Princess in the Spotlight Read online

  “Oh, no,” Grandmère said. “Pink is so inappropriate for anything but a wedding.”

  Why me?

  When my lesson was over—apparently today’s consisted of sitting there listening to my two grandmothers complain about how their children (and grandchildren) don’t appreciate them—Grandmère stood up and said to Mamaw, “So we understand each other, Shirley?”

  And Mamaw said, “Oh, yes, Your Highness.”

  This sounded very ominous to me. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that my dad hasn’t done a single solitary thing to bail Mom out of what is clearly going to be a very messy situation. According to Grandmère, a limo is going to swing by our place tomorrow evening to pick up me, Mom, and Mr. Gianini, and whisk us off to the Plaza. It’s going to be pretty obvious to everyone when my mom refuses to get into the car that there isn’t going to be any wedding.

  I think I am going to have to take matters into my own hands. I know Dad assured me that everything is under control, but we’re talking Grandmère. GRANDMÈRE!

  During the ride downtown I tried pumping Mamaw for information—you know, about what she and Grandmère meant when they said they “understood” one another.

  But she wouldn’t tell me a thing . . . except that she and Papaw were too tired, what with all the sightseeing they’ve been doing—not to mention worrying about Hank, whom they still hadn’t heard from—to go out for dinner tonight, and were going to stay in and order room service.

  Which is just as well, because I’m pretty sure if I have to hear one more person say the words “medium rare,” I might hurl.

  More Thursday, October 30, 9 p.m.

  Well, Mr. Gianini is all moved in. I have already played nine games of foozball. Boy, are my wrists tired.

  It’s not really weird having him here on a permanent basis, because he was always hanging around before anyway. The only difference really is the big TV, the pinball machine, the foozball table, and the drum set in the corner where we normally keep Mom’s life-size metallic gold bust of Elvis.

  But the coolest thing is the pinball machine. It’s called Motorcycle Gang, and it has all these very realistic drawings of tattooed, leather-wearing Hell’s Angels on it. Also, it has pictures of the Hell’s Angels’ girlfriends—who don’t have very much clothing on at all—bending over and sticking out their enormous bosoms. When you sink a ball, the pinball machine makes the noise of a motorcycle engine revving very loudly.

  My mother took one look at it and just stood there, shaking her head.

  I know it’s misogynistic and sexist and all, but it’s also really, really neat.

  Mr. Gianini told me today that he thought it would be all right for me to call him Frank now, considering the fact that we are practically related. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. So I just call him Hey. I go, “Hey, can you pass the parmesan?” and “Hey, have you seen the remote control?”

  See? No names needed. Pretty clever, huh?

  Of course, it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing. There’s the small fact that tomorrow, there’s supposedly going to be this huge celebrity wedding that I know has not been canceled, and that I also know my mother still hasn’t the slightest intention of attending.

  But when I ask her about it, instead of freaking out, my mom just smiles all secretively, and says, “Don’t worry about it, Mia.”

  But how can I help worrying about it? The only thing that is definitely off is my mom and Mr. G’s trip to the courthouse. I asked if they still wanted me to come dressed as the Empire State Building, thinking I should probably start working on my costume, and all, and my mom just got this furtive look in her eyes and said why don’t we just hold off on that.

  I could kind of tell she didn’t want to talk about it, so I clammed up and went and called Lilly. I figured it was about time she gave me some explanation as to just what was going on here.

  But when I called her, the line was busy. Which meant there was a good chance Lilly or Michael was online. I took a gamble and instant-messaged Lilly. She wrote back right away.

  FTLOUIE: Lilly, just where did you and Hank disappear to today? And don’t lie and say you weren’t together.

  WMNRULE: I fail to see what business it is of yours.

  FTLOUIE: Well, let’s just say that if you want to hang on to your boyfriend, you better come up with a good explanation.

  WMNRULE: I have a very good explanation. But I am not likely to share it with you. You’ll just blab it to Beverly Bellerieve. Oh, and twenty-two million viewers.

  FTLOUIE: That is so totally unfair. Look, Lilly, I’m worried about you. It isn’t like you to skip school. What about your book about high school society? You may have missed out on some valuable material for it.

