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“No, I don’t,” I snapped.
But as usual, I was fully lying. I do feel guilty about killing J.P. in my story.
And I hereby swear I will never kill another character based on a real person in my fiction again.
Except when I write my book about Grandmère, of course.
Friday, March 5, 10 p.m., the Moscovitzes’ living room
Okay, these movies Michael is making me watch? They are so depressing! Dystopic science fiction just isn’t my thing. I mean, even the WORD “dystopic” bums me out. Because dystopia is the OPPOSITE of utopia, which means an idyllic or totally peaceful society. Like the utopian society they tried to build in New Harmony, Indiana, where my mom made me go one time when we were trying to get away from Mamaw and Papaw during a visit to Versailles (the one in Indiana).
In New Harmony, everyone got together and planned this, like, perfect city with all these pretty buildings and pretty streets and pretty schools and stuff. I know it sounds repulsive. But it’s not. New Harmony is actually cool.
A dystopic society, on the other hand, is NOT cool. There are no pretty buildings or streets or schools. It’s a lot like the Lower East Side used to be before all the rich dot-com geniuses moved down there and they opened all those tapas bars and three-thousand-dollar-a-month-maintenance-fee condos, actually. You know, one of those places where everything is pretty much gas stations and strip clubs, with the occasional crack dealer on the corner thrown in for good measure.
Which is the kind of society heroes in pretty much all the dystopic sci-fi movies we’ve seen tonight have lived.
Omega Man? Dystopic society brought on by mass plague that killed most of the population and left everybody (except Charlton Heston) a zombie.
Logan’s Run? Utopian society that turns out to be dystopic when it is revealed that in order to feed the population with the limited resources left to them after a nuclear holocaust, the government is forced to disintegrate its citizens on their thirtieth birthdays.
2001: A Space Odyssey is up next, but I seriously don’t think I can take it anymore.
The only thing making any of this bearable is that I get to snuggle up next to Michael on the couch.
And that we get to make out during the slow parts.
And that during the scary parts, I get to bury my head against his chest and he wraps his arms around me all tight and I get to smell his neck.
And while this would be more than satisfying under normal circumstances, there is the small fact that whenever things start getting REALLY passionate between Michael and me—like, heated enough for him to actually press pause on the remote—we can hear Lilly down the hall screaming, “A curse upon you, Alboin, for being the scurrilous dog I always knew you to be!”
Can I just say it’s very hard to get swept away in the arms of your one true love when you can hear someone yelling, “You would take this common Genovian wench to wed when you could have me, Alboin? Fie!”
Which may be why Michael just went to the kitchen to get us some more popcorn. It looks like 2001: A Space Odyssey may be our only hope for drowning out Lilly’s not-so-dulcet tones as she and Lars rehearse her lines.
Although—seeing as how I’m making this new effort to stop lying so much—I should probably admit that it’s not just Lilly’s strident rehearsing that’s keeping me from being able to give Michael my full attention, make out–wise. The truth is, this party thing is weighing down on me like that banana snake Britney wore at the VMAs that one time.
It’s killing me inside. It really is. I mean, I made the dip—French onion, you know, from the Knorr’s packet—and everything, to make him think I’m looking forward to tomorrow night and everything.
But I’m so not.
At least I have a plan, though. Thanks to Lana. About what I’m going to do during the party. I mean, the dancing thing. And I have an outfit. Well, sort of. I think I might have cut my skirt a little TOO short.
Although to Lana, there’s probably no such thing.
Oooooh, Michael’s back, with more popcorn. Kissing time!
Saturday, March 6, midnight
Close call: When I got home from the Moscovitzes’ this evening, my mom was waiting up for me (well, not exactly waiting up for ME. She was watching that three-part Extreme Surgery on Discovery Health about the guy with the enormous facial birthmark that even eight surgeries couldn’t totally get rid of. And he couldn’t even put a mask on that side of his face like the Phantom of the Opera guy, because his birthmark was all bumpy and stuck out too far for any mask to fit over. And Christine would just be all, Um, I can totally see your scars even with your mask, dude. Plus he probably didn’t have an underground grotto to take her to anyway. But whatever).
Even though I tried to sneak in all quietly, Mom caught me, and we had to have the conversation I’d really been hoping to avoid:
Mom (putting the TV on mute):
Mia, what is this I hear about your grandmother putting on some kind of musical about your ancestress Rosagunde and casting you in the lead?
Me:
