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Not my grandmother. Oh, no. My grandmother was just like, “Well, then you obviously didn’t do as I instructed.”
Jeez! Blame the victim, Grandma!
“Whaddaya mean?” I blurted out.
So of course Grandmère was all, “What do I mean? Is that what you said? Then ask me properly.”
“What… do… you… mean… Grandmère?” I asked her, more politely, though inwardly, of course, I didn’t feel very polite at all.
“I mean that you haven’t done as I said. I told you that if you found the right incentive, your Michael would be only too happy to escort you to the prom. But clearly, you would rather sit around and sulk than take the sort of action necessary to get what it is that you want.”
I took umbrage at that.
“I beg your pardon, Grandmère,” I said, “but I have done everything humanly possible to convince Michael to go to the prom.” Short, of course, of actually explaining to him why it was so important to me to go. Because I’m not so sure even if I did tell Michael why it was so important to me, he’d agree to go. And how much would THAT suck? You know, if I bared my soul to the man I love, only to have him decide that his desire not to attend something as lame as the prom was stronger than his desire to see my dream come true?
“On the contrary, you have not,” Grandmère said. She stubbed out her cigarette and, exhaling plumes of gray smoke from her nostrils—it is totally shocking how the weight of the Genovian throne rests solely on my slender shoulders, and yet my own grandmother remains unconcerned about the effects of her secondhand smoke on my lungs—went, “I’ve explained this to you before, Amelia. In situations where opposing parties are striving to achieve detente, and yet are failing to reach it, it is always in your best interest to step back and ask yourself what the enemy wants.”
I blinked at her through all the smoke. “I’m supposed to figure out what Michael wants?”
“Correct.”
I shrugged. “Easy. He doesn’t want to go to the prom. Because it’s lame.”
“No. That is what Michael doesn’t want. What does he want ?”
I had to think about that one.
“Um,” I said, watching Rommel as he, seeing that Grandmère was otherwise occupied, leaned over and surreptitiously began licking the fur off one of his paws. “I guess… Michael wants to play in his band?”
“Bien,” Grandmère said, which means “good” in French. “But what else might he want?”
“Um,” I said. “I don’t know.” I was still thinking about the band thing. It is the duty of the freshman, sophomore, and junior classes to put on the prom for the seniors, even though we ourselves do not get to go, unless invited by a senior. I tried to remember what the prom committee had reported in The Atom, so far as the arrangements they’d made for music at the prom. I think they’d hired a DJ or something.
“Of course you know what Michael wants,” Grandmère said sharply. “Michael wants what every man wants.”
“You mean… ” I felt stunned by the rapidity with which my grandmother’s mind worked. “You mean I should ask the prom committee to let Michael’s band play at the prom?”
Grandmère started to choke for some reason. “Wh-What?” she demanded, hacking up half a lung, practically.
I sat back in my seat, completely at a loss for words. It had never occurred to me before, but Grandmère’s solution to the problem was totally perfect. Nothing would delight Michael more than an actual, paying gig for Skinner Box. And I would get to go to the prom… and not just with the man of my dreams, but with an actual member of the band. Is there anything cooler in the world than being at the prom with a member of the band playing at the prom? Um, no. No, there is not.
“Grandmère,” I breathed. “You’re a genius!”
Grandmère was slurping up the last of the ice in her Sidecar. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Amelia,” she said.
But I knew that, for the first time in her life, Grandmère was just being modest.
Then I remembered that I was supposed to be angry with her, on account of Jangbu. So I went, “But, Grandmère, be serious a minute. This thing with the busboys… the strike. You’ve got to do something. It’s all your fault, you know.”
Grandmère eyed me through all the blue smoke coming out of the new cigarette she’d just lit.
“Why, you ungrateful little chit,” she said. “I solve all of your problems, and this is the thanks you show me?”
“I’m serious, Grandmère,” I said. “You’ve got to call Les Hautes Manger and tell them about Rommel. Tell them it was your fault that Jangbu tripped, and that they’ve got to hire him back. It isn’t fair, otherwise. I mean, the poor guy lost his job!”
“He’ll find another,” Grandmère said dismissively.