  WMNRULE: Oh, really? Did something happen today worth recording?

  FTLOUIE: Well, some of the seniors snuck into the teachers’ lounge and put a fetal pig in the mini-fridge.

  WMNRULE: Gosh, I’m so sorry I missed that. Is there anything else, Mia? Because I am trying to research something on the Web right now.

  Yes, there was something else. Didn’t she know how wrong it was to be seeing two boys at the same time? Especially when some of us don’t even have one boy? Couldn’t she see how selfish and mean-spirited that was?

  But I didn’t write that. Instead, I wrote:

  FTLOUIE: Well, Boris was pretty upset, Lilly. I mean, he totally suspects something.

  WmnRULE: Boris has got to learn that in a loving relationship, it is important to establish bonds of trust. That is something you might keep in mind yourself, Mia.

  I realize, of course, that Lilly is talking about our relationship—hers and mine. But if you think about it, it applies to more than just Lilly and Boris, and Lilly and me. It applies to me and my dad, too. And me and my mom. And me and . . . well, just about everybody.

  Was this, I wondered, a profound moment? Should I get out my English journal?

  It was right after this that it happened: I got instant-messaged by someone else. By Jo-C-rox himself!

  JOCROX: So are you going to Rocky Horror tomorrow?

  Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD. OH, MY GOD!

  Jo-C-rox is going to Rocky Horror tomorrow.

  And so is Michael.

  Really, there is only one logical explanation that can be drawn from this: Jo-C-rox is Michael. Michael is Jo-C-rox. He HAS to be. He just HAS to be.

  Right?

  I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to jump up from my computer and run around my room and scream and laugh at the same time.

  Instead—and I don’t know where I got the presence of mind to do this, I wrote back:

  FTLOUIE: I hope so.

  I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Michael is Jo-C-rox.

  Right?

  What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

  Friday, October 31, Homeroom

  I woke with the strangest feeling of foreboding. I couldn’t figure out why for a few minutes. I lay there in bed, listening to the rain patter against my window. Fat Louie was at the end of my bed, kneading the comforter and purring very loudly.

  Then I remembered: Today, according to my grandmother, is the day my pregnant mother is supposed to marry my Algebra teacher in a huge ceremony at the Plaza Hotel, with musical accompaniment courtesy of John Tesh.

  I lay there for a minute, wishing my temperature was one hundred and two again, so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed and face what was sure to be a day of drama and hurt feelings.

  And then I remembered my e-mail from the night before, and jumped right out of bed.

  Michael is my secret admirer! Michael is Jo-C-rox!

  And with any luck, by the end of the night, he’ll have admitted it to my face!

  Friday, October 31, Algebra

  Mr. Gianini is not here today. Instead, we have a substitute teacher named Mrs. Krakowski.

  It is very strange that Mr. G isn’t here, because he was certainly in the loft this
morning. We played a game of foozball before Lars showed up in the limo. We even offered Mr. G a ride to school, but he said he was coming in later.

  Really later, it looks like.

  A lot of people aren’t here today, actually. Michael, for instance, didn’t catch a ride with us this morning. Lilly says that is because he had last-minute problems printing out a paper that is due today.

  But I wonder if it is really because he is too scared to face me after admitting that he is Jo-C-rox.

  Well, not that he actually admitted it. But he sort of did.

  Didn’t he?

  Mr. Howell is three times as old as Gilligan. The difference in their ages is 48. How old are Mr. Howell and Gilligan?

  T=Gilligan

  3T=Mr. Howell

  3T–T=48

  2T=48

  T=24

  Oh, Mr G, where ARE you?

  Friday, October 31, G & T

  Okay.

  I will never underestimate Lilly Moscovitz again. Nor will I suspect her of having anything but the most altruistic motives. This I hereby solemnly swear in writing.

  It was at lunch when it happened:

  We were all sitting there—me, my bodyguard, Tina Hakim Baba and her bodyguard, Lilly, Boris, Shameeka, and Ling Su. Michael, of course, sits over with the rest of the Computer Club, so he wasn’t there, but everybody else who mattered was.

