No, better. Did something happen between you and my brother? Because I saw him looking all furtive in the hallway just now.

FURTIVE? Furtive like how? Like he was looking for Judith Gershner to ask her out tonight????

No, more like he was looking for a pay phone. Why would he ask out Judith Gershner? How many times

do I have to tell you, he likes you, not J.G.

He used to like me, you mean. Before I was forced to cancel our date tonight due to Grandmere forcing me to

go to a ball.

A ball? Really. Ugh. But excuse me. Michael isn't going to ask some other girl to go out with him tonight

just because you can't make it. I mean, he was really looking forward to going with you. Not just for concupiscent reasons, either.

REALLY????

Yes, you loser. What did you think? I mean, you guys are going out.

But that's just it We haven't gone out

yet I mean.

So? You'll go out sometime when you don't hove a ball to go to instead.

You don't think he's going to dump me?

Uh, not unless something heavy fell on his head between now and the last time I saw him. Guys with

cranial damage can't generally be held responsible for their actions.

Why would something heavy fall on his head? I'm being facetious. Do you want to hear about my meeting, or not?

Yes. What happened? They told me they want to option my show.

What does that mean?

It means that they will take Lilly Tells It Like It Is around to the networks to see if anybody wants to buy it.

To be a real show. On a real channel. Not like public access. Like ABC or Lifetime or VH1 or something.

Lilly! THAT IS SO GREAT!!!! Yes, I know. Oops, gotta go, Wheeton's looking this way.







Note to self: Look up words concupiscent and facetious.









Friday, January 22,

Gifted and Talented




Lunch was just one big celebration today. Everyone had something to be happy about:

• Shameeka, for making the cheerleading squad and striking a blow for tall geeky girls everywhere (even though, of course, Shameeka looks like a supermodel and can wrap both her ankles around her head, but, whatever).

• Lilly, for getting her TV show optioned.

• Tina, for finally deciding to give up on Dave, but not on romance in general, and get on with her life.

• Ling Su for getting her drawing of Joe, the stone lion, into the school art fair.

• And Boris for just, well, being Boris. Boris is always happy.

You will notice that I did not mention Michael. That is because I do not know what Michael's mental state at lunch was, whether or not he was happy or sad or concupiscent or whatever. That is because Michael didn't show up to lunch. He

said, when he breezed by my locker just before fourth period, 'Hey, I've got some things to do, I'll see you in G and T, OK?'

Some things to do. Like, for instance, find another girl to take to the movie tonight.

I should, of course, just ask him. I should just be like, Look, are we broken up, or what? Because I would really like to know, one way or the other, so I can begin planning either my wedding or my funeral.

Well, not really, because, of course, I don't live in Utah, and I would never kill myself over a boy, even Michael. But you

know what I mean.

Except that I can't just go up and ask Michael what the deal is between us, because right now he is busy with Boris, going

over band stuff. Michael's band is comprised (so far) of Michael (bass); Boris (electric violin); that tall guy Paul from the Computer Club (keyboards); this guy from the AEHS marching band called Trevor (guitar); and Felix, this scary-looking twelfth-grader with a goatee that's bushier than Mr Gianini's (drums). They still don't have a name for the band, or a place to practise. But they seem to think that Mr Kreblutz, the chief custodian, will let them into the band practice rooms on weekends

if they can get him tickets to the Westminster Kennel Show next month. Mr Kreblutz is a huge bichon frise fan.

The fact that Michael can concentrate on all this band stuff while our relationship is falling apart is just further proof that he is

a true musician, completely dedicated to his art. I, being the talentless freak that I am, can, of course, think of nothing but my heartbreak. Michael's ability to remain focused in spite of any personal pain he might be suffering is evidence of his genius.

Either that or he never cared that much about me in the first place.

I prefer to believe the former.

Oh, that I had some kind of outlet, such as music, into which to pour the suffering I am currently feeling! But alas, I'm no

artist. I just have to sit here in silent pain, while around me more-gifted souls express their innermost angst through song,

dance and filmography.

