October 31, Homeroom
I woke with the strangest feeling of foreboding. I couldn’t figure out why for a few minutes. I lay there in bed, listening to the rain patter against my window. Fat Louie was at the end of my bed, kneading the comforter and purring very loudly.
Then I remembered: Today, according to my grandmother, is the day my pregnant mother is supposed to marry my Algebra teacher in a huge ceremony at the Plaza Hotel, with musical accompaniment courtesy of John Tesh.
I lay there for a minute, wishing my temperature was one hundred and two again, so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed and face what was sure to be a day of drama and hurt feelings.
And then I remembered my e-mail from the night before, and jumped right out of bed.
Michael is my secret admirer! Michael is Jo-C-rox!
And with any luck, by the end of the night, he’ll have admitted it to my face!
Friday, October 31, Algebra
Mr. Gianini is not here today. Instead, we have a substitute teacher named Mrs. Krakowski.
It is very strange that Mr. G isn’t here, because he was certainly in the loft this morning. We played a game of foozball before Lars showed up in the limo. We even offered Mr. G a ride to school, but he said he was coming in later.
Really later, it looks like.
A lot of people aren’t here today, actually. Michael, for instance, didn’t catch a ride with us this morning. Lilly says that is because he had last-minute problems printing out a paper that is due today.
But I wonder if it is really because he is too scared to face me after admitting that he is Jo-C-rox.
Well, not that he actually admitted it. But he sort of did.
Didn’t he?
Mr. Howell is three times as old as Gilligan. The difference in their ages is 48. How old are Mr. Howell and Gilligan?
T=Gilligan
3T=Mr. Howell
3T–T=48
2T=48
T=24
Oh, Mr G, where ARE you?
Friday, October 31, G & T
Okay.
I will never underestimate Lilly Moscovitz again. Nor will I suspect her of having anything but the most altruistic motives. This I hereby solemnly swear in writing.
It was at lunch when it happened:
We were all sitting there—me, my bodyguard, Tina Hakim Baba and her bodyguard, Lilly, Boris, Shameeka, and Ling Su. Michael, of course, sits over with the rest of the Computer Club, so he wasn’t there, but everybody else who mattered was.
Shameeka was reading aloud to us from some of the brochures her father had gotten from girls’ schools in New Hampshire. Each one filled Shameeka with more terror, and me with more shame for ever having opened my big mouth in the first place.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over our little table.
We looked up.
There stood an apparition of such godlike stature that for a minute, I think even Lilly believed the chosen people’s long lost Messiah had finally shown up.
It turned out it was only Hank—but Hank looking as I had certainly never seen him before. He had on a black cashmere sweater beneath a clinging black leather coat, and black jeans that seemed to go on and on over his long, lean legs. His golden hair had been expertly styled and cut, and—I swear—he looked so much like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix that I actually might have believed he had wandered in off the set if it hadn’t been for the fact that on his feet, he wore cowboy boots. Black, expensive-looking ones, but cowboy boots, just the same.
I don’t think it was my imagination that the entire crowd inside the cafeteria seemed to gasp as Hank slid into a chair at our table—the reject table, I have frequently heard it called.
“Hello, Mia,” Hank said.
I stared at him. It wasn’t just the clothes. There was something . . .different about him. His voice seemed deeper, somehow. And he smelled . . .well, good.
“So,” Lilly said to him, as she scooped a glob of creamy filling out of her Ring Ding. “How’d it go?”
“Well,” Hank said, in that same deep voice. “You’re looking at Calvin Klein’s newest underwear model.”
Lilly sucked the filling off her finger. “Hmmm,” she said, with her mouth full. “Good for you.”