the hallway naked. Not the hallway in the Moscovitzes’ apartment, either. The hallway outside of it.
Whatever my reasons, I soon found myself sneaking past the Drs. Moscovitz—who were lounging around in sweatpants in the living room, with stacks of important medical journals all around their chairs—though Lilly’s father was reading a copy of Sports Illustrated and Lilly’s mom was reading Cosmo —and creeping into the kitchen.
“Hello, Mia,” Lilly’s father called from behind his magazine. “How are you doing?”
“Um,” I said, nervously. “Fine.”
“And how is your mother?” Lilly’s mother asked.
“She’s fine,” I said.
“Is she still seeing your Algebra teacher in a social capacity?”
“Um, yes, Dr. Moscovitz,” I said. More than you know.
“And are you still amenable to the relationship?” Lilly’s father wanted to know.
“Um,” I said. “Yes, Dr. Moscovitz.” I didn’t think it would be appropriate to mention the whole thing about how my mom is having Mr. G’s baby. I mean, I was supposed to be on a Dare, after all. You aren’t supposed to stop for psychoanalysis when you are on a Dare.
“Well, tell her hello from me,” Lilly’s mother said. “We can’t wait until her next show. It’s at the Mary Boone Gallery, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. The Moscovitzes are big fans of my mother’s work. One of her best paintings, Woman Enjoying a Quick Snack at Starbucks , is hanging in their dining room.
“We’ll be there,” Lilly’s father said.
Then he and his wife turned back to their magazines, so I hurried into the kitchen.
I found an eggplant in the vegetable crisper. I hid it under my shirt so the Drs. Moscovitz wouldn’t see me sneaking back into their daughter’s room holding a giant ovoid fruit, something sure to cause unwanted questions. While I carried it, I thought, This is how my mother is going to look in a few months . It wasn’t a very comforting thought. I don’t think my mother is going to dress any more conservatively while pregnant than she did not pregnant.
Which is to say, not very.
Then, while Lilly narrated gravely into the microphone about how Mia Thermopolis was about to strike a blow for good girls everywhere, and Shameeka filmed, I opened the window, made sure no innocent bystanders were below, and then. . . .
“Bomb’s away,” I said, like in the movies.
It was kind of cool seeing this huge purple eggplant—it was the size of a football—tumbling over and over in the air as it fell. There are enough streetlamps on Fifth Avenue, where the Moscovitzes live, for us to see it as it plummeted downward, even though it was night. Down and down the eggplant went, past the windows of all the psychoanalysts and investment bankers (the only people who can afford apartments in Lilly’s building) until suddenly—
SPLAT!
The eggplant hit the sidewalk.
Only it didn’t just hit the sidewalk. It exploded on the sidewalk, sending bits of eggplant flying everywhere—mostly all over an M1 city bus that was driving by at the time, but quite a lot all over a Jaguar that had been idling nearby.
While I was leaning out the window, admiring the splatter pattern the eggplant’s pulp had made all over the street and sidewalk, the driver-side door of the Jaguar opened up, and a man got out from behind the wheel, just as the doorman to Lilly’s building stepped out from beneath the awning over the front doors, and looked up—
Suddenly, someone threw an arm around my waist and yanked me backward, right off my feet.
“Get down!” Michael hissed, pulling me down to the parquet.
We all ducked. Well, Lilly, Michael, Shameeka, Ling Su, and Tina ducked. I was already on the floor.
Where had Michael come from? I hadn’t even known he was home—and I’d asked, believe me, on account of the whole running-down-the-hallway-naked thing. Just in case, and all.
But Lilly had said he was at a lecture on quasars over at Columbia and
Whatever my reasons, I soon found myself sneaking past the Drs. Moscovitz—who were lounging around in sweatpants in the living room, with stacks of important medical journals all around their chairs—though Lilly’s father was reading a copy of Sports Illustrated and Lilly’s mom was reading Cosmo —and creeping into the kitchen.
“Hello, Mia,” Lilly’s father called from behind his magazine. “How are you doing?”
“Um,” I said, nervously. “Fine.”
“And how is your mother?” Lilly’s mother asked.
“She’s fine,” I said.
“Is she still seeing your Algebra teacher in a social capacity?”
“Um, yes, Dr. Moscovitz,” I said. More than you know.
“And are you still amenable to the relationship?” Lilly’s father wanted to know.
“Um,” I said. “Yes, Dr. Moscovitz.” I didn’t think it would be appropriate to mention the whole thing about how my mom is having Mr. G’s baby. I mean, I was supposed to be on a Dare, after all. You aren’t supposed to stop for psychoanalysis when you are on a Dare.
“Well, tell her hello from me,” Lilly’s mother said. “We can’t wait until her next show. It’s at the Mary Boone Gallery, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. The Moscovitzes are big fans of my mother’s work. One of her best paintings, Woman Enjoying a Quick Snack at Starbucks , is hanging in their dining room.
“We’ll be there,” Lilly’s father said.
Then he and his wife turned back to their magazines, so I hurried into the kitchen.
I found an eggplant in the vegetable crisper. I hid it under my shirt so the Drs. Moscovitz wouldn’t see me sneaking back into their daughter’s room holding a giant ovoid fruit, something sure to cause unwanted questions. While I carried it, I thought, This is how my mother is going to look in a few months . It wasn’t a very comforting thought. I don’t think my mother is going to dress any more conservatively while pregnant than she did not pregnant.
Which is to say, not very.
Then, while Lilly narrated gravely into the microphone about how Mia Thermopolis was about to strike a blow for good girls everywhere, and Shameeka filmed, I opened the window, made sure no innocent bystanders were below, and then. . . .
“Bomb’s away,” I said, like in the movies.
It was kind of cool seeing this huge purple eggplant—it was the size of a football—tumbling over and over in the air as it fell. There are enough streetlamps on Fifth Avenue, where the Moscovitzes live, for us to see it as it plummeted downward, even though it was night. Down and down the eggplant went, past the windows of all the psychoanalysts and investment bankers (the only people who can afford apartments in Lilly’s building) until suddenly—
SPLAT!
The eggplant hit the sidewalk.
Only it didn’t just hit the sidewalk. It exploded on the sidewalk, sending bits of eggplant flying everywhere—mostly all over an M1 city bus that was driving by at the time, but quite a lot all over a Jaguar that had been idling nearby.
While I was leaning out the window, admiring the splatter pattern the eggplant’s pulp had made all over the street and sidewalk, the driver-side door of the Jaguar opened up, and a man got out from behind the wheel, just as the doorman to Lilly’s building stepped out from beneath the awning over the front doors, and looked up—
Suddenly, someone threw an arm around my waist and yanked me backward, right off my feet.
“Get down!” Michael hissed, pulling me down to the parquet.
We all ducked. Well, Lilly, Michael, Shameeka, Ling Su, and Tina ducked. I was already on the floor.
Where had Michael come from? I hadn’t even known he was home—and I’d asked, believe me, on account of the whole running-down-the-hallway-naked thing. Just in case, and all.
But Lilly had said he was at a lecture on quasars over at Columbia and
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