Meg Cabot - Give Me Five

and porters' unions strike.

Because if she hadn't, the prom might never have been cancelled, and Lana and the rest of the Prom Committee would have gone ahead and had it at Maxim's instead of being forced to have it on the observation deck of the Empire State Building - something arranged entirely by Grandmere, who is like this with the owner - and Michael would have continued to refuse to

go to the prom at all, and so instead of standing under the stars in my totally rocking Jennifer Lopez-engagement-ring pink

prom dress, listening to MY BOYFRIEND'S BAND, I'd be stuck at home, instant messaging my friends.

So as I stare out at the twinkling lights of Manhattan, all I can say is:

Thank you, Grandmere. Thank you for being such a complete freak. Because without you, my dream of entering the prom

on the arm of my one true love would never have come true.

And OK, it kind of sucks that we can't dance because the only time there's any music is when Skinner Box is playing.

But the band took a break a little while ago, and Michael came over with a glass of punch for me (pink lemonade with Sprite

in it ... Josh tried to spike it, but Wahim totally caught him and threatened him with his numb-chucks) and we went over to

the telescopes and stood with our arms around each other, gazing out at the Hudson River, snaking silverly along in the moonlight, and . . .

Well, I'm not sure, but I think we got to second base. I'm not sure because I don't know if it counts if a guy feels you up THROUGH your bra.

I will have to consult with Tina on this, but I think the hand actually has to get UNDER the bra for it to count.

But there was no way Michael was getting under MY bra, given as how I am wearing one of those strapless ones that are

so tight it feels like you are wearing an Ace bandage around your boobs.

But he tried. I'm pretty sure, anyway. There really is no doubting it now. I am a woman. A woman in every sense of the word.

Well, almost. Probably I should go into the ladies' room and take this stupid bra off so if he goes for it again I might actually

be able to feel something . . .

Oh, my God, somebody's mobile is ringing. That is so rude. And in the middle of 'Princess of my Heart' too. You would

think people would show some respect for the band and turn off their—

Oh, my God. That's MY mobile!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sunday, May 11, 1 a.m., St Vincent s Maternity Ward

Oh . . . my . . . God.

I can't believe it. I really can't. Tonight, not only did I become a woman (maybe) but I also became a big sister.

That's right. At 12:01 a.m., Eastern Standard Time, I became the proud big sister of Rocky Thermopolis-Gianini.

He is six weeks early, so he only weighed four pounds, fifteen ounces. But Rocky, like his namesake - I guess Mom was too weak to argue for Sartre any more. I'm glad. Sartre would have been a lousy name. The kid would have got beaten up all the time for sure with a name like Sartre - is a fighter, and will have to spend some time in an 'isolet' to 'gain and grow'. Both mother and Y-chromosomed oppressor, however, are expected to be fine . . .

Though I don't think the same can be said for the grandmother. Grandmere is slumped beside me in an exhausted heap. In

fact, she appears to be half asleep, and is snoring slightiy. Thank God there is no one around to hear it. Well, no one except

for Mr. G, Lars, Hans, my dad, our next-door neighbour, Ronnie, our downstairs neighbour, Verl, Michael, Lilly and me,

I mean.

But I guess Grandmere has a right to be tired. According to my mother's extremely grudging report, if it hadn't been for Grandmere, little Rocky might have been born right there in the Loft. . . and with no helpful midwife in attendance, either.

And seeing as how he came out so fast, and is so early, and needed a hit of oxygen before his lungs really started going,

that could have been disastrous!

But with me away at the prom, and Mr. Gianini having left the Loft to go 'buy some Lottery tickets down at the deli' (translation: he'd needed to get out of there for a few minutes, not being able to stand the constant bickering any more),

only Grandmere was around when Mom's waters suddenly broke (thank God in her bathroom and not on the futon couch.

Or else where would I sleep tonight????).

'Not now,' Grandmere apparently heard my mother wailing from the toilet. 'Oh, God, not now! It's too soon!'

Grandmere, thinking Mom was talking about the strike, and that she didn't want it to end so soon because it meant she'd be deprived of the delightful company of the Dowager Princess of Genovia, of course went bustling into my mom's room to ask which newscast she was watching . . .

Only to find that my mother wasn't talking about something she'd seen on TV at all. Grandmere said she didn't even think

about what she did next. She just ran out of the Loft, screaming, 'A cab! A cab! Somebody get me a cab!'

She didn't even hear my mother's mournful cries of, 'My midwife! No! Call my midwife!'

Fortunately our next-door neighbour, Ronnie, was home - a rarity for her on a Saturday night, as Ronnie is quite the femme fatale. But she was just recovering from a bout of the flu and had decided to stay in for the night. She opened her door and stuck her head out and went, 'Can I help you, miss?'

To which my grandmother apparently replied, 'Helen's in labour and I need a cab! And that's Your Royal Highness to you, mister!'

While Ronnie ran downstairs to flag down a cab, Grandmere ducked back into the apartment, grabbed my mom, and went, 'Come on, Helen, we're going.'

To which my mother supposedly replied, 'But I can't be having the baby now! It's too soon! Make it stop, Clarisse. Make

it stop.'

'I can command the Royal Genovian Air Force,' Grandmere supposedly replied. 'As well as the RoyalGenovian Navy. But

the one thing in the world I have no control over, Helen, is your womb. Now come on.'

All of this activity was enough to wake up our downstairs neighbour, Verl, of course. He came running out of his apartment thinking that the mother ship was finally landing . . . only to find a mother of quite a different kind waddling down the stairs in front of him.

'I'll run to the deli and get Frank,' Verl said, when he learned what was going on.

So by the time Grandmere got my mom all the way down three flights of stairs, Ronnie had secured a cab, and Mr. G and

Verl were racing up the street towards them . . .

They all piled into the cab (even though there is a city ordinance that there are only five people, including the driver, allowed

in a cab at one time - something the cabbie apparendy pointed out, but to which Grandmere replied, 'Do you know who I am, young man? I am the Dowager Princess of Genovia and the woman responsible for the current strike, and if you don't do exactly as I say, I'll get YOU fired, too!') and sped off to St Vincent's, which is where Lars and Michael and I found them (in the maternity waiting area - minus my mom and Mr. G, of course, who were in the delivery room) half an hour after they

called me, waiting tensely to hear if my mother and the baby were all right.

My dad and Hans joined us a little while later (I called him) and Lilly showed up a little after that (Tina had apparently called her from the prom, feeling bad for her, I guess, sitting around at home) and the nine of us (ten if you count the cabbie, who stuck around demanding somebody pay for the damage Ronnie's stilettos did to his floor mats, until my dad threw a hundred dollar bill at him and the guy grabbed it and took off) sat there watching the clock - me in my pink prom dress, and Lars and Michael in tuxes. We were definitely the best-dressed people at St Vincent's.