Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble

Then she topples over onto the carpet and lets out a gentle snore.

“I love that woman,” Shari says to me as everyone rushes forward to attempt to revive my grandmother, completely forgetting about Shari and me.

“So do I,” I say. “You have no idea how much.”

Ithought that was you!” Andrew gushes in that cute accent that had all the girls in McCracken Hall swooning-even if his th’s do sound like f’s. “What’s the matter? You walked right past me!”

“She thought you were a kidnapper,” the guy from the Meet Your Party booth explains between guffaws.

“Kidnapper?” Andrew looks from the guy in the booth to me. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nothing,” I say, grabbing Andrew’s arm and rushing him away from the booth. “Nothing, really. Oh my gosh! It’s good to see you!”

“Good to see you, too,” Andrew says, putting an arm around my waist and giving me a hug-so tight that the epaulets from his jacket dig into my cheek. “You look fucking fantastic! Did you lose weight or something?”

“Just a little,” I say modestly. No need for Andrew to know that no starch whatsoever-not so much as a French fry or even a lousy crumb of bread-has touched my lips since he waved good-bye to me last May.

Then Andrew notices me looking at an older bald man who has come up to us and is smiling politely at me. He is wearing a navy-blue windbreaker and a pair of brown corduroy pants. In August.

This is not a good sign. I’m just saying.

“Oh, right!” Andrew cries. “Liz, this is my dad. Dad, this is Liz!”

Oh, how sweet! He brought his dad to meet me at the airport! Andrew really MUST be taking our relationship seriously if he would go to so much trouble. I’ve already forgiven him for the jacket.

Well, almost.

“How do you do, Mr. Marshall?” I say, putting out my hand to shake his. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Andrew’s father says with a nice smile. “And please, call me Arthur. Don’t mind me, I’m just the chauffeur.”

Andrew laughs. So do I. Except-Andrew doesn’t have his own car?

Oh, but wait, that’s right. Shari said things are different in Europe, that lots of people don’t own cars because they’re so expensive. And Andrew is trying to get by on a teacher’s salary…

I’ve got to stop being so judgmental about other cultures. I think it’s just cute as can be that Andrew doesn’t have a car. So environmentally conscious! Besides, he lives in London. I imagine lots of people in London don’t have cars. They take public transportation, or they walk, like New Yorkers. Which is why there are so few fat people in New York. You know, because they’re all such healthy walkers. Probably there aren’t many fat people in London, either. I mean, look at Andrew. He’s thin as a toothpick, practically.

And yet he’s got those marvelous grapefruit-size biceps…

Although now that I look at them, they seem sort of more orange-size.

But how could anybody really tell beneath a leather jacket, anyway?

It’s sweet he has such a close relationship with his dad, too. I mean, that he could ask him to come with him to pick up his girlfriend at Heathrow. My dad is always too busy working to take time out for things like that. But then, his job at the cyclotron is very important, since they’re always smashing atoms up there and things. Andrew’s dad is a teacher, like Andrew wants to be. Teachers get summers off.

Dr. Rajghatta would laugh his head off if my dad ever asked for a summer off.

Andrew takes my bag, which has wheels, so it’s actually the lightest thing I’m carrying. My carry-on is way heavier, since it has all my makeup and beauty supplies in it. I wouldn’t mind so much if the airline lost my clothes, but I would totally die if they lost my makeup. I look like a total beast without it. I have eyes that are so small and squinty without liner and mascara I actually resemble a pig…even if Shari, who’s lived with me for the past four years, swears this isn’t true. Shari says I could get away without makeup if I wanted to.

But why would I want to when makeup is such a brilliant and helpful invention for those of us cursed with piggy eyes?

Still, makeup does weigh an awful lot, at least when you have as much of it as I do. Not to mention all of my hairstyling equipment and products. Having long hair is no joke. You have to bring about nine tons of stuff with you in order to keep it properly shampooed, conditioned, tangle-and-frizz-free, dry, shiny, and full of body. Not to mention all the different adapters I had to bring for my hair dryer and curling iron, since Andrew was remarkably unhelpful in describing what British electrical outlets look like (“They look like outlets,” he kept saying on the phone. Isn’t this just like a guy?), so I had to bring every different kind I could find at CVS.

But maybe it’s just as well Andrew is pulling the wheelie bag and not carrying my carry-on. Because then if he asks what’s inside and why it’s so heavy, I’ll have to tell him the truth, as I have resolved this relationship will not be founded on artifice, like the one with that guy T.J. I met at the McCracken Hall Movie Night, who turned out to be a practicing warlock-which would have been all right, I totally respect other people’s religions…

Except that he also turned out to be a chubby-chaser, as I learned when I caught him making out in the quad with Amy De Soto. He tried to tell me his familiar made him sleep with her.

Which is why I plan to always tell the truth to Andrew, because T.J. did not give me even that much respect.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to go out of my way to avoid having to tell him the truth, if I can. Like, there is absolutely no reason he needs to know that the reason my carry-on bag is so heavy is because it’s filled with approximately seventy-five billion Clinique cosmetic samples; a container of astringent pads (because I shine so much, thanks to Mom’s side of the family); a family-size container of Tums (because I’ve heard English food isn’t necessarily the best); a family-size container of chewable fiber tablets (because ditto); the aforementioned curling iron and hair dryer; the clothes I wore on the plane before I changed into my mandarin dress; a Game Boy loaded with Tetris; the latest Dan Brown (because you can’t go on a transatlantic flight with nothing to read); my mini iPod; three book lights; Sun-In for my highlights; all of my pharmaceuticals, such as aspirin, Band-Aids for the blisters I am undoubtedly going to get (from strolling hand in hand with Andrew through the British Museum, soaking in all the art), and prescriptions, including my birth control pills and antibiotic acne medication; and of course the notebook in which I’ve begun my senior thesis. I had to repack my sewing kit-for emergency clothing repairs-into my suitcase because of the stitch scissors and seam ripper.

There is no reason at this point in our relationship for Andrew to find out I wasn’t actually born this good-looking-that a great deal of artifice goes into it. What if he turns out to be one of those guys who like naturally pink-cheeked beauties like Liv Tyler? What kind of chance do I stand against an English rose like that? A girl has to have some secrets.

Oh, wait, Andrew is talking to me. He’s asking how my flight went. Why is he wearing that jacket? He can’t seriously think it looks good, can he?

“The flight was great,” I say. I don’t tell Andrew about the little girl in the seat next to mine who ignored me throughout the flight when I was just wearing my jeans and T-shirt, with my hair in a ponytail. It wasn’t until after I came back from doing my hair and makeup and changing into my silk dress a half hour before we landed that the kid did a double take, and the next thing I knew she was asking shyly, “Excuse me. But are you the actress Jennifer Garner?”

Jennifer Garner! Me! This kid thought I was Jennifer Garner!

And okay, she was only like ten or whatever, and wearing a shirt with Kermit the Frog on it (surely she meant this ironically and is not actually a current viewer of Sesame Street, as she seemed a bit old for it).

But still! No one has ever mistaken me for a movie star in my life! Let alone a skinny one like Jennifer Garner.

And the thing is, with my makeup on and my hair done, I guess I do look a bit like Jennifer Garner…you know, if she hadn’t quite lost all the baby fat. And had bangs. And was only five feet six.

I guess it never occurred to the kid that Jennifer Garner would hardly be flying coach, by herself, to England. But whatever.

And before I could stop myself, I was going, “Why, yes. I AM Jennifer Garner,” because, whatever, I’m never going to see this kid again in my life. Why not give her a thrill?

The kid’s eyes practically bugged out, she was so excited.