Lana went, 'Hold on, Sandy. That person still hasn't gone away.' Then she looked at me from between her thickly mascaraed eyelashes and went, 'Skinner Box? You mean that band of geeks who played that stupid princess-of-my-heart song to you

on your birthday?'

I said, taking umbrage, 'Excuse me, Lana, but you shouldn't speak so disparagingly of geeks. If it were not for geeks, we

would not have computers, or vaccinations against many major diseases, or antibiotics, or even that mobile you are talking into—'

'Yeah,' Lana said briskly. 'Whatever. The answer is still no.'

Then she went back to her phone conversation.

I stood there for a minute, feeling colour rush into my face. I must really be making progress with my impulse control, since I didn't reach out and grab her mobile from her and crush it beneath my Doc Martens as I might once have. Being the proud owner of a mobile phone myself now, I know just how completely heinous doing something like that would be. Also, you know, considering how much trouble I got into the last time I did it.

Instead, I just stood there with my cheeks burning and my heart beating really fast and my breath coming out in these shallow little gasps. It seems like no matter what kind of strides I make in the rest of my life - you know, behaving with level-headed calmness in medical emergencies; knighting people; almost getting to second base with my boyfriend - I still can't seem to

figure out how to act around Lana. I just don't get why she hates me so much. I mean, what did I ever DO to her? Nothing.

Well, except for the whole mobile phone stomping thing. Oh, and that time I stabbed her with a Nutty Royale. And that other time I slammed her hair in my Algebra book. But I mean, besides all that.

Anyway, I didn't get a chance to get on my knees and beg her, because the second bell rang, and people started coming into the classroom, including Michael, who came up to me and gave me a bunch of pages he'd printed off the Internet about the dangers of dehydration in pregnant women - 'To give to your mom,' he said, kissing me on the cheek (yes, in front of

everyone: Tcha).

Still, there are shadows over my otherwise exuberant joy: one shadow is, I was unsuccessful in getting my boyfriend's band booked for the prom, thus making it more likely than ever that I will never have my Pretty in Pink moment with Michael. Another shadow is that my best friend is still not speaking to me, nor I to her, because of her psychotic behaviour and mistreatment of her former boyfriend. Yet another shadow is the fact that my first actual published news story ever in The Atom reads so incredibly lamely (although they did publish my poem ... TRES TRES TCHA. Even if I'm the only one who knows it's mine). It isn't exactly my fault my story sucks so much, though. I mean, Lesley hardly gave me enough time to come up with something truly Pulitzer-prize worthy. I'm no Nellie Bly or Ida M. Tarbell, you know. I had a lot of other homework

to do, too.

Finally, everything is overshadowed by my fear that my mother might pass out again, next time not within sight of Assistant

Fire Chief Logan and the rest of Ladder Company Number Three, and of course by my overall dread that, for two whole months this summer, I will be leaving this fair city and everyone in it for the distant shores of Genovia.

Really, if you think about it, this is all entirely too much for one simple fifteen-year-old girl to bear. It is a wonder I have been able to maintain what little composure I have left, under the circumstances.

When adding or subtracting terms that have the same variables, combine the coefficients.











Wednesday, May 7, Gifted and Talented

STRIKE!!!!!!!!!!

They just announced it on TV Mrs. Hill is letting us crowd around the one in the Teachers' Lounge.

I have never been in the Teachers' Lounge before. It is actually not very nice. There are weird stains on the carpet.

But whatever. The point is that the hotel-workers' union has just joined the busboys in their strike. The restaurant union is expected to follow suit shortly. Which means that there will be no one working in the restaurants or the hotels of New York City. The entire metro area could be shut down. The financial loss from tourism and conventions could be in the billions.

And all because of Rommel.

Seriously. Who knew one little hairless dog could cause so much trouble?

