Meg Cabot - Third Time Lucky

Too bad while I'm there, I'm never going to have time to visit it, since I'm going to be too busy christening battle ships or whatever.

But if I lived in Genovia . . . you know, moved there and lived there full time . . .

Oh, I'll miss my mom, of course. I've already considered that. She's leaned out the window about twenty times already,

begging me to come inside, or to at least put on a coat. My mom's a nice lady. I'll really miss her.

But she can come visit me in Genovia. At least, up until her eighth month. Then air travel might be a little risky. But she can come after my baby brother or sister is born. That would be nice.

And Mr. G, he's OK too. He just leaned out and asked if I wanted any of the four alarm chilli he just made. He left out the meat, he says, just for me.

That was nice of him. He can come visit me in Genovia too.

It will be nice to live there. I can hang out with my dad all the time. He's not such a bad guy, either, once you get to know him. He wants me to come in off the fire escape too. I guess my mom must have called him. He says he's really proud of me, on account of the press conference and my B minus in Algebra and all. He wants to take me out to dinner to celebrate. We can

go to the Zen Palatte, he says. A totally vegetarian restaurant. Isn't that nice of him?

Too bad he let Lars take my door down or I might have gone with him.

Ronnie, our next-door neighbour, just looked out her window and saw me. Now she wants to know what I'm doing, sitting

out on the fire escape in December.

I told her I needed some privacy, and that this appears to be the only way I can get it.

Ronnie went, 'Honey, don't I know how that is.'

She said I was going to freeze without a coat though, and offered me her mink. I politely declined as I cannot wear the skins

of dead animals.

So she loaned me her electric blanket, which she has plugged into the outlet beneath her air conditioner. I must say, this is an improvement.

Ronnie is getting ready to go out. It is nice to watch her put on her make-up. As she does it, she is keeping up a running conversation with me through the open window. She asked me if I was having trouble at school and if that was why I'm on the fire escape, and I said I was. She asked what kind and I told her. I told her I am being persecuted: that I am in love with my best friend's brother, but that to him it is apparently all this really big joke. Oh, and also that everyone apparently thinks I am having an affair with a mouth-breathing violinist who happens to be my best friend's boyfriend.

Ronnie shook her head and said it was good to know things haven't changed since she was in high school. She says she

knows what it is like to be persecuted, because Ronnie used to be a man.

I told Ronnie that it really doesn't matter, because I'm moving to Genovia. Ronnie said she was sorry to hear that. She'll miss me, as I have really improved conditions in the apartment building's incinerator room since I insisted on installing separate recycling bins for newspapers and cans and bottles.

Then Ronnie said she has to go because she's meeting her boyfriend for cocktails at the Carlyle. She said I could keep the electric blanket, though, so long as I remember to put it away when I'm done using it.

God. Even my next-door neighbour, who used to be a man, has a boyfriend. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME????

Uh-oh. I hear footsteps in my room. Who's coming now?

Friday, December 18, 7:30 p.m.

Well. You could knock me over with a feather.

Guess who just came out onto the fire escape and sat with me for half an hour?

Grandmere.

I am not even kidding.

I was sitting here, feeling all depressed, when all of a sudden this big furry sleeve appeared out my window, and then a foot in

a high-heeled shoe, and then a big blonde head, and next thing I knew, Grandmere was sitting there, blinking at me from the depths of her full-length chinchilla.

'Amelia,' she said, in her most no-nonsense tone. 'What are you doing out here? It's snowing. Come back inside.'

I was shocked. Shocked that Grandmere would even consider coming out on to the fire escape (it is an indelicate thing for a princess to mention, but there is actually a lot of bird poop out here), but also that she would dare to speak to me, after what she did.

But she addressed that issue right away.

'I understand that you are upset with me,' she said. 'And you have a right to be. But I want you to know that what I did, I did for you.'

'Oh, right!' Even though I swore I was never going to speak to her again, I couldn't help myself. 'Grandmere, how can you possibly say that? You completely humiliated me!'

'I didn't mean to,' Grandmere said. 'I meant to show you that you are just as pretty as those girls in the magazines you are always wishing you looked like. It's important that you know that you are not this hideous creature that you apparently think you are.'

'Grandmere,' I said. 'That's nice of you and all - I guess - but you shouldn't have done it that way.'

'What other way could I do it?' Grandmere demanded. 'You will not pose for any of the magazines that have offered to send photographers. Not for Vogue, or Harper's Bazaar. Don't you understand that what Sebastiano said about your bone structure is true? You really are quite beautiful, Amelia. If only you'd just have a little more confidence in yourself — show

off once in a while. Think how quickly that boy you like would leave the house fly girl for you!'

'Fruit fly,' I said automatically. 'And, Grandmere, I told you, Michael likes her because she's really smart. They have a lot of stuff in common - like computers. It has nothing to do with how she looks.'

'Oh, Mia,' Grandmere said. 'Don't be naive.'

Poor Grandmere. It really wasn't fair to blame her, because she comes from such a different world. In Grandmere's world, women are valued for being great beauties - or, if they aren't great beauties, they are revered for dressing impeccably. What they do, like for a living, isn't important, because most of them don't do anything. Oh, maybe they do some charity work, or whatever, but that's it.

Grandmere doesn't understand, of course, that today being a great beauty doesn't count for much. Oh, it matters in Hollywood, of course, and on the runways in Milan. But nowadays, people understand that perfect looks are the result of DNA - something the person has nothing to do with. It's not like it's any great accomplishment, being beautiful. It's just genetics.

No, what matters today is what you do with the brain behind those perfect blue eyes (or brown eyes, or green, or whatever). In Grandmere's day, a girl like Judith, who could clone fruit flies, would be viewed as a piteous freak unless she managed to clone fruit flies and look stunning in Dior.

Even in this remarkably enlightened age, girls like Judith still don't get as much attention as girls like Lana - which isn't fair,

since cloning fruit flies is probably way more important than having totally perfect hair.

The really pathetic people are the ones like me: I can't clone fruit flies and I've got bad hair.

But that's OK. I'm used to it by now.

Grandmere's the one who still needs convincing that I am an absolutely hopeless case.

'Look,' I said to Grandmere. 'I told you. Michael is not the type of guy who is going to be impressed because I'm in a Sunday Times supplement in a strapless ballgown. That's why I like him. If he were the kind of guy who was impressed by stuff like that, I wouldn't want anything to do with him.'

Grandmere didn't look very convinced.

'Well,' she said. 'Perhaps you and I must agree to disagree. In any case, Amelia, I came over to apologize. I never meant to distress you. I meant only to show you what you can do, if you'd only try.' She spread her gloved hands apart. 'And look how well I succeeded. Why, you planned and executed an entire press conference, all on your own!'