Meg Cabot: Mia Goes Fourth

It is like a Christmas miracle.

And that's not all. Mr. G also fully redid the darkroom, leftover from when my mom was going through her Ansel Adams

stage. He pulled the boards off the windows and got rid of all the noxious chemicals that have been sitting around since

forever because my mom and I were too afraid to touch them. Now the darkroom is going to be the baby's room! It is so sunny and nice in there. Or at least it was until my mom started painting the walls with scenes of important historical

significance, such as the trial of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg and the assassination of Martin Luther King, so that, she says,

the baby will have an understanding of all the problems facing our nation (Mr. G assured me privately that he is going to

paint over the whole thing as soon as my mom gets admitted to the maternity ward. She will never know the difference

once the endorphins kick in. All I can say is thank God Mom picked a man with so much common sense with whom to reproduce this time around).

But the best thing of all was what was waiting for me on the answering machine. My mom played it for me proudly

almost the minute I walked through the door.

IT WAS A MESSAGE FROM MICHAEL!!!! MY FIRST MESSAGE FROM MICHAEL SINCE

I BECAME HIS GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!

Which of course means it worked. The my-not-calling-him thing, I mean.

The message goes like this:

'Uh, hi, Mia? Yeah, it's Michael. I was just wondering if you could, uh, call me when you get this message. '

Cause I haven't heard from you in a while. And I just want to know if you're, uh, OK. And make sure you got home all right. And that there's nothing wrong. OK. That's all. Well. Bye. This is Michael, by the way. Or

maybe I said that. I can't remember. Hi, Mrs Thermopolis. Hi, Mr. G. OK. Well. Call me, Mia. Bye.'

I took the tape out of the message machine and am keeping it in the drawer of my nightstand along with:

a. some grains of rice from the bag Michael and I sat on at the Cultural Diversity Dance, in memory of the first time

we ever slow-danced together

b. a dried-out piece of toast from the Rocky Horror Show, which is where Michael and I went on our first date,

though it wasn't really a date because Kenny came too

c. a cut-out snowflake from the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, in memory of the first time Michael and I kissed

It was the best Christmas present I could ever have had, that message. Even better than DSL.

So then I came into my room and unpacked and played the message over about fifty times on my tape player, and my mom kept coming in to give me more hugs and asking me if I wanted to listen to her new Liz Phair CD and wanting to show me

her stretch marks. Then, about the thirtieth time she came in, I was playing Michael's message again, and she was all, 'Haven't you called him back yet, honey?' and I went, 'No,' and she went, 'Well, why not?' and I went, 'Because I am trying to be like Jane Eyre.'

And then my mom got all squinty-eyed like she does whenever they are debating funding for the arts in Congress.

'Jane Eyre?' she echoed. 'You mean the book?'

'Exactly,' I said, tugging the little Napoleonic diamond napkin holders that the Prime Minister of France had given me for Christmas out from beneath Fat Louie. He had lain down inside my suitcase, I guess in the mistaken belief that I was packing, not unpacking, and he wanted to try to stop me from going away again. 'See, Jane didn't chase boys, she let them chase her. And so Tina and I, we've both taken solemn vows that we are going to be just like Jane.'

My mom, unlike Grandmere had been, didn't look happy to hear this.

'But Jane Eyre was so mean to poor Mr Rochester,' she cried.

I didn't mention that this was what I had thought, too . . . at first.

'Mom,' I said, very firmly. 'I think you're forgetting the whole first-wife-in-the-attic thing.'

'Because she was a lunatic,' my mom pointed out. 'It wasn't like they had psychotropic drugs back then. Keeping Bertha locked in the attic was kinder, really, than sending her to a mental hospital, considering what they were like during that era,

with people chained to the walls and the whole no TV thing. Really, Mia. I swear I don't know where you get half your

ideas. Jane Eyre? Who told you about Jane Eyre?'

'Um,' I said, stalling because I knew my mom wasn't going to like the answer. 'Grandmere.'

My mom's lips got so thin, they completely disappeared.

'I should have known,' she said. 'Well, Mia, I think it is commendable that you and your friends have decided not to chase boys. However, if a boy leaves a nice message on the answering machine like Michael did, it could hardly be construed as chasing for you to do the polite thing and return his call.'

I thought about this. My mom was probably right. I mean, it isn't as if Michael has a crazy wife in the attic. The Fifth

Avenue apartment where the Moscovitzes live doesn't even have an attic, so far as I know.

'OK,' I said, setting down the clothes I'd been putting away. 'I guess I could return his call.' My heart was swelling at the

very idea. In a minute - less than a minute, if I could get my mom out of my room fast enough - I'd be talking to Michael!

And there wouldn't be that weird swooshing sound there always is when you call from across die ocean. Because there

was no ocean separating us! Just Washington Square Park. 'Returning calls probably doesn't count as chasing. That would probably be OK.'

My mom, who was sitting on the end of my bed, just shook her head.

'Really, Mia,' she said. 'You know I don't like to contradict your grandmother ...' This was the biggest lie I'd heard since the Prince of Liechtenstein told me I waltzed divinely, but I let it slide, on account of Mom's condition. '. . . but I really don't

think you should be playing mind games with boys. Particularly a boy you care about. Particularly a boy like Michael.'

'Mom, if I want to spend the rest of my life with him, I have to play games with Michael,' I explained to her, patiently.

'I certainly can't tell him the truth. If he were ever to learn the depths of my passion for him, he'd run like a startled fawn.'

My mom looked stunned. A what?'

'A startled fawn,' I explained. 'See, Tina told her boyfriend Dave Farouq El-Abar how she really feels about him, and he

pulled a total David Caruso on her.'

My mom blinked. A who?'

'David Caruso,' I said. I felt sorry for my mom. Clearly she had only managed to snag Mr. Gianini by the skin of her teeth.

I couldn't believe she didn't know this stuff. 'You know, he disappeared for a really long time. Dave only resurfaced when

Tina managed to scrounge Wresdemania tickets for the Garden. And ever since, Tina says things have been really awkward.' Done unpacking, I shooed Fat Louie out of the suitcase, closed it, and put it on the floor. Then I sat next to my mom on the bed. 'Mom,' I said. 'I do not want that to happen to me and Michael. I love Michael more than anything in the entire world, except for you and Dad and Fat Louie.'

I just said the you and Dad part to be polite. I think I love Michael more than I love my mom and dad. It sounds terrible

to say, but I can't help it, it is just how I feel.

But I will never love anyone or anything as much as I love Fat Louie.

'So don't you see?' I said to her. 'What Michael and I have, I don't want to mess it up. He's my Romeo in black jeans.' Even though of course I have never seen Michael in black jeans. But I am sure he has some. It is just that we have a dress code

at our school, so usually when I see him he is in grey flannel pants, as that is part of our uniform.

It seemed to take my mom a minute to digest all this. When she had, all she said was, 'I respect that you want to take things with Michael slowly, Mia. But I do think that if you haven't seen a boy in a month, and he leaves a message for you, the