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Except that I can’t just go up and ask Michael what the deal is between us, because right now he is busy with Boris, going over band stuff. Michael’s band is comprised of (so far) Michael (precision bass), Boris (electric violin), that tall guy Paul from the Computer Club (keyboards), this guy from the AEHS marching band called Trevor (guitar), and Felix, this scary-looking twelfth grader with a goatee that’s bushier than Mr. Gianini’s (drums). They still don’t have a name for the band, or a place to practice. But they seem to think that Mr. Kreblutz, the head custodian, will let them into the band practice rooms on weekends if they can get him tickets to the Westminster Kennel Show next month. Mr. Kreblutz is a huge bichon-frise fan.
The fact that Michael can concentrate on all this band stuff while our relationship is falling apart is just further proof that he is a true musician, completely dedicated to his art. I, being the talentless freak that I am, can of course think of nothingbut my heartbreak. Michael’s ability to remain focused in spite of any personal pain he might be suffering is evidence of his genius.
Either that or he never cared t
hat much about me in the first place.
I prefer to believe the former.
Oh, that I had some kind of outlet, such as music, into which to pour the suffering I am currently feeling! But alas, I’m no artist. I just have to sit here in silent pain, while around me, more gifted souls express their innermost angst through song, dance, and filmography.
Well, okay, just through filmography since there are no singers or dancers in fifth-period G and T. Instead we just have Lilly, putting together what she is calling her quintessential episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is , a show that will explore the seamy underbelly of that American institution known as Starbucks. It is Lilly’s contention that Starbucks, through the introduction of the Starbucks card (with which caffeine addicts can pay for their fix electronically) is actually a secret branch of the Central Intelligence Agency that is tracing the movements of America’s intelligentsia—writers, editors, and other known liberal agitators—through their coffee consumption.
Whatever. I don’t even like coffee.
Aw, crud. The bell.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: Who cares?
English: Everything sucks.
Bio: I hate life.
Health and Safety: Mr. Wheeton is in love, too. I should warn him to get out now, while he still can.
G & T: I shouldn’t even be in this class.
French: Why does this language even exist? Everyone there speaks English anyway.
World Civ: What does it matter? We’re all just going to die.
Friday, January 23, 6 p.m., Grandmère’s suite at the Plaza
Grandmère made me come here straight after school so that Paolo could start getting us ready for the ball. I didn’t know Paolo makes house calls, but apparently he does. Only for royalty, he assured me, and, of course, Madonna.
I explained to him about how I am growing out my hair on account of boys liking long hair better than short hair, and Paolo made some tut-tutting noises, but he slapped some curlers into it to try to get rid of the triangular shape, and I guess it worked, because my hair looks pretty good. All of me looks pretty good. On the outside, anyway.
Too bad that inside, I’m completely busted.
I am trying not to show it, though. You know, because I want Grandmère to think I am having a good time. I mean, I am only doing this for her. Because she is an old lady and my grandmother and she campaigned against the Nazis and all of that, for which someone has to give her some props.
I just hope someday she appreciates it. My supreme sacrifice, I mean. But I doubt she ever will. Seventy-something-year-old ladies—particularly dowager princesses—never seem to remember what it was like to be fourteen and in love.
Well, I guess it is time to go. Grandmère has on this slinky black number with glitter all over it. She looks like Diana Ross. Only with no eyebrows. And old. And white.
She says I look like a snowdrop. Hmmm, just what I always wanted, to look like a snowdrop.
Maybe that’s my secret talent. I have the amazing ability to resemble a snowdrop.
My parents must be so proud.
Friday, January 23, 8 p.m., bathroom at the Contessa Trevanni’s Fifth Avenue mansion
Yep. In the bathroom. In the bathroom once again, where I always seem to end up at dances. Why is that?
The Contessa’s bathroom is a little bit overdone. It is nice and everything, but I don’t know if I’d have chosen flaming wall sconces as part of my bathroom decor. I mean, even at the palace, we don’t have any flaming wall sconces. Although it looks very romantic and Ivanhoe -y and all, it is actually a pretty serious fire hazard, besides being probably a health risk, considering the carcinogens they must be giving off.
