This is a literary travesty.
Even later on Friday
What am I supposed to do about this stupid English journal assignment, Describe an experience that moved you profoundly? I am so sure. What do I write about? The time I walked into the kitchen and found my Algebra teacher standing there in his underwear? That didn’t move me, exactly, but it was certainly an experience.
Or should I talk about the time my dad spilled his guts about how it turns out I am the heir to the throne of the principality of Genovia? That was an experience, although I don’t know if it was profound, and even though I was crying, I don’t think it was because I was moved. I was just mad nobody had told me before. I mean, I guess I can understand that it might be embarrassing for him to have to admit to the Genovian people that he had a child out of wedlock, but to hide that fact for fourteen years? Talk about denial.
My Bio partner Kenny, who also has Mrs. Spears for English, says he is going to write about his family’s trip to India last summer. He contracted cholera there, and nearly died. As he lay in his hospital bed in that far-off foreign land, he realized that we are only on this planet for a short while, and that it is vital we use every moment we have left as if it were our last. That is why Kenny is devoting his life to finding a cure for cancer, and promoting Japanese anime.
Kenny is so lucky. If only I could contract a potentially fatal disease.
I am beginning to realize that the only thing profound about my life so far is its complete and utter lack of profundity.
Jefferson Market
The freshest produce—guaranteed
Fast, Free Delivery
Order no. 2764
1 package soybean curd
1 bottle wheat germ
1 loaf whole-grain bread
5 grapefruits
12 oranges
1 bunch bananas
1 package brewer’s yeast
1 quart skim milk
1 quart orange juice (not from concentrate)
1 pound butter
1 dozen eggs
1 bag unsalted sunflower seeds
1 box whole-grain cereal
Toilet paper
Q-tips
Deliver to:
Mia Thermopolis, 1005 Thompson Street, #4A
Saturday, October 25, 2 p.m., Grandmère’s suite
I am sitting here waiting for my interview. In addition to my throat hurting, I feel like I am going to throw up. Maybe my bronchitis has turned into the flu, or something. Maybe the falafel I ordered in for dinner last night was made from rotten chickpeas, or something.
Or maybe I’m just totally nervous, since this interview is going to be broadcast to an estimated 22 million homes on Monday night.
Although I find it very hard to believe that 22 million families could possibly be interested in anything I have to say.
I read that when Prince William gets interviewed, he gets the questions about a week before, so he has time to think up really smart and incisive answers. Apparently, members of the Genovian royal family are not extended that same courtesy. Not that even with a week’s worth of notice I could ever think of anything smart and incisive. Well, okay, maybe smart, but definitely not incisive.
Well, probably not even smart, either, depending on what they ask.
So I am sitting here and I really do feel like I am going to throw up, and I wish I could hurry up and get this over with. It was supposed to start two hours ago.
But Grandmère isn’t satisfied with the way the cosmetic technician (makeup lady) did my eyes. She says I look like a poulet. That means “hooker” in French. Or chicken. But when my Grandmère says it, it always means hooker.
Why can’t I have a nice, normal grandma, who makes rugelach and thinks I look wonderful no matter what I have on? Lilly’s grandma has never said the word hooker in her life, even in Yiddish. I know that for a fact.
So the makeup lady had to go down to the hotel gift shop to see if they have any blue eyeshadow. Grandmère wants blue, because she says it matches my eyes. Except that my eyes are gray. I wonder if Grandmère is color-blind.
That would explain a lot.
I met Beverly Bellerieve. The one good thing about all this is that she actually seems semi-human. She told me that if she asked anything that I felt was too personal or embarrassing, that I could just say I don’t want to answer. Isn’t that nice?
Plus she is very beautiful. You should see my dad. I can already tell that Beverly is going to be this week’s girlfriend. Well, she’s better than the women he usually hangs around with. At least Beverly looks as if she probably isn’t wearing a thong. And as if her brainstem is fully functional.
So, considering that Beverly Bellerieve turns out to be so nice and all, you’d think I wouldn’t be so nervous.
And truthfully, I’m not so sure it’s just the interview that’s making me feel like I’m going to hurl. It’s actually something my dad said to me, when I came in. It was the first time I’d seen him since the time he spent at the loft while I was sick. Anyway, he asked me how I was feeling and all, and I lied and said fine, and then he said, “Mia, is your Algebra teacher—“
And I was all, “Is my Algebra teacher what?” thinking he was going to ask me if Mr. Gianini was teaching me about parallel numbers.
But that is so totally NOT what he asked me. Instead, he asked me, “Is your Algebra teacher living in the loft?”
Well, I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to say. Because of course Mr. Gianini isn’t living there. Not really.
But he will be. And probably pretty shortly, too.
So I just went, “Um, no.”