Friday, April 28, Psychology
I finally texted Tina back that I’m not going tomorrow.
There has been radio silence ever since, so I’m just slightly suspicious about what’s going on between her and the rest of the gang.
It’s slightly restful, however, not to have my phone buzzing every five seconds.
Amelia—I still haven’t had your answerrrrrrr. I need you to disinvite twenty-ffiveeeee people to your party. The captain is telling me we won’t be able to set saillllllll with three hundred. Weeeeeeeeee need to cut it down to two seventy-five max. I think Nathan and Claire, Frank’s niece and nephew, can go, obviously. What about your mother? You don’t need her there, do you? She’ll understandddddd. And Frank, tooooooo. I’ll be waiting for your call. Clarisse, your grandmotherrrrrrr
Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device
Oh my God.
Major histocompatibility complex—MHC: Gene family found in most mammals. Believed to play an important role in mate selection through olfactory (scent) recognition. In studies, female college students asked to smell the unwashed T-shirts worn by male college students invariably chose ones worn by males possessing MHC that was entirely dissimilar to their own. This is believed to be due to the fact these males would make the most genetically desirable mates (pairing opposite MHC genes would create offspring with the strongest immune systems). The more genetically dissimilar mates are to each other, the stronger the immune system of the offspring, a fact believed detected through the olfactory senses of the female of the species.
HOMEWORK
World History: Study for final
English Lit: Ditto
Trig: Ditto
G&T: Ugh, I’m so SICK of Chopin
French: Final
Psychology II: Final
Friday, April 28, Dr. Knutz’s waiting room
Great, I walked in here today for my next-to-last session and who should be sitting here but none other than the dowager princess of Genovia herself.
I was like, “What the—” but fortunately managed to control myself at the last minute.
“Oh, Amelia, there you are,” she said, like we were meeting for tea at the Carlyle, or whatever. “Why haven’t you phoned back?”
I just stared at her in horror. “Grandmère,” I said. “This is my therapy session.”
“Well, I know that, Amelia.” She smiled at the receptionist, as if to apologize for my idiocy. “I’m not slow, you know. But how else am I supposed to get you to communicate with me, when you won’t return my calls and you refuse to write back to my e-mails, which is the method of communication I thought was all the rage with you young people today? Really, I had no choice but to hunt you down here.”
“Grandmère.” I was seriously about to bubble over with rage. “If this is about my party, I am NOT disinviting my own mother and stepfather to make room for your society friends. Disinvite Nathan and Claire if you want, I don’t care. And can I just add, it is totally inappropriate of you to show up at therapy to talk to me about this. I realize we’ve had joint therapy sessions in the past, but those were scheduled beforehand. You can’t just show up at therapy and expect me to—”
“Oh, that.” Grandmère made a little waving motion in the air, the sapphire cocktail ring the Shah of Iran had given her sparkling as she did so. “Please. Vigo has straightened out the difficulties with the invitation list. And don’t worry, your mother is safe. Though I wouldn’t say the same for her parents. I hope they’ll enjoy the view of the party from the steering deck. No, no, I’m here about That Boy.”
I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about at first. “J.P.?” She never calls J.P. That Boy. Grandmère loves J.P. I mean seriously loves him. When the two of them get together, they talk about old Broadway shows I’ve never even heard of until I practically have to drag J.P. away. Grandmère is more than a little convinced she could have had a great career on the stage if she hadn’t chosen to marry my grandfather and been the princess of a small European country instead of a huge Broadway star à la that girl who stars in Legally Blonde, the musical. Only, of course, in Grandmère’s mind, she’s better than her.
“Not John Paul,” Grandmère said, looking shocked at the very idea. “The other one. And this…thing he’s invented.”
Michael? Grandmère had invited herself to my therapy session to talk to me about Michael?
Also, great. Thanks, Vigo. Had he set her BlackBerry to receive Google alerts about me, too?
“Are you serious?” I swear at this point I had no idea what she was up to. I really hadn’t put two and two together. I still thought she was worried about the party. “You want to invite Michael, now, too? Well, sorry, Grandmère, but no. Just because he’s a famous millionaire inventor now doesn’t mean I want him at my party. If you invite him, I swear I’ll—”
“No. Amelia.” Grandmère reached out and grabbed my hand. It wasn’t one of her usual grasping, needy grabs, where she tries to force me to give her sciatica a massage. It was as if she was taking my hand to…well, to hold it.
I was so surprised, I actually sank down onto the leather couch and looked at her, like, What? What’s going on?