Mia Goes Fourth

Biology: Don't know, Shameeka is doing it for me

Health and Safety: Chapter 2: Environmental Hazards and You

G & T: figure out secret talent

French: Chapitre Onze, ecrivez une narratif, 300 words, double space, plus 500 wds on snails

World Civ.: 500 wds, describe origins of Armenian conflict

Thursday, January 21,

Limo on Way Home from Grandmere's

It takes a big person to admit she's wrong - Grandmere is the one who taught me that.

And if it's true, then I must be even bigger than my five feet nine inches. Because I've been wrong. I've been wrong about Grandmere. All this time, when I thought she was inhuman and perhaps even sent down from an alien moth-ership to

observe life on this planet and then report back to her superiors. Yeah, it turns out Grandmere really is human, just like me.

How did I find this out? How did I discover that the Dowager Princess of Genovia did not, after all, sell her soul to the

Prince of Darkness as I have often surmised?

I learned it today when I walked into Grandmere 's suite at the Plaza, fully prepared to do battle with her over the whole Contessa Trevanni thing. I was going to be all, 'Grandmere, Dad says I don't have to go, and guess what, I'm not going to.'

That's what I was going to say, anyway.

Except that when I walked in and saw her, the words practically died on my lips. Because Grandmere looked as if someone had run over her with a truck! Seriously. She was sitting there in the dark - she had had these purple scarves thrown over the lampshades because she said the light was hurting her eyes - and she wasn't even dressed properly. She had on a velvet lounging robe, a cashmere throw over her knees and some slippers and that was it, and her hair was all in curlers and if her eyeliner hadn't been tattooed on, I swear it would have been all smeared. She wasn't even enjoying a Sidecar, her favourite refreshment, or anything.

She was just sitting there, with Rommel trembling on her lap, looking like death warmed over.

'Grandmere,' I couldn't help crying out, when I saw her. 'Are you all right? Are you sick or something? Do you want me

to get your maid?'

But all Grandmere said was, in a voice so unlike her own normally quite strident one that I could barely believe it belonged

to the same woman, 'No, I'm fine. At least I will be. Once I get over the humiliation.'

'Humiliation? What humiliation?' I went over to kneel by her chair. 'Grandmere, are you sure you aren't sick? You aren't even smoking!'

'I'll be all right,' she said, weakly. 'It will be weeks before I'll be able to show my face in public. But I'm a Renaldo. I'm strong.

I will recover.'

Actually, Grandmere is technically only a Renaldo by marriage, but at that point I wasn't going to argue with her, because I thought there was something genuinely wrong, like her uterus had fallen out in the shower or something (this happened to one

of the women in the condo community down in Boca where Lilly and Michael's grandmother lives).

'Grandmere,' I said, kind of looking around, in case her uterus was lying on the floor somewhere or whatever. 'Do you want

me to call a doctor?'

'No doctor can cure what is wrong with me,' Grandmere assured me. 'I am only suffering from the mortification of having a granddaughter who doesn't love me.'

I had no idea what she was talking about. Sure, I don't like Grandmere so much sometimes. Sometimes I even think I hate

her. But I don't not love her. I guess. At least I've never said so, to her face.

'Grandmere, what are you talking about? Of course I love you . . .'

'Then why won't you come with me to the Contessa Trevanni's black-and-white ball?' Grandmere wailed.

Blinking rapidly, I could only stammer, 'Wh-what?'

'Your father says you will not go to the ball,' Grandmere said. 'He says you have no wish to go!'

'Grandmere,' I said. 'You know I don't want to go. You know that Michael and—'

'That boy!' Grandmere cried. 'That boy again!'

'Grandmere, stop calling him that,' I said. 'You know his name perfectly well. It's Michael.'

'And I suppose this Michael,' Grandmere said, 'is more important to you than I am. I suppose you consider his feelings

over mine in this case.'

The answer to that, of course, was a resounding yes. But I didn't want to be rude. I said, 'Grandmere, tomorrow night

is our first date. Mine and Michael's, I mean. It's really important to me.'

And I suppose the fact that it was really important to me that you attend this ball - that is of no consequence?' Grandmere actually looked, for a moment, as she sat gazing down at me so miserably, as if she had tears in her eyes. But maybe it was