  Shameeka was reading aloud to us from some of the brochures her father had gotten from girls’ schools in New Hampshire. Each one filled Shameeka with more terror, and me with more shame for ever having opened my big mouth in the first place.

  Suddenly, a shadow fell over our little table.

  We looked up.

  There stood an apparition of such godlike stature that for a minute, I think even Lilly believed the chosen people’s long lost Messiah had finally shown up.

  It turned out it was only Hank—but Hank looking as I had certainly never seen him before. He had on a black cashmere sweater beneath a clinging black leather coat, and black jeans that seemed to go on and on over his long, lean legs. His golden hair had been expertly styled and cut, and—I swear—he looked so much like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix that I actually might have believed he had wandered in off the set if it hadn’t been for the fact that on his feet, he wore cowboy boots. Black, expensive-looking ones, but cowboy boots, just the same.

  I don’t think it was my imagination that the entire crowd inside the cafeteria seemed to gasp as Hank slid into a chair at our table—the reject table, I have frequently heard it called.

  “Hello, Mia,” Hank said.

  I stared at him. It wasn’t just the clothes. There was something . . . different about him. His voice seemed deeper, somehow. And he smelled . . . well, good.

  “So,” Lilly said to him, as she scooped a glob of creamy filling out of her Ring Ding. “How’d it go?”

  “Well,” Hank said, in that same deep voice. “You’re looking at Calvin Klein’s newest underwear model.”

  Lilly sucked the filling off her finger. “Hmmm,” she said, with her mouth full. “Good for you.”

  “I owe it all to you, Lilly,” Hank said. “If it weren’t for you, they never would have signed me.”

  Then it hit me. The reason Hank seemed so different was that his Hoosier drawl was gone!

  “Now, Hank,” Lilly said. “We discussed this. It’s your natural ability that got you where you are. I just gave you a few pointers.”

  When Hank turned his gaze toward me, I saw that his sky-blue eyes were damp. “Your friend Lilly,” he said, “has done something no one’s ever done for me in my life.”

  I threw an accusing gaze at Lilly.

  I knew it. I knew they’d had sex.

  But then Hank said, “She believed in me, Mia. Believed in me enough to help me pursue my dream . . . a dream I’ve had since I was a very young boy. A lot of people—including my own Mamaw and Pa—I mean, my grandparents—told me it was a pipe dream. They told me to give it up, that it would never happen. But when I told my dream to Lilly, she held out her hand”—Hank held out his hand to illustrate this, and all of us—me, Lars, Tina, Tina’s bodyguard Wahim, Shameeka, and Ling Su—looked at that hand, the nails of which had been perfectly manicured—“and said, ‘Come with me, Hank. I will help you achieve your dream.’”

  Hank put his hand down. “And do you know what?”

  All of us—except Lilly, who went right on eating—were so astonished, we could only stare.

  Hank did not wait for us to reply. He said, “It happened. Today, it happened. My dream came true. I was signed by Ford. I am their newest male model.”

  We all blinked at him.

  “And I owe it all,” Hank said, “to this woman here.”

  Then something really shocking happened. Hank got up out of his chair, walked over to where Lilly was sitting, innocently finishing her Ring Ding, not suspecting a thing, and pulled her to a standing position.

  Then as everyone in the entire cafeteria looked on—including, I noticed, Lana Weinberger and all her cronies over at the cheerleaders’ table—my cousin Hank laid such a kiss on Lilly Moscovitz, I thought he just might suck that Ring Ding right back up again.

  When he was done kissing her, Hank let go. And Lilly, looking as if someone had just poked her with an electric prod, sank slowly back down to her seat. Hank adjusted the lapels of his leather coat and turned to me.

  “Mia,” he said. “Tell Mamaw and Papaw they’re going to have to find somebody to cover my shift at the hardware store. I ain’t—I mean, I’m not—going back to Versailles. Ever.”

  And with that, he strode from our cafeteria like a cowboy walking away from a gunfight he’d just won.

  Or I suppose I should say he started to stride from the cafeteria. Unfortunately for Hank, he didn’t make it out quite fast enough.

