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And though it might be really manipulative and awful of me to use my past romantic relationship with Michael to try to get him to let us jump to the head of the CardioArm waiting list, this is Genovia we’re talking about.
And it’s my royal duty to do whatever I have to do for my country.
I haven’t spent the past four years with the combs of a tiara digging into my head for nothing, you know.
I guess I didn’t just learn which one was the soup spoon from Grandmère, after all.
I better go call Tina.
Saturday, April 29, 1:45 p.m., Columbia
University Medical Center, Simon and Louise
Templeman Patient Care Pavilion
This. Was. The. Worst. Idea. Ever.
I know this morning when I woke up I had some big noble idea that I was doing something way important for the people of Genovia.
And—okay, I’ll admit it, maybe in some twisted way, I guess, for my dad.
But in actuality, this is just insane. I mean, Michael’s entire family is here. All the Moscovitzes! Even his grandma! Yes! Nana Moscovitz is here!
I’m so embarrassed I could die.
And, okay, I’ve made us all sit in the very back row (security here is very lax: They let us all in, even though we only had the two passes), where, thank God, it doesn’t appear there’s any chance any of them is going to see us (but Lars and Wahim, Tina’s bodyguard, are so tall, what are the chances of them not being noticed? I’ve made them wait outside. They’re so mad at me. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t risk the chance of Lilly seeing them).
And I know the whole point of this was my actually speaking to Michael.
But I didn’t know Lilly was going to be here! Which was incredibly stupid of me. I should have assumed, of course. I mean, that Michael’s family (including his sister, who brought Kenny, I mean Kenneth, who is wearing a SUIT. And Lilly is wearing a dress…and she’s taken out all her piercings. I barely recognized her) would, of course, be at such an important and prestigious event.
How can I go up and talk to Michael in front of her? It’s true Lilly and I are not exactly at each other’s throats anymore, but we’re definitely not friends, either. The last thing I need right now is her revving up ihatemiathermopolis.com again.
Which I could totally see her doing if she suspected I was trying to use her brother to, oh, I don’t know, get a CardioArm for my country, or something.
Lana says it’s no big deal and I should just go up to the Drs. Moscovitz and say hi. Lana says she’s totally on friendly terms with all her exes’ parents (which, considering it’s Lana, is, like, half of the population of the Upper East Side), even though she’s used most of their sons for sex, and even worse things (…such as? What is worse than using a boy for sex? I don’t even want to know. Lana took Tina and me to the Pink Pussycat Boutique last year because she said we needed educating in that department, and while I did make a purchase, it was only a Hello Kitty personal massager. But you don’t even want to know what Lana bought).
But Lana’s never dated any guy for as long as Michael and I dated. And she wasn’t best friends with any of those guys’ sisters, or made them as mad at her as Lilly was mad at me. So going up to them at public events and being all, “Hey, how’s it going?” is no big deal for Lana.
I, on the other hand, cannot go up to the Drs. Moscovitz and go, “Oh, hey, hi, Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz. How you doing? Remember me? The girl who acted like a total byotch to your son and who used to be best friends with your daughter? Oh, and hey, Nana Moscovitz. How’s that rugelach you used to make? Yum, I used to love that stuff! Good times.”
Anyway. This donation thing is turning out to be a huge event (fortunately, because there are a ton of people I can slouch behind and remain unseen). There’s press from everywhere, Anesthesia magazine to PC World. They’ve got hors d’oeuvres and stuff, too, and a lot of model-looking types slinking around in tight red dresses, passing around flutes of champagne.
There’s no sign of Michael so far, though. He’s probably in a green room somewhere, getting a massage from one of those slinky-dress girls. That’s what bazillionaire robotic-arm inventors do before giving away major donations to their alma maters. I’m just guessing.
Tina says I should stop writing in my journal and pay attention in case Michael comes in (she doesn’t believe my slinky-model-massage theory). Also, she thinks the dark sunglasses and beret I’m wearing are only drawing attention to myself, not serving as a good disguise.
But what does Tina know? This has never happened to her before. She—
Oh.
My.
God.
Michael just walked in….
I can’t breathe.
