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No , I write back.
Is it the cancer? Lilly wants to know. Did he have a recurrence?
No , I write back.
Well, what is it, then? Lilly’s handwriting is getting spiky, a sure sign she is becoming impatient with me. Why won’t you tell me?
Because , I want to scrawl back, in big capital letters. The truth will lead to the imminent demise of my romantic relationship with your brother, and I couldn’t bear that! Don’t you see I can’t live without him?
But I can’t write that, because I’m not ready to give up yet. I mean, am I not a princess of the royal house of Renaldo? Do princesses of the royal house of Renaldo just give up, just like that, when something they hold as dearly as I hold Michael is at stake?
No, they do not. Look at my ancestresses, Agnes and Rosagunde. Agnes jumped off a bridge in order to get what she wanted (not be a nun). And Rosagunde strangled a guy with her own hair (in order to not have to sleep with him). Was I, Mia Thermopolis, going to let a little thing like the Contessa Trevanni’s black-and-white ball get in the way of my having my first date with the man I love?
No, I was not.
Perhaps this, then, is my talent. The indomitability that I inherited from the Renaldo princesses before me.
Struck by this realization, I wrote a hasty note to Lilly:
Is my talent that I, like my ancestresses before me, am indomitable?
I waited breathlessly for her response. Although it was not clear to me what I was going to do if she replied in the positive. Because what kind of talent is being indomitable? I mean, you can’t get paid for it, the way you can if your talent is playing the violin or songwriting or producing cable access television programs.
Still, it would be good to know I’d figured out my talent on my own. You know, as far as climbing the Jungian tree to self-actualization went.
But Lilly’s response was way disappointing:
No, your talent is not that you’re indomitable, dinkus. God, U R so dense sometimes. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR DAD?????
Sighing, I realized I had no choice but to write back, Nothing. Grandmère just wanted to take me to Chanel, so she made up the thing about my dad being sick.
God , Lilly wrote back. No wonder you’re looking like you ate a sock again. Your grandmother sucks.
I could not agree more. If only Lilly knew the full extent of how much.
Wednesday, January 21, sixth period, third-floor stairwell
Emergency meeting of the followers of the Jane Eyre technique of boyfriend-handling. We are of course in peril of discovery at any moment, as we are skipping French in order to gather here in the stairwell leading to the roof (the door to which is locked, of course: Lilly says in the movie of my life, the kids got to go on the roof of their school all the time. Just another example of how art most certainly does not imitate life), so that we can lend succor to one of our sisters in suffering.
That’s right. It turns out that I am not the only one for whom the semester is off to an inauspicious beginning. Not only did Tina sprain her ankle on the ski slopes of Aspen—no, she also got a text message from Dave Farouq El-Abar during fifth period over her new cell phone. It said, U NEVER CALLED BACK. AM TAKING JASMINE TO RANGER GAME. HAVE A NICE LIFE.
I have never in my life seen anything so insensitive as that message. I swear, my blood went cold as I read it.
“Sexist pig,” Lilly said when she saw it. “Don’t even worry about it, Tina. You’ll find somebody better.”
“I d-don’t want someone b-better.” Tina sobbed. “I only want D-Dave!”
It breaks my heart to see her in such pain—not just emotional pain, either: it was no joke trying to get up to the third-floor stairwell on her crutches. I have promised faithfully to sit with her while she works through her anguish (Lilly is taking her through Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages of break-up grief: Denial—I can’t believe he would do this to me; Anger— Jasmine is probably a cow who Frenches on the first date; Bargaining—maybe if I tell him I’ll call him faithfully every night, he’ll take me back; Depression—I’ll never love another man again; Acceptance—well, I guess he was kind of selfish). Of course being here with Tina, instead of in French class, means I am risking possible suspension, which is the penalty for skipping class here at Albert Einstein.
But what is more important, my disciplinary record, or my friend?
Besides, Lars is keeping a lookout at the bottom of the stairs. If Mr. Kreblutz, the head custodian, comes along, Lars is going to whistle the Genovian anthem, and we’ll flatten ourselves against the wall by the old gym mats (which are quite smelly, by the way, and undoubtedly a fire hazard).
Although I am deeply saddened for her, I can’t help feeling that Tina’s situation has taught me a valuable lesson: that the Jane Eyre technique of boyfriend-handling is not necessarily the most reliable method by which to hang on to your boyfriend.
Except that, according to Grandmère, who did manage to hang on to a husband for forty years, the quickest way to turn a guy off is to chase after him.
And certainly Lilly, who has the longest-running relationship of any of us, does not chase after Boris. Really, if anything, he is the one doing the chasing. But that is probably because Lilly is too busy with her various lawsuits and projects to pay much more than perfunctory attention to him.
