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This, like the trouble my mother is currently having with her bladder, is really more than I wanted to know.
Anyway, Lana was on the sidelines, in her little sleeveless blue-and-gold AEHS cheerleading micro mini. When Josh whipped his shirt off, she went running out onto the field, whooping. Then she leaped into his arms—which, considering that he was probably all sweaty, was a pretty risky endeavor, if you ask me—and they Frenched until Principal Gupta came over and whapped Josh on the back of the head with her clipboard. Then Shameeka says that Josh put Lana down and said, “Go to the prom with me, babe?”
And Lana said yes, and then ran squealing over to all her fellow cheerleaders to tell them.
And I know that one of my resolutions, now that I am fifteen, is that I am going to be nicer to people, including Lana, but really, I am having a hard time right now keeping mysel
f from stabbing my pencil into the back of her head. Well, not really, because I don’t believe violence ever solves anything. Well, except for when it comes to getting rid of Nazis and terrorists and all. But really, Lana is practically GLOATING. Before class started, she was fully on her cell phone, telling everyone. Her mother is taking her to the Nicole Miller store in SoHo on Saturday to buy her a dress.
A black off-one-shoulder dress with a butterfly hem and a slit up one side. She’s getting high heels that lace up the ankles, too, at Saks.
No doubt body glitter as well.
And I know I have a lot to feel grateful for. I mean, I have
A super, loving boyfriend who, when the royal limo pulled over to pick him and Lilly up on the way to school today, presented me with a box of cinnamon mini-muffins, my favorites from the Manhattan Muffin Company, which he’d gone all the way down to Tribeca really early in the morning to get me, in honor of my birthday.
An excellent best friend, who gave me a bright pink cat collar for Fat Louie with the words I Belong to Princess Mia written on it in rhinestones that she’d hot-glue-gunned on herself while watching old Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns.
A great mom who, even if she does talk a little too much lately about her bodily functions, nevertheless dragged herself out of bed this morning to wish me a happy birthday.
A great stepdad who swore he wouldn’t say anything in class about my birthday and embarrass me in front of everyone.
A dad who will probably give me something good for my birthday when I see him at dinner tonight, and a grandmother who, if she won’t actually give me something I like, will at least WANT me to like it, whatever heinous thing it ends up being.
I seriously don’t mean to be ungrateful for all of that, because that is so much more than so many people have. I mean, like kids in Appalachia, they are happy if they get socks for their birthday, or whatever, since their parents spend all their money on hooch.
But HELLO. IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK THAT I GET THE ONE THING FOR MY BIRTHDAY THAT I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED—and that is ONE PERFECT NIGHT AT THE PROM??????????????? I mean, Lana Weinberger is getting that, and she is not even striving to become self-actualized. She probably doesn’t even know what self-actualization means. She has never been kind to anyone in her whole entire life. So why does SHE get to go to the prom?
I am telling you, there is no justice in the world.
NONE.
Expressions with radicals can be multiplied or divided as long as the root power or value under the radical is the same.
Thursday, May 1, My Birthday, G & J
Today in honor of my birthday Michael ate lunch at my table, instead of with the Computer Club, even though it’s a Thursday. It was actually quite romantic, because it turns out that not only had he paid that little visit to the Manhattan Muffin Company this morning, but he also ditched fourth period and snuck out to Wu Liang Ye to get me the cold sesame noodles I like so much and can’t get downtown, the ones that are so spicy you need to drink TWO cans of Coke before your tongue feels normal again after you eat them.
Which was totally sweet of him, and was actually even a bit of a relief, because I have been quite worried about what Michael is going to give me as a birthday present, because I know he must feel like he has a lot to live up to, seeing as how I gave him moon rocks for his birthday.
I hope he realizes that, being a princess and all, I have access to moon rocks, but that I truly do not expect people to give me gifts that are of moon rock caliber. I mean, I hope Michael knows that I would be happy with a simple, “Mia, will you go to the prom with me?” And of course a Tiffany’s charm bracelet with a charm that says Property of Michael Moscovitz on it that I could wear everywhere I go and so the next time some European prince asks me to dance at a ball I can hold up the bracelet and be all, “Sorry, can’t you read? I belong to Michael Moscovitz.”
Except Tina says even though it would be totally great if Michael got this for me, she doesn’t think he will, because giving a girl—even his girlfriend—a bracelet that says
Property of Michael Moscovitz seems a little presumptuous and not something Michael would do. I showed Tina the collar Lilly had given me for Fat Louie, but Tina says that isn’t the same thing.
Is it wrong of me to want to be my boyfriend’s property? I mean, it’s not like I’m willing to usurp my own identity or take his name or anything if we got married (being a princess, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t, unless I abdicated the throne). In fact, chances are, the guy I marry is going to have to take MY name.
I just, you know, wouldn’t mind a LITTLE possessiveness.
Uh-oh, something is going on. Michael just got up and went to the door to make sure Mrs. Hill was firmly ensconced in the teachers’ lounge, and Boris just came out of the supply closet, but the bell hasn’t rung yet. What’s up with that?
Thursday, May 1, still My Birthday, French
I guess I needn’t have worried about what Michael was going to get me for my birthday, because just then his band showed up—yes, his band, Skinner Box, right there in the G and T room. Well, Boris was already here because he is supposed to practice his violin during G and T, but the other band members—Felix, the drummer with the goatee, tall Paul the keyboardist, and Trevor the guitar player—all cut class to set up in the G and T classroom and play me a song Michael wrote just for me. It went,
Combat boots and veggie burgers
