Third Time Lucky pd-3 Read online

  And, yes, at fourteen years of age, I suppose it's about time. I mean, all my friends have boyfriends. All of them, even Lilly, who blames the male sex for most, if not all, of society's ills.

  And, OK, Lilly's boyfriend is Boris Pelkowski, who may, at the age of fifteen, be one of the nation's leading violin virtuosos,

  but that doesn't mean he doesn't tuck his sweater into his trousers, or that more often than not he doesn't have food in his braces. Not what I would call ideal boyfriend material, but Lilly seems to like him which is all that matters.

  I guess.

  I have to admit, when Lilly - possibly the pickiest person on this planet (and I should know, having been best friends with her since the first grade) - got a boyfriend and I still didn't have one, I pretty much started to think there was something wrong with me. You know, besides my gigantism and what Lilly's parents, the Drs. Moscovitz, who are psychiatrists, call my inability to verbalize my inner rage.

  And then, one day, out of the blue, I got one. A boyfriend, I mean.

  Well, OK, not out of the blue. Kenny, from my Bio. class, started sending me all these anonymous love letters. I didn't know it was him. I kind of thought (OK, hoped) someone else was sending them. But in the end, it turned out to be Kenny. And by then I was in too deep, really, to get out. So voila. I had a boyfriend.

  Problem solved, right?

  Not. So not.

  It isn't that I don't like Kenny. I do. I really do. We have a lot in common. For instance, we both appreciate the preciousness

  of not just human, but all life forms, and refuse to dissect foetal pigs and frogs in Bio. Instead, we are writing term papers on the life cycles of various grub and mealworms.

  And we both like science fiction. Kenny knows a lot more about it than I do, but he has been very impressed so far by the extent of my familiarity with the works of Robert A. Heinlein and Isaac Asimov, both of whom we were forced to read in school (though he doesn't seem to remember this).

  I haven't told Kenny that I actually find most science fiction boring, since there seems to be very few girls in it.

  There are a lot of girl characters in Japanese anime, which Kenny also really likes, and which he has decided to devote his life to promoting (when he is not busy finding a cure for cancer). Unfortunately, I have noticed that most of the girls in Japanese anime seem to have misplaced their bras.

  Plus I really think it might be detrimental to a fighter pilot to have a lot of long hair floating around in the cockpit while she is gunning down the forces of evil.

  But like I said, I haven't mentioned any of this to Kenny. And mostly, we get along great. We have a fun time together. And in some ways, it's very nice to have a boyfriend, you know? Like, I don't have to worry now about not being asked to the Albert Einstein High School Non-Denominational Winter Dance (so-called because its former title, the Albert Einstein High School Christmas Dance, offended many of our non-Christmas-celebrating students).

  And why is it that I do not have to worry about not being asked to the biggest dance of the school year, with the exception of prom?

  Because I'm going with Kenny.

  Well, OK, he hasn't exactly asked me yet, but he will. Because he is my boyfriend.

  Isn't that great? Sometimes I think I must be the luckiest girl in the whole world. I mean, really. Think about it: I may not be pretty, but I am not grossly disfigured; I live in New York City, the coolest place on the planet; I'm a princess; I have a boyfriend. What more could a girl ask for?

  Oh, God.

  WHO AM I KIDDING?????

  This boyfriend of mine? Yeah, here's the scoop on him:

  I DON'T EVEN LIKE HIM.

  Well, OK, it's not that I don't like him. But this boyfriend thing, I just don't know. Kenny's a nice enough guy and all - don't get me wrong. I mean, he is funny and not boring to be with, certainly. And he's pretty cute, you know, in a tall, skinny sort of way.

  It's just that when I see Kenny walking down the hall, my heart so totally doesn't start beating faster, the way girls' hearts start beating faster in those teen romances my friend Tina Hakim Baba is always reading.

  And when Kenny takes my hand, at the movies or whatever, it's not like my hand gets all tingly in his, the way girls' hands do

  in those books.

  And when he kisses me? Yeah, you know those fireworks people always talk about? OK, forget it about. No fireworks. Nil. Nada.

  It's funny, because before I got a boyfriend I used to spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to get one and, once I got him, how I'd get him to kiss me.

  But now that I actually have a boyfriend, mostly all I do is try to figure out how to get out of kissing him.

  One way that I have found works quite effectively is the head turn. See, if you notice his lips coming towards you, you just turn your head at the last minute so all he gets is your cheek and maybe some hair.

  I guess the worst thing is that when Kenny gazes deeply into my eyes - which he does a lot - and asks me what I am thinking about, I am usually thinking about this one certain person.

  And that person isn't Kenny. It isn't Kenny at all. It is Lilly's older brother, Michael Moscovitz, whom I have loved for - oh, I don't know, MY ENTIRE LIFE.

  Not that he even knows I am alive, except as his little sister's best friend, but whatever.

  Which is why I have decided I have to tell him. Kenny, I mean. About how I really feel.

