Meg Cabot - Princess in the Spotlight

After three or four gulps, though, he got a little of his color back. Which is more than I can say for Grandmère. I don’t think she will ever recover. Last time I saw her, she was downing a Sidecar that someone had dropped some Alka-Seltzer tablets into.

I don’t even want to think about what my mom is going to say when she finds out what I’ve done. I mean, even though my dad said not to worry, that he’ll explain to Mom what happened, I don’t know. He had kind of a weird look on his face. I hope he doesn’t plan on popping Mr. G one in the piehole.

Me and my big mouth. My HUGE, GROTESQUE, DISPROPORTIONATELY MASSIVE mouth.

There’s no telling what else I said, once the interview got underway again. I was so completely freaked out by that first thing, I can’t remember a single other thing Beverly Bellerieve might have asked me.

My dad has assured me that he’s not the least bit jealous of Mr. Gianini, that he is very happy for my mother, and that he thinks she and Mr. G make a great couple. I think he means it. He seemed pretty unfazed, after the initial shock. Once the interview was over, I noticed that he and Beverly Bellerieve were yukking it up quite a bit.

All I can say is, thank goodness I am going straight from the hotel to Lilly’s. She is having us all over to film next week’s episode of her show. I think I’ll see if I can spend the night. Maybe this way, by the time my mom sees me tomorrow, she’ll have had time to process the whole thing, and will have forgiven me.

I hope.

Sunday, October 26, 2 a.m., Lilly’s bedroom

Okay, I just have one question: Why does it always have to go from bad to worse for me?

I mean, apparently it is not enough that

1. I was born lacking any sort of mammary growth gland

2. My feet are as long as a normal person’s thigh

3. I’m the sole heir to the throne of a European principality

4. My grade point average is still slipping in spite of everything

5. I have a secret admirer who will not declare himself

6. My mother is pregnant with my Algebra teacher’s baby, and

7. All ofAmerica is going to know it after Monday night’s broadcast of my exclusive interview on Twenty-Four/Seven

No, in addition to all of that, I happen to be the only one of my friends who still has yet to be French-kissed.

Seriously. For next week’s show, Lilly insisted on shooting what she calls a Scorsesian confessional, in which she hopes to illustrate the degenerate lows to which today’s youth have sunk. So she made us all confess to the camera our worst sins, and it turns out Shameeka, Tina Hakim Baba, Ling Su, and Lilly have ALL had boys’ tongues in their mouths. All of them.

Except for me.

Okay, I’m not so surprised about Shameeka. Ever since she grew breasts over the summer, boys have been buzzing around her like she was the newest version of Tomb Raider, or something. And Ling Su and that Clifford guy she has been seeing are way into each other.

But Tina? I mean, she has a bodyguard, just like me. When has she ever been alone long enough with a boy for him to French her?

And Lilly? Excuse me, but Lilly, MY BEST FRIEND? Who I thought tells me everything (even though I don’t necessarily always return the favor)? She has known the touch of a boy’s tongue upon her own, and she never thought to tell me until NOW?

Boris Pelkowski is apparently a much smoother operator than you would suspect, considering that whole sweater thing.

I am sorry, but that is just sick. Sick, sick, sick, sick. I would rather die a dried-up, never-been-kissed old maid than be French-kissed by Boris Pelkowski. I mean, he always has FOOD in his retainer. And not just any food, either, but usually weird, multicolored foods like Gummi Bears and Jelly Bellies.

Lilly says he takes his retainer out when they kiss, though.

God, I am such a reject. The only boy who has ever kissed me did it just so he could get his picture in the paper.

Yeah, there was some tongue action, but believe me, I kept my lips way closed.

And since I have never been French-kissed, and had nothing good to confess on the show, Lilly decided to punish me by giving me a Dare. She didn’t even ask me if I would prefer a Truth.

Lilly dared me I wouldn’t drop an eggplant onto the sidewalk from her sixteenth-story bedroom window.

I said I most certainly would, even though of course, I totally didn’t want to. I mean, how stupid. Somebody could seriously get hurt. I am all for illustrating the degenerate lows to whichAmerica ’s teens have sunk, but I wouldn’t want anybody to get their head bashed in.

But what could I do? It was a Dare. I had to go along with it. I mean, it’s bad enough I’ve never been Frenched. I don’t want to be branded a wimp, too.

And I couldn’t exactly stand there and go, well, all right, I may never have been French-kissed by a boy, but I have been the recipient of a love letter that was written by one. A boy, I mean.

Because what if Michael is Jo-C-rox? I mean, I know he probably isn’t, but . . .well, what if he is? I don’t want Lilly to know—any more than I want her to know about my interview with Beverly Bellerieve, or the fact that my mom and Mr. G are getting married. I am trying very hard to be a normal girl, and frankly, none of the aforementioned can be even remotely construed as normal.

I guess the knowledge that somewhere in the world there is a boy who likes me gave me a sense of empowerment—something I certainly could have used during my interview with Beverly Bellerieve, but whatever. I may not be able to form a coherent sentence when there is a television camera aimed in my direction, but I am at least capable, I decided, of throwing an eggplant out the window.

Lilly was shocked. I had never accepted a Dare like that before.

I can’t really explain why I did it. Maybe I was just trying to live up to my new reputation as a very Josie-ish type of girl.

Or maybe I was more scared of what Lilly would try to make me do if I said no. Once she made me run up and down the hallway naked. Not the hallway in the Moscovitzes’ apartment, either. The hallway outside of it.

Whatever my reasons, I soon found myself sneaking past the Drs. Moscovitz—who were lounging around in sweatpants in the living room, with stacks of important medical journals all around their chairs—though Lilly’s father was reading a copy of Sports Illustrated and Lilly’s mom was reading Cosmo —and creeping into the kitchen.

“Hello, Mia,” Lilly’s father called from behind his magazine. “How are you doing?”

“Um,” I said, nervously. “Fine.”

“And how is your mother?” Lilly’s mother asked.

“She’s fine,” I said.

“Is she still seeing your Algebra teacher in a social capacity?”

“Um, yes, Dr. Moscovitz,” I said. More than you know.

“And are you still amenable to the relationship?” Lilly’s father wanted to know.

“Um,” I said. “Yes, Dr. Moscovitz.” I didn’t think it would be appropriate to mention the whole thing about how my mom is having Mr. G’s baby. I mean, I was supposed to be on a Dare, after all. You aren’t supposed to stop for psychoanalysis when you are on a Dare.

“Well, tell her hello from me,” Lilly’s mother said. “We can’t wait until her next show. It’s at the Mary Boone Gallery, right?”