“What do you mean, the kitchen is closed?” she was demanding. “How can the kitchen be closed? I ordered lunch hours ago, and still haven’t received it. I am not hanging up until I speak to the person in charge of room service. He knows who I am.”
My dad was sitting on the couch across from Grandmère’s TV, watching—what else?—New York One with a tense expression on his face. I sat down beside him, and he looked at me, as if surprised to see me there.
“Oh, Mia,” he said. “Hello. How is your mother?”
“Fine,” I said, because, even though I hadn’t seen her since breakfast, I knew she had to be okay, since I hadn’t gotten any calls on my cell phone. “She’s alternating between Gatorade and Pedialyte. She likes the grape kind. What’s happening with the strike?”
My dad just shook his head in a defeated way. “The union representatives are meeting in the mayor’s office. They’re hoping to work out a negotiation soon.”
I sighed. “You realize, of course, that none of this would have happened if I had never been born. Because then I wouldn’t have had a birthday dinner.”
My dad looked at me kind of sharply, and went, “I hope you’re not blaming yourself for this, Mia.”
I almost went, “Are you kidding? I blame Grandmère.” But then I realized from the earnest expression on my dad’s face that I had, like, this huge sympathy quotient going for me, and so instead I went, in this doleful voice, “It’s just too bad I’m going to be in Genovia for most of the summer. It might have been nice if I could have, you know, spent the summer volunteering with an organization seeking to help those unfortunate busboys….”
My dad so didn’t fall for it, though. He just winked at me and said, “Nice try.”
Jeez! Between him wanting to whisk me off to Genovia for July and August, and my mother offering to take me to her gynecologist, I am getting way mixed messages from my parental units. It’s a wonder I haven’t developed multiple personalities. Or Asperger’s syndrome. If I don’t already have it.
While I was sitting there sulking over my failure to keep from having to spend my precious summer months on the freaking Côte d’Azur, Grandmère started signaling me from the phone. She kept snapping her fingers at me, then pointing at the door to her bedroom. I just sat there blinking at her until finally she put her hand over the receiver and hissed, “Amelia! In my bedroom! Something for you!”
A present? For me? I couldn’t imagine what Grandmère could have gotten me—I mean, the orphan was enough of a gift for one birthday. But I wasn’t about to say no to a present… at least, not as long as it didn’t involve the hide of some slaughtered mammal.
So I got up and went to the door to Grandmère’s bedroom, just as someone must have taken Grandmère off hold, since as I turned the knob she was hollering, “But I ordered that cobb salad FOUR HOURS AGO. Do I need to come down there to make it myself? What do you mean, that would be a public health violation? What public? I want to make a salad for myself, not the public!”
I opened the door to Grandmère’s room. It is, being the bedroom of the penthouse suite of the Plaza Hotel, a very fancy room, with lots of gold leaf all over everything, and freshly cut flowers all over the place… although with the strike, I doubted Grandmère’d be getting new floral arrangements anytime soon.
Anyway, as I stood there, looking around the room for my present and totally saying this little prayer (Please don’t let it be a mink stole. Please don’t let it be a mink stole.), my gaze fell upon this dress that was lying across the bed. It was the color of Jennifer Lopez’s engagement ring from Ben Affleck—the softest pink imaginable—and was covered all over in sparkling pink beading. It was off the shoulder with a sweetheart neckline, and this huge, filmy skirt.
I knew right away what it was. And even though it wasn’t black or slit up the side, it was still the most beautiful prom dress I had ever seen. It was prettier than the one Rachael Leigh Cook wore in She’s All That. It was prettier than the one Drew Barrymore wore in Never Been Kissed. And it was way, way prettier than the gunnysack Molly Ringwald wore in Pretty in Pink. It was even prettier than the prom dress Annie Potts gave Molly Ringwald to wear in Pretty in Pink, before Molly went mental with the pinking shears and screwed the whole thing all up.
It was the prettiest prom dress I had ever seen.
And as I stood there gazing at it, a huge lump rose in my throat.
Because of course, I wasn’t going to the prom.
So I shut the door and turned around and went back to sit on the couch next to my dad, who was still staring transfixedly at the television screen.
A second later, Grandmère hung up the phone, turned to me, and said, “Well?”
“It’s really beautiful, Grandmère,” I said sincerely.
“I know it’s beautiful,” she said. “Aren’t you going to try it on?”
I had to swallow hard in order to talk in anything that sounded like my normal voice.
“I can’t,” I said. “I told you, I’m not going to the prom, Grandmère.”
“Nonsense,” Grandmère said. “The sultan called to cancel our dinner tonight—Le Cirque is closed—but this silly strike will be over by Saturday. And then you can go to your little prom.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not because of the strike. It’s because of what I told you. You know. About Michael.”
“What about Michael?” my dad wanted to know. Only I really don’t like saying anything negative about Michael in front of my father, because he is always just looking for an excuse to hate him, since he is a dad and it is a dad’s job to hate his daughter’s boyfriend. So far my dad and Michael have managed to get along, and I want to keep it that way.
“Oh,” I said lightly. “You know. Boys don’t really get into the prom the way girls do.”
My dad just grunted and turned back to the TV. “You can say that again,” he said.