To be fair, it is actually not Rommel's fault. It is Grandmere's. I mean, she never should have brought a dog into a restaurant in the first place, even if it IS OK in France. It was weird to see Lilly on TV I mean, I see Lilly on TV all the time, but this was a major network - well, I mean, it was New York One, which isn't exactly national or anything, but it's watched in more households than Manhattan Public Access, anyway. Not that Lilly was running the press conference. No, it was being run by the heads of the hotel and restaurant unions. But if you looked to the left of the podium, you could see Jangbu standing there, with Lilly at his side, holding a big sign that said LIVING WAGES FOR LIVING BEINGS.

She is so busted. She has an unexcused absence for the day. Principal Gupta will be so calling the Drs Moscovitz tonight.

Michael just shook his head disgustedly at the sight of his sister on a channel other than Fifty-Six. I mean, he is fully on the side of the busboys - they SHOULD be paid a living wage, of course. But Michael is disgusted with Lilly. He says it's because her interest in the welfare of the busboys has more to do with her interest in Jangbu than in the plight of immigrants to this country.

I kind of wish Michael hadn't said anything, though, because you know Boris was sitting right there next to the TV He looks so pathetic with his head all bandaged and everything. He kept lifting up his hand when he thought no one was looking, and softly tracing Lilly's features on the screen. It was truly touching, to tell you the truth. I actually got tears in my eyes for a minute.

Although they went away when I realized that the TV in the Teachers' Lounge is forty inches, whereas all the TVs in the

student media room are only twenty-seven.










Wednesday, May 7, The Plaza




This is unbelievable. I mean, truly. When I walked into the hotel lobby today, all ready for my princess lesson with

Grandmere, I was completely unprepared for the chaos that met me at the door. The place is a zoo.

The doorman with the gold epaulettes who usually holds the limo door open for me? Gone.

The bellboys who so efficiently pile up everybody's luggage on to those brass carts? Gone.

The polite concierge at the reception desk? Gone. And don't even ask about the line for high tea at the Palm Court. It was

out of control.

Because of course there was no hostess to seat anybody, or waiters to take anybody's orders.

It was amazing. Lars and I practically had to fight off this family of twelve from like Iowa or whatever who were trying to crowd on to our elevator with the lifesize gorilla they'd just bought at FAO Schwartz across the street. The dad kept yelling, 'There's room! There's room! Come on, kids, squeeze.' Finally Lars was forced to show the dad his sidearm and go, 'There's no room. Take the next elevator, please,' before the guy backed off, looking pale.

This never would have happened if the elevator attendant had been there. But this afternoon the porters' union declared a sympathy strike, and joined the restaurant and hotel workers in walking off the job.

You would think after everything we'd gone through just to get to my princess lesson on time, Grandmere would have had some sympathy for us when we walked through the door. But instead she was just standing in the middle of the suite, squawking into the phone.

'What do you mean, the kitchen is closed?' she was demanding. 'How can the kitchen be closed? I ordered lunch hours ago, and still haven't received it. I am not hanging up until I speak to the person in charge of Room Service. He knows who I am.'

My dad was sitting on the couch across from Grandmere's TV, watching - what else? - New York One with a tense expression on his face. I sat down beside him, and he looked at me, as if surprised to see me there.

'Oh, Mia,' he said. 'Hello. How is your mother?'

'Fine,' I said, because, even though I hadn't seen her since breakfast, I knew she had to be OK, since I hadn't got any calls

on my mobile phone. 'She's alternating between Gatorade and PediaLyte. She likes the grape kind. What's happening with

the strike?' My dad just shook his head in a defeated way. 'The union representatives are meeting with the Mayor's office. They're hoping to work out a negotiation soon.'

I sighed. 'You realize, of course, that none of this would have happened if I had never been born. Because then I wouldn't

have had a birthday dinner.'

My dad looked at me kind of sharply, and went, 'I hope you're not blaming yourself for this, Mia.'

I almost went, 'Are you kidding? I blame Grandmere.' But then I realized from the earnest expression on my dad's face that I had like this huge sympathy quotient going for me, and so instead I went, in this doleful voice, 'It's just too bad I'm going to be in Genovia for most of the summer. It might have been nice if I could have, you know, spent the summer volunteering with an organization seeking to help those unfortunate busboys . . .'

My dad so didn't fall for it, though. He just winked at me and said, 'Nice try.'