  Because one of the people who had observed that searing kiss he’d laid on Lilly was none other than Boris Pelkowski.

  And it was Boris Pelkowski—Boris Pelkowski, with his retainer and his sweater tucked into his pants—who stood up and said, “Not so fast, hot shot.”

  I’m not sure if Boris had just seen the movie Top Gun or what, but that hot shot came out sounding pretty menacing, considering Boris’s accent and all.

  Hank kept going. I don’t know if he hadn’t heard Boris, or if he wasn’t about to let some little violin-playing genius mess up his great exit.

  Then Boris did something completely reckless. He reached out and grabbed Hank by the arm as he went by and said, “That’s my girl you had your lips all over, pretty boy.”

  I am not even joking. Those were his exact words. Oh, how my heart thrilled to hear them! If only some guy (okay, Michael) would say something like that about me. Not the Josiest girl he’d ever met, but his girl. Boris had actually referred to Lilly as his girl! No boy has ever referred to me as his girl. Oh, I know all about feminism and how women aren’t property and it’s sexist to go around claiming them as such. But, oh! If only somebody (okay, Michael) would say I was his girl!

  Anyway, Hank just went, “Huh?”

  And then, from out of nowhere, Boris’s fist went sailing into Hank’s face. Pow!

  Only it didn’t really sound like pow. It sounded more like a thud. There was a sickening crunch of bones splintering. All of us girls gasped, thinking that Boris had marred Hank’s perfect cover-guy face.

  But we needn’t have worried: It was Boris’s hand that made the crunching sound, not Hank’s face. Hank escaped completely unscathed. Boris is the one who has to have his knuckles splinted.

  And you know what that means:

  No more Mahler.

  Whoopee!!!

  It’s unprincess-like of me, however, to gloat over another’s misfortune.

  Friday, October 31, French

  I borrowed Lars’s cell phone and called the SoHo Grand between lunch and fifth period. I mean, I figured someone should let Mamaw and Papaw know that Hank was all right. Well, a Ford model
, but all right.

  Mamaw must have been sitting by the phone, since she picked up on the first ring.

  “Clarisse?” she said. “I still haven’t heard from them.”

  Which is weird. Because Clarisse is Grandmère’s name.

  “Mamaw?” I said. “It’s me, Mia.”

  “Oh, Mia.” Mamaw laughed a little. “I’m sorry, honey. I thought you were the princess. I mean, the dowager princess. Your other grandma.”

  I went, “Uh, yeah. Well, it’s not. It’s me. And I’m just calling to tell you that I heard from Hank.”

  Mamaw shrieked so loud, I had to hold the cell phone away from my ear.

  “WHERE IS HE?” she yelled. “YOU TELL HIM FROM ME THAT WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON HIM, HE’S—”

  “Mamaw,” I cried. It was kind of embarrassing, because all sorts of people in the hallway heard her yelling and were looking at me. I tried to make myself inconspicuous by hunching behind Lars.

  “Mamaw,” I said, “he got a contract with Ford Models, Inc. He’s the newest Calvin Klein underwear model. He’s going to be a big celebrity, like—”

  “UNDERWEAR?” Mamaw yelled. “Mia, you tell that boy to call me RIGHT NOW.”

  “Well, I can’t really do that, Mamaw,” I said. “On account of the fact that—”

  “RIGHT NOW,” Mamaw repeated, “or he’s in BIG TROUBLE.”

  “Um,” I said. The bell was ringing anyway. “Okay, Mamaw. Is, um, the, uh, wedding still on?”

  “The WHAT?”

  “The wedding,” I said, wishing I could, just for once, be a normal girl who did not have to go around asking people if the royal marriage of her pregnant mother and her Algebra teacher was still on.

  “Well, of course it’s still on,” Mamaw said. “What do you think?”

  “Oh,” I said. “You, um, talked to my mom?”

  “Of course I did,” Mamaw said. “Everything is all set.”

  “Really?” I was immensely surprised. I could not picture my mother going along with this thing. Not in a million years. “And she said she’d be there?”