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It’s unprincess-like of me, however, to gloat over another’s misfortune.
Friday, October 31, French
I borrowed Lars’s cell phone and called the SoHo Grand between lunch and fifth period. I mean, I figured someone should let Mamaw and Papaw know that Hank was all right. Well, a Ford model
, but all right.
Mamaw must have been sitting by the phone, since she picked up on the first ring.
“Clarisse?” she said. “I still haven’t heard from them.”
Which is weird. Because Clarisse is Grandmère’s name.
“Mamaw?” I said. “It’s me, Mia.”
“Oh, Mia.” Mamaw laughed a little. “I’m sorry, honey. I thought you were the princess. I mean, the dowager princess. Your other grandma.”
I went, “Uh, yeah. Well, it’s not. It’s me. And I’m just calling to tell you that I heard from Hank.”
Mamaw shrieked so loud, I had to hold the cell phone away from my ear.
“WHERE IS HE?” she yelled. “YOU TELL HIM FROM ME THAT WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON HIM, HE’S—”
“Mamaw,” I cried. It was kind of embarrassing, because all sorts of people in the hallway heard her yelling and were looking at me. I tried to make myself inconspicuous by hunching behind Lars.
“Mamaw,” I said, “he got a contract with Ford Models, Inc. He’s the newest Calvin Klein underwear model. He’s going to be a big celebrity, like—”
“UNDERWEAR?” Mamaw yelled. “Mia, you tell that boy to call me RIGHT NOW.”
“Well, I can’t really do that, Mamaw,” I said. “On account of the fact that—”
“RIGHT NOW,” Mamaw repeated, “or he’s in BIG TROUBLE.”
“Um,” I said. The bell was ringing anyway. “Okay, Mamaw. Is, um, the, uh, wedding still on?”
“The WHAT?”
“The wedding,” I said, wishing I could, just for once, be a normal girl who did not have to go around asking people if the royal marriage of her pregnant mother and her Algebra teacher was still on.
“Well, of course it’s still on,” Mamaw said. “What do you think?”
“Oh,” I said. “You, um, talked to my mom?”
“Of course I did,” Mamaw said. “Everything is all set.”
“Really?” I was immensely surprised. I could not picture my mother going along with this thing. Not in a million years. “And she said she’d be there?”
“Well, of course she’ll be there,” Mamaw said. “It’s her wedding, isn’t it?”
Well . . . sort of, I guess. I didn’t say that to Mamaw, though. I said, “Sure.” And then I hung up, feeling crushed.
For entirely selfish reasons, too, I confess. I was a little bit sad for my mom, I guess, since she really had tried to put up a resistance against Grandmère. I mean, she really had tried. It wasn’t her fault, of course, that she’d been going up against such a inexorable force.
But mostly I felt sad for myself. I would NEVER escape in time for Rocky Horror. Never, never, never. I mean, I know the movie doesn’t even start until midnight, but wedding receptions last way longer than that.
And who knows if Michael will ever ask me out again? I mean, not once today has he acknowledged that he is, in fact, Jo-C-rox, nor has he mentioned Rocky Horror. Not once. Not even so much as a reference to Rachel Leigh Cook.
And we talked at length during G and T. AT LENGTH. That is on account of how some of us who saw last year’s groundbreaking episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is were understandably confused by Lilly’s helping Hank to realize his dream of supermodel stardom. The segment was titled “Yes, You as an Individual Can Bring Down the Sexist, Racist, Ageist, and Sizeist Modeling Industry” (by “criticizing ads that demean women and limit our ideas of beauty” and “finding ways to make your protest known to the companies advertised” and “letting the media know you want to see more varied and realistic images of women.” Also, Lilly urged us to “challenge men who judge, choose, and discard women on the basis of appearance”).
