But I didn’t.
I didn’t say a word.
Because why should I? Why should I make the first move, when I didn’t do anything wrong? She’s the one giving me the cold shoulder, when I’m the one in great personal pain. I mean, has it ever occurred to her that I could really use a friend right now? Has it ever occurred to her that now isn’t the best time to be giving me the silent treatment?
But it seems like whenever I’m going through a time of personal crisis—when I found out I was a princess; when her brother dumped me—Lilly turns her back on me.
Lilly must have known I was thinking about saying something to her, though, because she gave me the dirtiest look. Then she rinsed off her hands, turned off the taps, got some paper towels of her own, tossed them into the trash—the same way she seems to have tossed our friendship into the trash—and walked out without a word.
I almost ran after her. I really did. I almost ran after her and told her that whatever it was I did, I’m sorry, and that I know I’m a freak, but that I’m trying to get help. I almost went, “Look, I’m in therapy. Are you happy, now? You’ve driven me into therapy!”
But, number one, I know that’s not true. I’m not in therapy because of Lilly or Michael or anyone, really, except the Giant Hole.
And number two—well, I still have some pride left. I mean, I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.
Besides, what if she told Michael, or something? Then he’d think I was so torn up about our breaking up that I’m suicidal.
Which I’m not.
I’m just sad. Dr. K even said so.
I’m just sad.
So, anyway. I let her walk out. And I never said a word.
And now I’m sitting here in G and T, watching her chat on her phone with Perin about their cell tower initiative.
You know what? I’m not even sure I want to be her friend anymore. I mean, to be honest, Lana Weinberger is actually a BETTER friend than Lilly ever was. At least with Lana, you know where you stand. It’s true Lana’s completely self-absorbed and shallow.
But at least she doesn’t try to pretend she’s otherwise. Unlike some people I could mention.
God, I am going to have SO MUCH to talk about with Dr. K on Friday.
Tuesday, September 21, 4 p.m., Chanel
Principal Gupta was all, “Mia. Let’s talk,” in a super meaningful way when I went to snag my journal back from her.
So I had to sit down and listen to her yammer on about what a bright girl I am, with so much to offer—it’s such a shame I quit student council and that I’m not taking part in more extracurricular activities this year. Colleges, she said, look at other things besides grades and teacher recommendations, you know. They want to see that applicants to their schools also have interests outside of academics.
Lana was so right about Hola.
“I’m on the school paper,” I offered lamely.
“Mia,” Principal Gupta said. “You haven’t gone to one newspaper meeting this semester.”
I’d been hoping she hadn’t noticed that.
“Well,” I said. “It’s been kind of a bad semester so far.”
“I know,” Principal Gupta said. Behind her glasses, her eyes were kind. For once. “Clearly, you’ve been through a lot lately. But you can’t just shut down because of a boy, Mia.”
I blinked at her in horror. I mean, even if that might be true, I can’t believe she’d say that.
“I’m n-not,” I stammered. “This has nothing to do with Michael. I mean, yeah, I’m sad we broke up. But—it’s just…it’s a lot more than that.”
“What really disturbs me,” Principal Gupta said, “is that you seem to have given up your old friends as well. I’ve noticed that you’re no longer sitting with Lilly Moscovitz at lunch anymore.”
“She’s not sitting with me,” I said indignantly. “I’m not the one who—”
“And I’ve noticed you’ve been spending time instead with Lana Weinberger.” Principal Gupta’s mouth got all small, the way my mom’s does when she’s mad. “While I must say I’m grateful you and Lana aren’t at each other’s throats anymore, I can’t help but wonder if she’s someone with whom you really have all that much in common—”
Now that I have boobs, she is. She knows EVERYTHING about nipple coverage.
And how to show them off, when it’s appropriate to do that, as well.
“I really appreciate your worrying about me, Principal Gupta,” I said. “But you have to remember something.”
She looked at me expectantly. “Yes?”
“I’m a princess,” I said. “I’m going to get into every college I apply to, because colleges want to brag that they have a girl who’s going to rule a country someday in their incoming freshman class. So it doesn’t really matter if I join the Spanish Club or the Spirit Squad, or whatever. But”—I waved my journal at her—“thanks for caring.”
No sooner had I stepped out of Principal G’s office than my cell phone rang and I looked down to find Grandmère was calling me.
Great. Because my day could not, evidently, get any better.
“Amelia,” she sang when I picked up. “What’s keeping you? I’m WAITING.”
“Grandmère? What do you mean? We don’t have princess lessons this week, remember?”