Not that that was us, Mrs. Spears. I am just using that as an example of the type of crazy thing Lillymight do.

BOYFRIEND:

Ha! I wish.

ADDRESS:

I have lived all of my life inNew York City with my mother, except for summers, which I have traditionally spent with my father at his mother’s chateau inFrance . My father’s primary residence is Genovia, a small country inEurope located on theMediterranean between the Italian and French border. For a long time I was led to believe that my father was an important politician in Genovia, like the mayor, or something. Nobody told me that he was actually a member of the Genovian royal family—that he was, in fact, the reigning monarch, Genovia being a principality. I guess nobody ever would have told me, either, if my dad hadn’t gotten testicular cancer and become sterile, making me, his illegitimate daughter, the only heir he’ll ever have to his throne. Ever since he finally let me in on thisslightly important little secret (a month ago) Dad has been living at the Plaza Hotel here inNew York , while his mother, my grandmère, the dowager princess, teaches me what I need to know in order to be his heir.

 

     For which I can only say: Thanks. Thanks awhole lot.

     And do you want to know what thereally sad part is? None of that was lies.

 

Monday, October 20, Lunch

 

     Okay, Lilly knows.

     All right, maybe she doesn’tKNOW, but she knows something is wrong. I mean, come on: she’s been my best friend since like kindergarten. She can totally tell when something is bothering me. We totally bonded in first grade, the day Orville Lockhead dropped trou in front of us in the line to the music room. I was appalled, having never seen male genitalia before. Lilly, however, was unimpressed. She has a brother, you see, so it was no big surprise to her. She just looked Orville straight in the eye and said, “I’ve seen bigger.”

     And you know what? Orville never did it again.

     So you can see that Lilly and I share a bond that is stronger than mere friendship.

     Which was why she took just one look at my face when she sat down at our lunch table today and said, “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong. It’s not Louie, is it? Did Louie eat another sock?”

     As if. This is so much more serious. Not that it isn’t totally scary when Louie eats a sock. I mean, we have to rush him to the animal hospital and all, and right away, or he could die. A thousand bucks later, we get an old half-digested sock as a souvenir.

     But at least the cat is back to normal.

     But this? A thousand bucks won’t curethis. And nothing will ever be back to normal again.

      It is so incredibly embarrassing. I mean, that my mom and Mr. Gianini—you know, DID IT.

     Worse, that they DID IT without using anything. I mean, please. Who DOES that anymore?

     I told Lilly there wasn’t anything wrong, that it was just PMS. It was totally embarrassing to admit this in front of my bodyguard, Lars, who was sitting there eating a gyro that Tina Hakim Baba’s bodyguard Wahim—Tina has a bodyguard because her father is a sheik who fears that she will be kidnapped by executives from a rival oil company; I have one because . . .well, just because I’m a princess, I guess—had bought from the vendor in front of Ho’s Deli across the street from the school.

     The thing is, who announces the vagaries of her menstrual cycle in front of her bodyguard?

     But what else was I supposed to say?

     I noticed Lars totally didn’t finish his gyro, though. I think I completely grossed him out.

     Could this day get any worse?

     Anyway, even then, Lilly didn’t drop it. Sometimes she really does remind me of one of those little pug dogs you always see old ladies walking in the park. I mean, not only is her face kind of small and squashed in (in a nice way), but sometimes when she gets hold of something she simply will not let it go.

     Like this thing at lunch, for instance. She was all, “If the only thing bothering you is PMS, then why are you writing in your journal so much? I thought you were mad at your mom for giving that to you. I thought you weren’t even going to use it.”

     Which reminds me that Iwas mad at my mom for giving it to me. She gave me this journal because she says I have a lot of pent-up anger and hostility, and I have to get it out somehow, since I’m not in touch with my inner child and have an inherent inability to verbalize my feelings.

     I think my mom must have been talking to Lilly’s parents, who are both psychoanalysts, at the time.

     But then I found out I was the princess of Genovia, and I started using this journal to record my feelings about that, which, looking back at what I wrote, really were pretty hostile.

     But that’s nothing compared with how I feel now.

     Not that I feelhostile toward Mr. Gianini and my mother. I mean, they’re adults, and all. They can make their own decisions. But don’t they see that this is one decision that is going to affect not just them, but everyone around them? I mean, Grandmère is NOT going to like it when she finds out my mother is having ANOTHER child out of wedlock.

     And what about my father? He’s already had testicular cancer this year. Finding out that the mother of his only child is giving birth to another man’s baby just might kill him. Not that he’s still in love with my mom, or anything like that. I don’t think.

     And what about Fat Louie? How is he going to react to having a baby in the house? He is starved enough for affection as it is, considering I’m the only person who remembers to feed him. He might try to run away, or maybe move up from eating just socks to eating the remote control or something.

     I guess I wouldn’t mind, though, having a little sister or brother. It might be cool, actually. If it’s a girl, I’d share my room with her. I could give her bubble baths and dress her up the way Tina Hakim Baba and I dressed up her little sisters—and her little brother, too, now that I think of it.

     I don’t think I want a little brother. Tina Hakim Baba told me that baby boys pee in your face when you try to change them. That is so disgusting I don’t even want to think about it.

     You would think my mother might have considered things like this before deciding to have sex with Mr. Gianini.

 

Monday, October 20, G & T

 

     And what about that, anyway? How many dates has my mom even been on with Mr. G, anyway? Not many. I mean, like eight, maybe. Eight dates, and it turns out she’s already slept with him? And probably a couple of times, because thirty-six-year-old women do not get pregnant just like that. I know, because I can’t pick up a copy ofNew York magazine without seeing about a gazillion ads from victims of early menopause who are looking for egg donations from younger women.

     But not my mom. Oh, no. Ripe as a mango, that’s my mom.

     I should have known, of course. I mean, what about that morning I walked out into the kitchen and Mr. Gianini was standing there in his boxer shorts?

     I was trying to repress that memory, but I guess it didn’t work.

     Also, has she even thought about her folic acid intake? I know for a fact she has not. And may I just point out that alfalfa sprouts can be deadly for a newly developing fetus? We have alfalfa sprouts in our refrigerator. Our refrigerator is a deathtrap for a gestating child. There is BEER in the vegetable crisper.

     My mother may think she is a fit parent, but she has a lot to learn. When I get home, I fully intend to show her all this information I’ve printed out off the Web. If she thinks she can put the health of my future baby sister at risk by eating alfalfa sprouts in her sandwiches and drinking coffee and stuff, she is in for a big surprise.

 

Still Monday, October 20, Still G & T

 

     Lilly caught me looking up stuff about pregnancy on the Internet.

     She said, “Oh, my God! Is there something about your date with Josh Richter that you didn’t tell me?”

     Which I really didn’t appreciate, since she said it right in front of her brother Michael—not to mention Lars, Boris Pelkowski, and the rest of the class. She said it really loud, too.

     You know, these kinds of things wouldn’t happen if the teachers at this school would do their jobs and actually teach once in a while. I mean, except for Mr. Gianini, every teacher in this school seems to think it is perfectly acceptable to toss out an assignment and then leave the room to go have a smoke in the teachers’ lounge.

     Which is probably a health violation, you know.

     And Mrs. Hill is the worst of all. I mean, I know Gifted and Talented isn’t a real class at all. It’s more like study hall for the socially impaired. But if Mrs. Hill would be in here once in a while to supervise, people like me who are neither gifted nor talented and only ended up in this class because they happen to be flunking Algebra and need the extra study time might not get picked on all the time by the resident geniuses.