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Oh, God. In my self-congratulations over having successfully maneuvered my first press conference, I’d forgotten about that, too. I am leaving for Genovia the day after tomorrow! With Grandmère! To whom I am not even speaking anymore!
I told Tina that I’d confess to Michael tomorrow. She hung up all happy.
But it was a good thing she hadn’t been able to see my nostrils, because they were flaring like crazy, on account of the fact that I was totally lying to her.
Because there is no way I am ever telling Michael Moscovitz how I feel about him. No matter what my dad says. I can’t.
Not to his face.
Not ever.
Friday, December 19, Homeroom
They are holding us hostage here in Homeroom until they’ve passed out our final semester grades. Then we are free to spend the rest of the day at the Winter Carnival in the gym, and then, later this evening, the dance.
Really. We don’t have any more classes after this. We are just supposed to have fun.
As if. I am so never having fun again.
That is because—you know, aside from my many other problems, including the fact that I don’t love my boyfriend, who also apparently does not love me anymore, at least not enough to ask me to the school dance, but I do love my best friend’s brother, who is not even remotely aware of my feelings—that I think I know who my Secret Snowflake is.
Really, there is no other explanation. Why else would Justin Baxendale—who, even though he’s so new, is still totally popular, not to mention way good-looking—be hanging around my locker so much? I mean, seriously. This is the third time I’ve spotted him lurking around there this week. Why else would he be hanging around there, except to leave those roses?
Unless he’s planning on blackmailing me about the whole fire-alarm thing.
But Justin Baxendale doesn’t exactly strike me as the blackmailer type. I mean, he looks to me like somebody who’d have something better to do than blackmail a princess.
Which leaves only one other explanation for why he could possibly be spending so much time around my locker: He is my Secret Snowflake.
And how totally embarrassing is it going to be when I go out there when the bell rings, and Justin comes up to me to confess—because that’s the rule, it turns out: You have to reveal your identity to your Secret Snowflake today—and I have to look up into his smoky eyes with those long lashes and give a big fake smile and go, “Oh, gee, thanks, Justin. I had no idea it was you!”
Whatever. This is actually the least of my problems, right? I mean, considering that I am the only girl in this entire school who does not have a date to the dance tonight. And that tomorrow I have to leave for a country I am princess of, with my lunatic grandmother who isn’t speaking to my father, and who, I know from past experience, is not above smoking in the airplane lavatory if the urge strikes her.
Really. Grandmère is a flight attendant’s worst nightmare.
But that’s not even half of it. I mean, what about my mom and Mr. Gianini? Sure, they’re acting like they don’t mind my spending the holidays in another country, and yes, we’re going to have our own private little Christmas among ourselves before I leave, but really, I bet they mind. I bet they mind a lot.
And what about my grade in Algebra? Oh, Mr. Gianini says it’s fine, but what is fine, exactly? A D? A D is not fine. Not considering the number of hours I’ve put into raising my grade from an F, it isn’t. A D is not acceptable.
And what—oh God, what—am I going to do about Kenny?
At least I got Tina’s present out of the way. I went on line last night and signed her up for a teen romance book-of-the-month club. I printed out the certificate, saying she is an official member, and will give it to her when the bell rings.
When the bell rings, which is also when I have to go out there and face Justin Baxendale.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for those eyes of his. Why does he have to be so good-looking? And why did a good-looking person have to pi
ck me as his Secret Snowflake? Beautiful people, like Lana and Justin, can’t help but be repulsed by ordinary-looking people, like me.
He probably didn’t even pull my name from that jar at all. Probably, he picked Lana’s name and has been putting those roses in my locker, thinking it’s Lana’s, seeing as how God knows she never hangs out in front of her own locker.
What’s even worse is, Tina told me yellow roses mean love everlasting.
Which of course was why I figured maybe it was Kenny after all.
Oh, great. They are passing around the printouts with our grades on them. I am not looking. I don’t even care. I DO NOT CARE ABOUT MY GRADES.
Thank God for the bell. I’m just going to slip out of here—not looking at my grades, totally not looking at my grades—and go about my business like nothing out of the ordinary is going on.
