Monday, October 20, 8 a.m.
Okay. So I was just in the kitchen, eating cereal, you know, the usual Monday morning routine, when my mom comes out of the bathroom with this funny look on her face. I mean, she was all pale and her hair was kind of sticking out and she had on her terry cloth robe instead of her kimono, which usually means she’s premenstrual.
So I said, “Mom, you want some Midol? Because, no offense, you look like you could use some.”
Which is sort of a dangerous thing to say to a premenstrual woman, but you know, she’s my mom, and all. It’s not like she was going to karate chop me, the way she would if anybody else said that to her.
But she just said, “No. No, thanks,” in this dazed voice.
So then I assumed something really horrible had happened. You know, like Fat Louie had eaten another sock, or they were cutting off our electricity again because I’d forgotten to fish the bill out of the salad bowl where Mom keeps stuffing them.
So I grabbed her and I was like, “Mom? Mom, what is it? What’s wrong?”
She sort of shook her head, like she does when she’s confused over the microwave instructions on a frozen pizza. “Mia,” she said, in this shocked but happy way, “Mia. I’m pregnant.”
Oh, my God. OH, MY GOD.
My mom is having my Algebra teacher’s baby.
Monday, October 20, Homeroom
I am really trying to take this calmly, you know? Because there isn’t any point in getting upset about it.
But how can I NOT be upset? My mother is about to become a single parent. AGAIN.
You would think she’d have learned a lesson with me and all, but apparently not.
As if I don’t have enough problems. As if my life isn’t over already. I just don’t see how much more I can be expected to take. I mean, apparently, it is not enough that
1. I am the tallest girl in the freshman class.
2. I am also the least endowed in the chest area.
3. Last month, I found out my mother has been dating my Algebra teacher.
4. Also last month, I found out that I am the sole heir to the throne of a small European country.
5. I have to take princess lessons from my paternal grandmother. Every day.
6. In December, I am supposed to be introduced to my new countrymen and women on national television (in Genovia, population 50,000, but still).
7. I don’t have a boyfriend.
Oh, no. You see, all of that isn’t enough of a burden, apparently. Now my mother has to get pregnant out of wedlock. AGAIN.
Thanks, Mom. Thanks a whole lot.
Monday, October 20, Still Homeroom
And what about that? Why weren’t she and Mr. Gianini using birth control? Could someone please explain that to me? Whatever happened to her diaphragm? I know she has one. I found it once in the shower when I was a little kid. I took it and used it as a birdbath for my Barbie townhouse for a few weeks, until my mom finally found out and took it away.
And what about condoms??? Do people my mother’s age think they are immune to sexually transmitted diseases? They are obviously not immune to pregnancy, so what gives?
This is so like my mother. She can’t even remember to buy toilet paper. How is she going to remember to use birth control????????
Monday, October 20, Algebra
I can’t believe this. I really can’t believe this.
She hasn’t told him. My mother is having my Algebra teacher’s baby, and she hasn’t even told him.
I can tell she hasn’t told him, because when I walked in this morning, all Mr. Gianini said was, “Oh, hi, Mia. How are you doing?”
Oh, hi, Mia. How are you doing?????
That is not what you say to someone whose mother is having your baby. You say something like, “Excuse me, Mia, may I see you a moment?”
Then you take the daughter of the woman with whom you have committed this heinous indiscretion out into the hallway, where you fall on bended knee to grovel and beg for her approval and forgiveness. That is what you do.
I can’t help staring at Mr. G and wondering what my new baby brother or sister is going to look like. My mom is totally hot, like Carmen Sandiego, only without the trench coat—further proof that I am a biological anomaly, since I inherited neither my mother’s thick curly black mane of hair nor her C cup. So there’s nothing to worry about there.
But Mr. G, I just don’t know. Not that Mr. G isn’t good-looking, I guess. I mean, he’s tall and has all his hair (score one for Mr. G, since my dad’s as bald as a parking meter). But what is with his nostrils? I totally can’t figure it out. They are just so . . .big.
I sincerely hope the kid gets my mom’s nostrils and Mr. G’s ability to divide fractions in his head.
The sad thing is, Mr. Gianini doesn’t have the slightest idea what is about to befall him. I would feel sorry for him if it weren’t for the fact that it is all his fault. I know it takes two to tango, but please, my mother is a painter. He is an Algebra teacher.
You tell me who is supposed to be the responsible one.
Monday, October 20, English
Great. Just great.
As if things aren’t bad enough, now our English teacher says we have to complete a journal this semester. I am not kidding. A journal. Like I don’t already keep one.
And get this: At the end of every week, we’re supposed to turn our journals in. For Mrs. Spears to read. Because she wants to get to know us. We are supposed to begin by introducing ourselves, and listing our pertinent stats. Later, we are supposed to move on to recording our innermost thoughts and emotions.