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Um, hello, Mr. G, like I didn’t just see you AT BREAKFAST. You couldn’t have mentioned this THEN?
Oh, my God, Lana just turned around and slapped a copy of New York Newsday on my desk. There is a huge picture on the cover of Grandmère leaving Les Hautes Manger with Rommel cowering in her arms, an
d bits of lobster bisque still stuck to her skirt.
“Why is your family so full of FREAKS?” Lana wants to know.
You know what, Lana? That is a very good question.
Friday, May 2, French
I cannot believe Mr. G. The nerve of him, suggesting that my relationship with Michael is DISTRACTING me from my schoolwork! As if Michael has ever done anything but try to help me to understand Algebra. Hello!
And okay, so Michael comes in to visit me every morning before class starts. So what? How is that harming anyone? I mean, yeah, it makes LANA mad, because Josh Richter NEVER comes in to see HER before class, because he is too busy admiring his highlights in the mens’-room mirror. But how is THAT distracting me from my schoolwork?
I am going to have to have a serious talk with my mother, because I think the impending birth of his first child is turning Mr. G into a misanthrope. So what if I got a 69 on the last quiz? A person can have an off day, can’t she? That does NOT mean that my grades are slipping, or that I am spending too much time with Michael, or thinking about smelling his neck every waking moment of the day, or anything like that.
And Mr. G suggesting that I spent the entirety of second period this morning writing in my journal is completely laughable. I fully paid attention to his little lecture about the polynomials toward the last ten minutes or so of class. PLEASE!
And that thing where I wrote HRH Michael Moscovitz Renaldo seventeen times at the bottom of my worksheet was just a JOKE. God. Mr. G, what happened to you? You used to have a sense of humor.
Friday, May 2, Bio
M,
So… did he ask you last night? At your birthday dinner.
—S
No.
Mia! There are exactly eight days until the prom. You are going to have to take matters into your own hands and just ask him.
SHAMEEKA! You know I can’t do that.
Well, it’s getting to be crunch time. If he doesn’t ask you by the party tomorrow night, you aren’t going to be able to say yes if he DOES ask you. I mean, a girl has to have some pride.
That is very easy for someone like you to say, Shameeka. You are a cheerleader.
Yeah. And you’re a princess!
You know what I mean.
Mia, you can’t let him take you for granted in this way. You have to keep boys on their toes… no matter how many songs they write for you, or snowflake necklaces they give you. You’ve got to let them know YOU’RE in charge.
You sound just like my grandmother sometimes.
EEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWW!
Friday, May 2,
Oh, my God, Lilly will NOT shut up about Jangbu and his plight. Look, I feel for the guy, too, but I am not about to violate the poor man’s privacy by trying to track down his home phone number—especially not using a certain royal’s BRAND-SPANKING-NEW CELL PHONE.
I have not even gotten to make ONE call from it. Not ONE. Lilly has already made five.
This busboy thing is totally out of control. Leslie Cho, The Atom’s editor-in-chief, stopped by our table at lunch and asked if I could do an in-depth story on the incident for Monday’s paper. I realize that at last I have been offered my entrée into real reporting—not the cafeteria beat—but does Leslie really think I am the most appropriate person for this job? I mean, isn’t she running the risk of this story being less than completely prejudice-free and unbiased? Sure, I think Grandmère was wrong, but she’s still my GRANDMOTHER, for crying out loud.
I am not sure I really appreciate this peek into the seedy underbelly of school newspaper reporting. Working on a novel instead of writing for The Atom is starting to look more and more appealing.
