Mrs. Hill is letting us talk today. I know it’s because she doesn’t want to have to listen to Boris play Mahler, or worse, Wagner. I went up to Mrs. Hill after class yesterday and apologized for what I said on TV about her always being in the teachers’ lounge, even though it was the truth. She said not to worry about it. I’m pretty sure this is because my dad sent her a DVD player, along with a big bunch of flowers, the day after the interview was broadcast. She’s been a lot nicer to me since then.

     You know, I find all of this stuff about Lilly and Hank very difficult to process. I mean,Lilly, of all people, turning out to be such a slave to lust. Because she can’t genuinely be in love with Hank. He’s a nice enough guy and all—and very good-looking—but let’s face it, his elevator doesnot go all the way up.

     Lilly, on the other hand, belongs to Mensa—or at least she could if she didn’t think it hopelessly bourgeois. Plus Lilly isn’t exactly what you’d call a traditional beauty—I mean,I think she’s pretty, but according to today’s admittedly limited ideal of what “attractive” is, Lilly doesn’t really pass muster. She’s much shorter than me, and kind of chunky, and has that sort of squished-in face. Not really the type you’d expect a guy like Hank to fall for.

     So what do a girl like Lilly and a guy like Hank have in common, anyway?

     Oh, God, don’t answer that.

 

 

 

 

HOMEWORK

 

Algebra: pg. 123, problems 1–5, 7

English: in your journal, describe one day in your life; don’t forget profound moment

World Civ: answer questions at end of Chapter 10

G&T: bring one dollar on Monday for earplugs

French: une description d’une personne, trente mots minimum

Biology: Kenny says not to worry, he’ll do it for me

 

Thursday, October 30, 7 p.m., Limo back to the loft

 

     Another huge shock. If my life continues along this roller-coaster course, I may have to seek professional counseling.

     When I walked in for my princess lesson, there was Mamaw—Mamaw—sitting on one of Grandmère’s tiny pink couches, sipping tea.

     “Oh, she was always like that,” Mamaw was saying. “Stubborn as a mule.”

     I was sure they were talking about me. I threw down my bookbag and went, “I amnot!”

     Grandmère was sitting on the couch opposite Mamaw, a teacup and saucer poised in her hands. In the background, Vigo was running around like a little windup toy, answering the phone and saying things like, “No, the orange blossoms are for the wedding party, the roses are for the centerpieces,” and “Butof course the lamb chops were meant to be appetizers.”

     “What kind of way is that to enter a room?” Grandmère barked at me in French. “A princess never interrupts her elders, and she certainly never throws things. Now come here and greet me properly.”

     I went over and gave her a kiss on both cheeks, even though I didn’t want to. Then I went over to Mamaw and did the same thing. Mamaw giggled and went, “How continental!”

     Grandmère said, “Now sit down, and offer your grandmother a madeleine.”

     I sat down, to show how unstubborn I can be, and offered Mamaw a madeleine from the plate on the table in front of her, the way Grandmère had shown me to.

     Mamaw giggled again and took one of the cookies. She kept her pinky in the air as she did so.

     “Why, thanks, hon,” she said.

     “Now,” Grandmère said, in English. “Where were we, Shirley?”

     Mamaw said, “Oh, yes. Well, as I was saying, she’s always been that way. Just stubborn as the day is long. I’m not surprised she’s dug her heels in about this wedding. Not surprised at all.”

     Hey, it wasn’t me they were talking about after all. It was—

     “I mean, I can’t tell you we were thrilled when this happened the first time. ‘Course, Helen never mentioned he was a prince. If we had known, we’d have encouraged her to marry him.”

     “Understandably,” Grandmère murmured.

     “But this time,” Mamaw said, “well, we just couldn’t be more thrilled. Frank is a real doll.”

     “Then we are agreed,” Grandmère said. “This wedding must—and will—take place.”

     “Oh, definitely,” Mamaw said.

     I half expected them to spit in their hands and shake on it, an old Hoosier custom I learned from Hank.

     But instead they each took a sip of their tea.

     I was pretty sure nobody wanted to hear from me, but I cleared my throat anyway.

     “Amelia,” Grandmère said, in French. “Don’t even think about it.”

     Too late. I said, “Mom doesn’t want—“

     “Vigo,” Grandmère called. “Do you have those shoes? The ones that match the princess’s dress?”

     Like magic, Vigo appeared, carrying the prettiest pair of pink satin slippers I have ever seen. They had rosettes on the toes that matched the ones on my maid-of-honor dress.

     “Aren’t they lovely?” Vigo said, as he showed them to me. “Don’t you want to try them on?”

     It was cruel. It was underhanded.

     It was Grandmère, all over.

     But what could I do? I couldn’t resist. The shoes fit perfectly, and looked, I have to admit, gorgeous on me. They gave my ski-like feet the appearance of being a size smaller—maybe even two sizes! I couldn’t wait to wear them, and the dress, too. Maybe if the wedding was called off,

I could wear them to the prom. If things worked out with Jo-C-rox, I mean.

     “It would be a shame to have to send them back,” Grandmère said with a sigh, “because your mother is being so stubborn.”

     Then again, maybe not.

     “Couldn’t I keep them for another occasion?” I asked. Hint, hint.

     “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.