Meg Cabot - Princess in Training

Kenny is so weird.

No, you know what? Boys are weird. Seriously. Maybe that’s what I should write my makeup paper for Ms. Martinez on. Boys and how weird they are.

For instance, my current top five favorite movies include:

Dirty Dancing

Flashdance

Bring It On

The original Star Wars, and

Honey

all of which have a similar theme—girl must use her newly acquired talents (dancing) to save herself/relationship/team (well, okay, this is not the plot of Star Wars so much. Well, it is, but you have to substitute the word “girl” with “boy.” And dancing with the Force).

So, you can see why I like them so much.

But Michael’s top five movies—not including the original Star Wars, of course—are totally different from mine. There is no single underlying theme to them at all! They’re all over the place, themewise! And most of them, I don’t even know WHY he likes them. There is not even any dancing in them.

Here is a glimpse into the Weird World of Boys and the Movies They Like:

TOP FIVE MOVIES MICHAEL LIKES

(NONE OF WHICH I HAVE SEEN,

OR EVER WILL):

The Godfather

Scarface

Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Alien, Aliens, Alien Resurrection, etc.

The Exorcist

TOP FIVE MOVIES MICHAEL LIKES (THAT I HAVE SEEN, NOT INCLUDING THE ORIGINAL STAR WARS, OF COURSE):

Office Space

The Substitute

The Fifth Element

Starship Troopers

Super Troopers

I would just like to point out that none of the above movies have dance numbers in them. Not one. In fact, there is no common underlying theme in any of them, with the possible exception of the fact that the guys in them all have super-cute girlfriends.

Basically, men and women have entirely different expectations in their movie-viewing fare. Really, given all that, it is a wonder any of them get together to Do It at all.

On second thought, this is probably not a topic Ms. Martinez would care to read about. Although I find it educational, I doubt she will.

She probably never goes to the movies, because they are so pop culture-y. She probably only goes to films, like the ones they show at the Angelika. I bet she doesn’t even own a TV.

My God. No wonder she’s the way she is.

HOMEWORK

PE: n/a

Geometry: exercises, pages 20–22

English: don’t know, was too flipped out to write it down

French: écrivez une histoire

Also, figure out if Perin boy or girl!!!!!!

G&T: n/a

U.S. Government: What is basis of government acc. to social contract theory

Earth Science: ask Kenny Wednesday, September 9, limo on the way home from the Plaza

Today when I got to Grandmère’s for my princess lesson she announced that we were taking a field trip.

I told her I really don’t even have time for a princess lesson today—that my English grade was at stake, and that I needed to get home and write a new paper right away.

But Grandmère was completely unimpressed—even when I told her that my future career as an authoress was riding on it. She said royals shouldn’t write books anyway—that people only want to read books ABOUT royals, not BY them.

Grandmère so doesn’t get it sometimes.

I thought for sure our field trip was going to see Paolo—my roots are totally starting to show—but instead Grandmère took me downstairs to one of the Plaza’s many conference rooms. About two hundred chairs had been set up in this long room with just a podium in the front with a microphone and a pitcher of water on it.

Only the front row of chairs had people in them. And the people in them were Grandmère’s maid, her chauffeur, and various members of the Plaza hotel staff in their green and gold uniforms, looking very uncomfortable. Especially Grandmère’s maid, who was holding a trembling Rommel on her lap.

At first I thought I’d been set up and that it was a press conference about the snails or something. Except where were the reporters?

But Grandmère said no, it wasn’t a press conference. It was to practice.

For the debate.

For student council president.

“Uh, Grandmère,” I said. “There is no debate for student council president. Everybody just votes. On Monday.”

But Grandmère way didn’t believe me. She went, exhaling a long stream of cigarette smoke, even though there is a Smoking in Your Room Only policy at the Plaza, “Your little friend Lilly told me there’s a debate.”

“You talked to LILLY?” I could hardly believe it. Lilly and Grandmère HATE each other. With good reason, after the whole Jangbu Panasa incident.

And now Grandmère is telling me that she and my best friend are in CAHOOTS?

“WHEN DID LILLY TELL YOU THIS?” I demanded, since I didn’t believe a word of it.

“Earlier,” Grandmère said. “Just stand behind the podium and see how it feels.”

“I KNOW how standing behind a podium feels, Grandmère,” I said. “I’ve stood behind podiums before, remember? When I addressed the Genovian parliament on the parking meter issue.”

“Yes,” Grandmère said. “But that was before an audience of old men. Here I want you to pretend to be addressing an audience of your peers. Picture them sitting before you, in their ridiculous baggy jeans and backward baseball caps.”

“We wear uniforms to school, Grandmère,” I reminded her.

“Yes, well, you know what I mean. Picture them all sitting there dreaming of getting their own television show, like that horrible Ashton Kutcher. Then tell me how you would answer this question: What improvements would you implement to help make Albert Einstein High School a better learning facility, and why?”

Seriously, I don’t get her sometimes. It’s like she was dropped at birth. Only onto parquet, not onto a futon couch, like I dropped Rocky not too long ago. Except that that totally wasn’t my fault, on account of Michael walking in unexpectedly wearing a new pair of jeans.

“Grandmère,” I said. “What is the point of this? THERE IS NO DEBATE.”

“JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION.”

God. She is impossible sometimes.

Okay, all the time.

So just to placate her I went behind the stupid podium and said into the microphone, “Improvements I would implement to help make Albert Einstein High School a better learning facility would include incorporating more meatless entrees into the lunch service for vegan and vegetarian students, and, uh, posting homework assignments on the school website every night, so that students who might, er, have forgotten to write them down would know exactly what they have due the next day.”

“Don’t hunch so over the podium, Amelia,” Grandmère said, critically, from where she was standing, blowing her smoke into a large potted rhododendron (Grandmère is so lucky. Because in ten years, when all the petroleum runs out and the polar ice cap is completely melted, she’ll probably be dead already from lung cancer on account of all the cigarettes she smokes). “Stand up straight. Shoulders back. That’s it. You may proceed.”

I had totally forgotten what I was talking about.

“What about teachers?” called Grandmère’s chauffeur, trying to sound like a baggy-panted Ashton Kutcher wannabe. “Whaddya gonna do about them, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Teachers. Isn’t it their jobs to encourage us in our dreams? But I’ve noticed that certain teachers seem to feel that part of their job description includes crushing our spirit and…and…stifling our creative impulses! Just because they might, you know, be more entertaining than educational. Are those really the kinds of people we want molding our young minds? Are they?”

“No,” cried one of the maids.

“Damn straight,” yelled Grandmère’s chauffeur.