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It is my own personal presidential Bay of Pigs.
Seriously. We learned all about the Bay of Pigs in World Civ—where a group of military strategists back in the sixties came up with this plan to invade Cuba and overthrow Castro, and talked President Kennedy into agreeing to it, only to get to Cuba and find out they were outnumbered and also that no one had checked to make sure the mountains they were supposed to flee into for safety were actually on that side of the island (they weren’t).
Many historians and sociologists have blamed the Bay of Pigs on an incidence of “groupthink,” a phenomenon that occurs when a group’s desire for unanimity makes them reluctant to actually check their facts—like when NASA refused to listen to the engineers’ warnings about the spa
ce shuttle Challenger because they were so adamant about launching it by a certain date.
This is clearly EXACTLY what went on with the recycling bins.
Mrs. Hill—if you really think about it—could be called a groupthink enabler…. I mean, she didn’t exactly do a whole lot to try to stop us. The same could be said for Lars, for that matter, although ever since he got his new Sidekick he hardly ever pays attention in class anyway. Mrs. Hill refused to offer any workable solutions to the situation, such as a loan of the five grand we’re missing.
Which, if you ask me, is a cop-out, given that, as our advisor, Mrs. Hill is at least partly responsible for this debacle. I mean, yes, I am president, and ultimately, the responsibility lies with me.
Still, there is a reason we have an advisor. I am only fifteen years and ten months old. I should not have to shoulder the burden for ALL of this. I mean, Mrs. Hill should take SOME of the responsibility. Where was she when we blew our entire annual budget on top-of-the-line recycling bins with built-in crushers?
I’ll tell you where: fueling her American flag–embroidered sweater addiction by watching the Home Shopping Network in the teachers’ lounge and paying absolutely no attention!
Oh, great. Grandmère just yelled at me.
“Amelia, are you listening to a word I’m saying, or am I just speaking to myself?”
“Of course, I’m listening, Grandmère.”
What I really need to do is start paying attention more in my economics class. Then maybe I might learn how to hang on to my money a little better.
“I see,” Grandmère said. “What was I saying, then?”
“Um. I forgot.”
“John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth. Have you ever heard of him?”
Oh, God. Not this again. Because Grandmère’s latest thing? She’s buying waterfront property.
Only of course Grandmère couldn’t be happy just to own ordinary waterfront property. So she’s buying an island.
That’s right. Her own island.
The island of Genovia, to be exact.
The real Genovia isn’t an island, but the one Grandmère is buying is. An island, I mean. It’s off the coast of Dubai, where this construction company has made a bunch of islands clustered together into shapes you can see all the way up in the space shuttle. Like they made a couple of island clusters shaped like palm trees, called The Palm.
Now they’re making one called The World. There are islands shaped like France and South Africa and India and even like New Jersey, which, when viewed from the sky, end up looking just like a map of the world, like this:
Obviously, the islands are not built to scale. Because then the island of Genovia would be the size of my bathroom. And India would be the size of Pennsylvania. All the islands are basically the same size—big enough on which to put a humongous estate with a couple of guesthouses and a pool—so people like Grandmère can buy an island shaped like the state or country of their choice, and then live on it, just like Tom Hanks did in the movie Castaway.
Except that he didn’t do it by choice.
Plus his island didn’t have a fifty-thousand-square-foot villa on it with a state-of-the-art security system and central air and a pool with a waterfall in it, like Grandmère’s will.
There’s just one problem with Grandmère’s island: She’s not the only bidder.
“John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth,” she said again, all urgently. “Don’t tell me you don’t know him. He goes to your school!”
“A guy who goes to my school is bidding on the faux island of Genovia?” That seemed kind of hard to believe. I mean, I know I have the smallest allowance of anyone at AEHS, since my dad is worried about me morphing into someone like Lana Weinberger, who spends all her money bribing bouncers into letting her into clubs she’s not old enough to get into legally yet (her rationale is that Lindsay Lohan does it, so why can’t she?). Plus, Lana also has her own American Express card that she uses for everything—from lattes at Ho’s Deli to G-strings at Agent Provocateur—and her dad just pays the bill every month. Lana is so LUCKY.
But still. Someone getting enough allowance to buy his own ISLAND?
“Not the boy who goes to your school. His FATHER.” Grandmère’s eyelids, with their tattooed black liner, were squinted together, always a bad sign. “John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the THIRD is bidding against me. His SON goes to your school. He is a grade ahead of you. Surely you know him. Apparently, he has theatrical ambitions—not unlike his father, who is a cigar-chomping, foul-mouthed producer.”