  That's why my life is over. Because how do you say to somebody who wants to hold your hand in the movies that you don't like him in that way? Especially when he's already asked you out a bunch of times and you've gone. And you knew full well

  the whole time that he wasn't asking you as a friend — he was asking you as a potential life mate.

  Or a royal consort, as Grandmere would say.

  Wait, though. It gets worse.

  Because now it's like everybody considers us this big item. You know? Now we're Kenny-and-Mia. Now, instead of Lilly

  and me hanging out together Saturday nights, it's Lilly-and-Boris and Kenny-and-Mia. Sometimes my friend Tina Hakim Baba, and her boyfriend, Dave Farouq El-Abar, and my other friend Shameeka Taylor, and her boyfriend, Daryl Gardner, join us, making it Lilly-and-Boris and Kenny-and-Mia and Tina-and-Dave and Shameeka-and-Daryl.

  So if Kenny and I break up, not only will it be this very big deal, but who am I going to hang around with on Saturday nights?

  I mean, seriously. Lilly-and-Boris and Tina-and-Dave and Shameeka-and-Daryl won't want just plain Mia along. I'll be like

  this seventh wheel.

  Not to mention, if Kenny and I break up, who will I go to the Non-Denominational Winter Dance with?

  Oh, God, I have to go now. Lilly-and-Boris and Tina-and-Dave and Kenny and I are supposed to go ice-skating at the Rockefeller Center.

  All I can say is, be careful what you wish for. It iust might come true.

  Saturday, December 5, 11 p.m.

  OK, remember how I thought my life was over because I have a boyfriend now and I don't really like him in that way, and I have to break up with him without hurting his feelings, which is, I guess, probably impossible?

  Yeah, well, I didn't know how over my life could actually be.

  Not until last night, anyway.

  That's right. Last night, when Lilly-and-Boris and Tina-and-Dave and Mia-and-Kenny were joined by a new couple, Michael-and-Judith.

  That's right: Lilly's brother Michael showed up at the ice-skating rink, and he brought with him the president of the Computer Club - of which he is treasurer - Judith Gershner.

  Judith Gershner, like Michael, is a senior at Albert Einstein High School. Judith Gershner, like Michael, is on the Honour Roll.

  Judith Gershner, like Michael, will probably get into every college she applies to, because Judith Gershner, like Michael, is brilliant.

  In fact, Judith Gershner, like Michael, won a prize last year at the Albert Einstein High School Annual Bio-Medical Technology Fair fo
r her science project, in which she actually cloned a fruit fly.

  She cloned a fruit fly. At home. In her bedroom.

  Judith Gershner knows how to clone fruit flies in her bedroom. And me? Yeah, I can't even multiply fractions.

  Hmm, gee, I don't know. If you were Michael Moscovitz - you know, a straight-A student who got into Columbia early decision - who would you rather go out with? A girl who can clone fruit flies in her bedroom, or a girl who is getting a D

  in Freshman Algebra, in spite of the fact that her mother is married to her Algebra teacher?

  Not that there's even a chance of Michael ever asking me out. I mean, I have to admit, there were a couple of times when

  I thought he might. But that was clearly just wishful thinking on my part. I mean, why would a guy like Michael, who does

  really well in school and will probably excel at whatever career he ultimately chooses, ever ask out a girl like me, who would have flunked out of the ninth grade by now if it hadn't been for all those extra tutoring sessions with Mr. Gianini and, ironically, Michael himself?

  But Michael and Judith Gershner, on the other hand, are perfect for each other. Judith even looks like him, a little. I mean, they both have the same curly black hair and pale skin from being inside all the time, looking up stuff about genomes on the Internet.

  But if Michael and Judith Gershner are so suited to one another, how come when I first saw them walking towards us while we were lacing up our rental skates, I got this very bad feeling inside?

  I mean, I have absolutely no right to be jealous of the fact that Michael Moscovitz asked Judith Gershner to go skating with him. Absolutely no right at all.

  Except that when I saw them together, I was shocked. I mean, Michael hardly ever leaves his room, on account of always being at his computer, maintaining his webzine, Crackhead. The last place I'd ever expected to see him is the ice-skating rink at Rockefeller Center during the height of the Christmas tree-lighting hysteria. Michael generally avoids places he considers tourists traps — like pretty much everywhere north of Bleecker Street.

  But there he was. And there was Judith Gershner, in her overalls and Rockports and ski parka, chatting away about something - probably something really smart, like DNA.

  I nudged Lilly in the side — she was lacing up her skates — and said, in this voice that I hoped didn't show what I was feeling inside, 'Look, there's your brother.'

  And Lilly wasn't even surprised to see him! She looked over and went, 'Oh, yeah. He said he might show up.'

  Show up with a date? Did he mention that? And would it have been too much for you, Lilly, to have mentioned this to me beforehand, so I could have had time for a little mental preparation?

  Only Lilly doesn't know how I feel about her brother, so I guess it never occurred to her to break it to me gently.

  Here's the subtle way in which I handled the situation. It was really smooth (NOT).

