Well, I still haven’t found Kenny, but I really have…
Even later on Friday, December 19, still the Winter Carnival
Well, I’m in the girls’ room again. And I think…
Friday, December 19, 5 p.m., the loft
I don’t know why people can’t just leave me alone.
Friday, December 19, 5:30 p.m., the fire escape
People have a right to their privacy. If I want…
Friday, December 19, 7:30 p.m.
Well. You could knock me over with a feather. Guess…
Saturday, December 20, Royal Genovian Jet
When I was about to turn six years old, all…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Meg Cabot
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
English Class
Assignment (Due December 8): Here at Albert Einstein High School, we have a very diverse student population. Over one hundred and seventy different nations, religions, and ethnic groups are represented by our student body. In the space below, describe the manner in which your family celebrates the uniquely American holiday, Thanksgiving. Please utilize appropriate margins.
MY THANKSGIVING
by Mia Thermopolis
6:45 a.m.–Roused by the sound of my mother vomiting. She is well into her third month of pregnancy now. According to her obstetrician, all the throwing up should stop in the next trimester. I can’t wait. I have been marking the days off on my ‘N Sync calendar. (I don’t really like ‘N Sync. At least, not that much. My best friend, Lilly, bought me the calendar as a joke. Except that one guy really is pretty cute.)
7:45 a.m.–Mr. Gianini, my new stepfather, knocks on my door. Only now I am supposed to call him Frank. This is very difficult to remember due to the fact that at school, where he is my first-period Algebra teacher, I am supposed to call him Mr. Gianini. So I just don’t call him anything (to his face).
It’s time to get up, Mr. Gianini says. We are having Thanksgiving at his parents’ house on Long Island. We have to leave now if we are going to beat the traffic.
8:45 a.m.–There is no traffic this early on Thanksgiving Day. We arrive at Mr. G’s parents’ house in Sagaponic three hours early.
Mrs. Gianini (Mr. Gianini’s mother, not my mother. My mother is still Helen Thermopolis because she is a fairly well known modern painter under that name, and also because she does not believe in the cult of the patriarchy) is still in curlers. She looks very surprised. This might not only be because we arrived so early, but also because no sooner had my mother entered the house than she was forced to run for the bathroom with her hand pressed over her mouth, on account of the smell of the roasting turkey. I am hoping this means that my future half-brother or sister is a vegetarian, since the smell of meat cooking used to make my mother hungry, not nauseated.
My mother had already informed me in the car on the way over from Manhattan that Mr. Gianini’s parents are very old-fashioned and are used to enjoying a conventional Thanksgiving meal. She does not think they will appreciate hearing my traditional Thanksgiving speech about how the Pilgrims are guilty of committing mass genocide by giving their new Native American friends blankets filled with the smallpox virus, and that it is reprehensible that we as a country annually celebrate this rape and destruction of an entire culture.
Instead, my mother said, I should discuss more neutral topics, such as the weather.
I asked if it was all right if I discussed the astonishingly high rate of attendance at the Reykjavik opera house in Iceland (over 98 percent of the country’s population has seen Tosca at least once).
My mother sighed and said, “If you must,” which I take to be a sign that she is beginning to tire of hearing about Iceland.