And my dad looked relieved! He actually looked relieved!
So how is he going to look when he finds out the truth?
It is very hard to concentrate on the fact that I am about to be interviewed by this world-renowned television news journalist, when all I can think about is how my poor dad is going to feel when he finds out my mother is marrying my Algebra teacher and also having his baby. Not that I think my dad still loves my mom, or anything. It’s just that, as Lilly once pointed out, his chronic bed-hopping is a clear indication that he has some serious intimacy issues.
And with Grandmère as a mother, you can see why that might be.
I think he really would like to have what my mom has with Mr. Gianini. Who knows how he is going to take the news about their impending marriage, when my mom finally works up the guts to tell him? He might completely freak out. He might even want me to come live with him in Genovia, to comfort him in his grief!
And of course I will have to say yes, because he is my dad and I love him, and all.
Except that I really don’t want to live in Genovia. I mean, I would miss Lilly and Tina Hakim Baba and all my other friends. And what about Jo-C-rox? How would I ever find out who he is? And what about Fat Louie? Would I get to keep him, or what? He is very well behaved (except when it comes to ingesting socks, and that whole thing with the sparkly objects) and if there was a rodent problem in the castle, he would totally solve it. But what if they don’t let cats in the palace? I mean, he hasn’t had his claws removed, so if there’s any sort of valuable furniture or tapestries or whatever, you can pretty much kiss them good-bye. . . .
Mr. G and my mom are already talking about where his stuff is going to go when he moves into the loft. And Mr. G has some really cool-sounding stuff. Like a foozball table, a drum set (who knew Mr. Gianini was musical?), a pinball machine, AND a 36-inch flat-screen TV.
I am not even kidding. He is way cooler than I ever thought.
If I move to Genovia, I will totally miss out on having my own foozball table.
But if I don’t move to Genovia, who will comfort my poor dad in his chronic loneliness?
Oops, the cosmetic technician is back with the blue eyeshadow.
I swear I am going to heave. Good thing I was too nervous to eat anything all day.
Saturday, October 25, 7 p.m., on the way to Lilly’s house
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, OH, GOD.
I screwed up. I REALLY screwed up.
I don’t know what happened. I honestly don’t. Everything was going along fine. I mean, that Beverly Bellerieve, she’s so . . .nice. I was really, really nervous, and she did her very best to try to calm me down.
Still, I think I did some major babbling.
Think??? I KNOW I did.
I didn’t mean for it to happen. I really didn’t. I don’t even know how it slipped out. I was just so nervous and hyper, and there were those lights and that microphone and everything. I felt like . . .I don’t know. Like I was back in Principal Gupta’s office, living through that whole codeine cough-syrup thing again.
So when Beverly Bellerieve said, “Mia, didn’t you have some exciting news recently?” I totally freaked out. Part of me was like, How did she know? And another part of me was like, Millions of people are going to see this. Act happy.
So I went, “Oh. Yes. Well, I’m pretty excited. I’ve always wanted to be a big sister. But they don’t really want to make a big deal out of it, you know. It’s just going to be a very small ceremony at City Hall, with me as their witness—“
That’s when my dad dropped the glass of Perrier he’d been drinking. Then Grandmère started hyperventilating and had to breathe into a paper bag.
And I sat there going, Oh, my God. Oh, my God, what have I done?
Of course it turned out that Beverly Bellerieve hadn’t been referring to my mother’s pregnancy at all. Of course not. How could she have known about it?
What she’d actually been referring to, of course, was my F in Algebra being raised to a D.
I tried to get up and go to my dad to comfort him, since I could see he’d sunk into a chair and had his head in his hands. But I was all tangled up in my microphone wires. It had taken about half an hour for the sound guys to get the wires right, and I didn’t want to mess them up or anything, but I could see that my dad’s shoulders were shaking, and I was sure he was crying, just like he always does at the end of Free Willy, though he tries to pretend it’s just allergies.
Beverly, seeing this, made a slashing motion with her hand to the camera guys, and very nicely helped me get untangled.
But when I finally got to my dad, I saw he wasn’t crying. . . . But he certainly didn’t look too good. He didn’t sound very good, either, when he croaked for someone to bring him a whiskey.
After three or four gulps, though, he got a little of his color back. Which is more than I can say for Grandmère. I don’t think she will ever recover. Last time I saw her, she was downing a Sidecar that someone had dropped some Alka-Seltzer tablets into.
I don’t even want to think about what my mom is going to say when she finds out what I’ve done. I mean, even though my dad said not to worry, that he’ll explain to Mom what happened, I don’t know. He had kind of a weird look on his face. I hope he doesn’t plan on popping Mr. G one in the piehole.
Me and my big mouth. My HUGE, GROTESQUE, DISPROPORTIONATELY MASSIVE mouth.
There’s no telling what else I said, once the interview got underway again. I was so completely freaked out by that first thing, I can’t remember a single other thing Beverly Bellerieve might have asked me.