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Except stay far, far away from Michael Moscovitz.
I just can’t believe I bought J.P. all that cologne. When it turned out cologne had nothing to do with it in the first place. It was his genes all along.
Who knew?
Well…me, I guess. I just didn’t put it all together until the test today.
I guess I have had a lot on my mind, what with trying to get my dad elected and pick a college and all.
I blame the educational system in this country. Why did they wait until the last semester my senior year to tell me all this—about MHC, I mean? This is information that might have been useful to me, oh, I don’t know, around about ninth grade, maybe!
The big question now is: How am I going to avoid smelling Michael during lunch tomorrow?
I don’t know. I guess I’ll just stay as far away from him as I can. I certainly won’t hug him this time. If he asks for a hug, I’ll just say I have a cold.
Yes! That’s it. And I don’t want him to catch it.
God. Genius.
I can’t believe Kenneth is our class valedictorian. It should really be me. If they gave out class valedictorian for LIFE lessons, it would be.
Thursday, May 4, Lunch
Dad just called with more Moscovitz news.
This time it was about Lilly.
Seriously, I should stop purchasing food here, since I’m only going to end up dropping it on the floor. Although since tomorrow is Senior Skip Day…I guess this is the last day I’m going to have this particular problem.
“Do you remember how she was filming everyone at your party?” Dad asked, when I picked up the phone, convinced this time Grandmère really had keeled over.
“Yeah…” I was picking bits of salad out of my hair. Everybody else was giving me the evil eye, picking bits of salad out of their own hair. Though it wasn’t my fault, really, I’d dropped my Fiesta Taco Bowl.
“Well, she’s crafted a campaign commercial from the footage. It began airing on Genovian television last night at midnight.”
I groaned. Everyone looked politely inquisitive—except J.P. He got a call on his own cell phone at that exact moment.
“It’s Sean,” he said apologetically. “I’ve got to take this. I’ll be right back.” He got up to go take the call outside, away from the din of the caf.
“How bad’s the damage?” I asked. Dad’s numbers had gotten a little better since Michael’s donation, and the press Dad had received because of it.
But René was still leading in the polls.
“No,” Dad said. He sounded strange. “You don’t understand, Mia. Her commercial’s in support of me. Not against me.”
“What?” I asked him breathlessly. “What did you say?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “I just thought you should know. I’ve e-mailed you a link to it. It’s really lovely, actually. I can’t imagine how she accomplished it. You said she has her own show in Korea, or something? I suppose she had her people there put it together, and then they had someone over here—”
“Dad,” I said, my chest feeling tight. “I’ve got to go….”
I hung up, then went straight to my e-mail. Scrolling through all the hysterical messages from Grandmère about what I was going to wear to the prom and then the next day, to graduation (like it even matters, since I’ll have my graduation gown on over whatever it is), I found Dad’s e-mail and clicked on it. The link to Lilly’s commercial was there, and I clicked on that. The ad began to play.
And he was right. It was lovely. It was a sixty-second clip featuring all the celebrities from my party—the Clintons, the Obamas, the Beckhams, Oprah, Brad and Angelina, Madonna, Bono, and more—all saying sweet, very sincere-sounding things about my dad, about stuff he’d done for Genovia in the past, and how Genovian voters ought to support him. Interspersed between the brief celebrity endorsements were gorgeous shots of Genovia (which I realized Lilly had taken during her many trips with me there), of the blue sparkling waters of the bay, the green cliffs above it, the white beaches, and the palace, all looking pristine and untouched by touristy schlock.
At the end of the ad, some curlicue script came on that said, “Preserve Genovia’s historic wonder. Vote for Prince Phillipe.”
By the time the music—which I recognized as a ballad Michael had written, way back in his Skinner Box days—had ended, I was almost in tears.