Well, OK, just through filmography since there are no singers or dancers in fifth period G and T. Though if you ask me, there should be. Instead we just have Lilly, putting together what she is calling her quintessential episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is,

a show that will explore the seamy underbelly of that American institution known as Starbucks. It is Lilly's contention that Starbucks, through the introduction of the Starbucks card, with which caffeine addicts can now pay for their fix electronically,

is actually a secret branch of the Central Intelligence Agency that is tracing the movements of America's intelligentsia - writers, editors and other known liberal agitators - through their coffee consumption.

Whatever. I don't even like coffee.

This can't be how it ends, can it? My love affair with Michael, I mean. Not with a bang, but with hardly even a whimper,

like Rommel when you accidentally step on his tail?

This so isn't how Mr. Rochester would have done it. Broken up with Jane, I mean. If he'd decided to break up with her.

Which he never did because he loved her too much, even when she ran away from him and went to go live with another

guy. Well, OK, and his sisters, and he turned out to be her cousin, but, whatever.

No, even then Mr Rochester reached out psychically and touched Jane's mind with his. Because though their bodies

might be parted, their souls were forever entwined by a love that was stronger than—

Aw, crud. The bell.

Homework:

Algebra: Who cares?

English: Everything sucks.

Biology: I hate life.

Health and Safety: Mr. Wheeton is in love, too. I should warn him to get out now, while he still can.

G & T: I shouldn't even be in this class.

French: Why does this language even exist? Everyone there speaks English anyway.

World Civ.: What does it matter? We're all just going to die.

Once our boyfriends dump us, anyway.










Friday, January 22, 6 p.m.

Grandmere's Suite at the Plaza




Grandmere made me come here straight after school so that Paolo could start getting us ready for the ball. I didn't know

Paolo makes housecalls, but apparently he does. Only for royalty, he assured me, and Britney.

I explained to him about how I am growing out my hair on account of boys liking long hair better than short hair, and Paolo made some tut-tutting noises, but he slapped some curlers into it to try to get rid of the triangular shape, and I guess it

worked, because my hair looks pretty good. All of me looks pretty good. On the outside, anyway.

Too bad inside, I'm completely busted.

I am trying not to show it, though. You know, because I want Grandmere to think I am having a good time. I mean, I am

only doing this for her. Because she is an old lady and my grandmother and she fought the Nazis and all of that, for which someone has to give her some credit.

I just hope someday she appreciates it. My supreme sacrifice, I mean. But I doubt she ever will. Seventy-something-year-old ladies - particularly dowager princesses -never seem to remember what it was like to be fourteen and in love.

Well, I guess it is time to go. Grandmere has on this slinky black number with gutter all over it. She looks like Diana Ross.

Only with no eyebrows.

She says I look like a snowdrop. Hmmm, just what I always wanted, to look like a snowdrop.

Maybe that's my secret talent. I have the amazing ability to resemble a snowdrop.

My parents must be so proud.









Friday, January 22, 8 p.m.

Bathroom at the Contessa Trevanni's Fifth-Avenue Mansion





Yep. In the bathroom once again, where I always seem to end up at dances. Why is that?

The contessa's bathroom is a little bit overdone. It is nice and everything, but I don't know if I'd have chosen flaming wall-sconces as part of my bathroom decor. I mean, even at the palace, we don't have any flaming wall-sconces. Although

it looks very romantic and Ivanhoe-y and all, it is actually a pretty serious fire hazard, besides being probably a health risk, considering the carcinogens they must be giving off.

But, whatever. That isn't even the, real question — why would anyone have flaming wall-sconces in the bathroom? The real question, of course, is this: if I am supposedly descended from all these strong women - you know, Rosagunde, who strangled that warlord with her braid, and Agnes, who jumped off that bridge, not to mention Grandmere, who allegedly kept the Nazis from trashing Genovia by having Hitler over for tea — why is it that I am such a pushover?