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Now Kenny’s here. I don’t know how I am supposed to get any studying done with all of these people around. Plus, Mr. Gianini has decided that now would be a good time to practice his drums.
Sunday, December 14, 8 p.m., the loft
I told Lilly, and she agreed, that once Boris and Kenny showed up, the whole studying thing kind of went down the drain. Plus, Mr. G’s drumming didn’t help. So we decided it would be best to take a study break and go to Chinatown for dim sum.
We had a good time at Great Shanghai eating vegetable dumplings and dried sauteed string beans with garlic sauce. I ended up sitting by Boris, and he really made me laugh, engineering it so that whenever the waiters brought something new, the only empty spot on the table was in front of him, so they had to put it there, and then Boris and I got first dibs on it.
Which made me realize that in spite of the sweaters and the mouth-breathing, Boris really is a funny and nice person. Lilly is so lucky. I mean, that the boy she loves actually loves her back. If only I could love Kenny the way Lilly loves Boris!
But I don’t seem to have any control over who I fall in love with. Believe me, if I did, I would NOT love Michael. I mean, for one thing, he is my best friend’s older brother, and if Lilly ever found out I liked him, she would NOT understand. Also, of course, he is a senior and is graduating soon.
And oh, yeah, he already has a girlfriend.
But what am I supposed to do? I can’t make myself fall in love with Kenny any more than I can make him stop liking me, you know, in that special way.
Although he still hasn’t asked me to the dance. Or mentioned it, anyway. Lilly says I should just call him and be like, “So are we going, or not?” After all, she keeps pointing out, I had the guts to smash up Lana’s cell phone. Why don’t I have the guts to call my own boyfriend and ask him whether or not he is taking me to the school dance?
But I smashed up Lana’s cell phone in the heat of passion. I cannot summon up anything like passion where Kenny is concerned. There is a part of me that doesn’t want to go to the dance with him at all, and that part of me is relieved that he hasn’t mentioned anything about it.
Okay, it is a very small part of me, but it’s still there.
So actually, even though I was having fun sitting by Boris at the restaurant and all, it was also a little depressing, on account of the whole Kenny thing.
And then things got even more depressing. That’s because some little Chinese-American girls came up to me as I was opening my fortune cookie and wanted to know if they could have my autograph. Then they handed me pens and the advertising supplement that had appeared in that day’s Times for me to sign.
I seriously thought about killing myself, only I couldn’t think how I’d do it, except for maybe stabbing myself through the heart with a chopstick.
Instead I just signed the stupid thing for them and tried to smile. But inside, of course, I was FREAKING OUT, especially when I saw how happy the little girls were to have met me. And why? No, not because of my tireless work on behalf of the polar bears or the whales or starving kids. Which I haven’t actually done yet, but I fully intend to do.
No, because I’d been in a magazine in a bunch of pretty dresses, and I’m tall and skinny like a model.
Which is no accomplishment at all!
After that, my headache came back, and I said I had to go home.
Nobody protested very much, I think because everybody realized all of a sudden how much time we’d wasted, and how much studying we all had left to do. So we left, and now I am home again, and my mom says that while I was gone, Sebastiano called four times, AND he had another dress delivered.
Not just any dress, either. It is a dress Sebastiano designed just for me, to wear to the Nondenominational Winter Dance. It’s not sexy. It isn’t sexy at all. It’s dark green velvet with long sleeves and a wide, square neckline.
But when I put it on and looked at my reflection in the mirror in my room, something funny happened:
I looked good. Really good.
There was a note attached to the dress that said,
Please forgive me.
I promise this dress will not make him think of you as his little sister’s best friend.
S.
Which is very sweet. Sad, but sweet. Sebastiano can’t know, of course, that the Michael situation is completely hopeless, and that no dress is going to make any difference, no matter how nice I look in it.
But hey, at least Sebastiano apologized. That’s a lot more, I’ve noticed, than Grandmère has done.
Of course I forgive Sebastiano. I mean, none of it is his fault, really.
And I guess someday I’ll probably forgive Grandmère, since she’s too old to know any better.