  As Michael and Judith were looking around for a place to put on their skates:

  Me: (Casually, to Lilly) I didn't know your brother and Judith Gershner were going out.

  Lilly: (Disgusted for some reason) Please. They're not. She was just over at our place, working with Michael on

  some project for the stupid Computer Club. They heard we were all going skating, and Judith, said she wanted to

  come too.

  Me: Well, that sounds like they're going out to me.

  Lilly: Whatever. Boris, must you constantly breathe on me?

  Me: (To Michael and Judith as they walk up to us) Oh, hi, you guys. Michael, I didn't know you knew how to ice-skate.

  Michael: (Shrugging) I used to be on a hockey team.

  Lilly: (Snorting) Yeah, Pee Wee Hockey. That was before he decided that team sports were a waste of time because the success of the team was dictated by the performance of all the players as a whole, as opposed to sports determined by individual performance such as tennis and golf.

  Michael: Lilly, don't you ever shut up?

  Judith: I love ice-skating! Although I'm not very good at it.

  And she certainly isn't. Judith is such a bad skater, just to keep from falling flat on her face she had to hold on to both of Michael's hands while he skated backwards in front of her. I don't know which astonished me more - that Michael can skate backwards, or that he didn't seem to mind having to tow Judith all around the rink. I mean, I may not be able to clone a fruit

  fly, but at least I can remain upright unaided in a pair of ice-skates.

  But Kenny really seemed to think Michael and Judith's method of skating was way preferable to skating the old-fashioned

  way - you know, solo - so he kept coming up and trying to tow me around the way Michael was towing Judith.

  And even though I was all, 'Duh, Kenny, I know how to skate,' he said that wasn't the point. Finally, after he'd bugged me for like half an hour, I gave in, and let him hold both my hands as he skated in front of me, backwards.

  Only the thing is, Kenny isn't very good at skating backwards. I can skate forward, but I'm not good enough at it that if someone is wobbling around in front of me, I can keep from crashing into him if he doesn't move out of the way fast enough.

  Which was exactly what happened. Kenny fell down and I couldn't stop, so I crashed into him and my chin hit his knee and I bit my tongue and all this blood filled up in my mouth, and I didn't want to swallow it so I spat it out. Only unfortunately it went all over Kenny's jeans and on to the ice, which clearly impressed all of the tourists standing along the railings around the rink; taking pictures of their loved ones in front of the enormous Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, since they all turned around and started taking pictures of the girl spitting up blood on the ice below - a truly New York moment.

  And then Lars came shooshing over - he is a champion ice-skater, thanks to his Nordic upbringing; quite a contrast to his bodyguard training in the heart of the Gobi desert -picked me up, looked at my tongue, gave me his handkerchief and told me to keep pressure on the wound. Then he said, 'That's enough skating for one night.'

  And that was it. Now I've got this bloody gouge in the tip of my tongue, and it hurts to talk, and I was totally humiliated in front of millions of tourists, not to mention in front of my friends and, worst of all, Judith Gershner, who it turns out also got accepted early decision at Columbia (great, the same school Michael's going to in the fall) where she will be pre-med, and who advised me that I should see my family practitioner as it seemed likely to her that I might need stitches. In my tongue? I'm lucky, she said, I didn't bite the tip of it off.

  Lucky!

  Oh, yeah, I'll tell you how lucky I am:

  I'm so lucky that while I lie here in bed writing this, with no one but my twenty-five pound cat, Fat Louie, to keep me company (and Fat Louie only likes me because I feed him), the boy I've been in love with since like for ever is up at midtown right now with a girl who knows how to clone fruit flies and can tell if wounds need stitches or not.

  One good thing about this tongue thing, though: if Kenny was thinking about moving on to frenching, we totally can't until I heal. And that could - according to Dr. Fung, whom my mom called as soon as Lars brought me home - take anywhere from three to ten days

  Yes!

  Ten Things I Hate about the Holiday Season in New York City

  1. Tourists who come in from out of town in their giant sports utility vehicles and try to run you over at the crosswalks, thinking they are driving like aggressive New Yorkers. Actually, they are driving like morons. Plus there is enough pollution in this city. Why can't they just take public transport, like normal people?

  2. Stupid Rockefeller Center tree. They asked me to be the person who throws the switch to light it this year as I am considered New York's own royal in the press, but when I told them how cutting down trees contributes to the destruction

  of the ozone layer, they rescinded their invitation and had the mayor do it instead.

  3. Stupid Christmas carols bl
aring from outside all the stores.

  4. Stupid ice-skating with stupid boys who think they can skate backwards when they can't.

  5. Stupid pressure to buy meaningful gifts for everyone you know.

  6. Final exams.

  7. Stupid, lousy New York weather. No snow, just cold wet rain, every single day. Whatever happened to a white

  Christmas? I'll tell you: global warming. You know why? Because everybody keeps driving SUVs and cutting down trees!

  8. Stupid manipulative Christmas specials on TV.