Free Going Off Script by Giuliana Rancic Page A

was he using here?
    “You’re failing every subject.”
    “But I proved myself!” Even I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but it sounded righteous. I could probably sweet-talk my way up to D minuses or do some makeup work over the summer.
    “No, you’re not graduating,” Dr. Marco reiterated. “You can’t fail senior English and graduate.”
    I was mortified. What was going on here? I’d been skating for four years, and only now they’re telling me there’s no ice? I might have been less surprised if I hadn’t made a habit out of intercepting any mail from school and burying it in the trash without bothering to open it.
    “But I already have a party planned and I have my dress and everything,” I sputtered. “Please, Dr. Marco, I’ll do
anything
!” The principal sighed heavily. Whether it was pity for me or pity for the teachers who would get stuck with me for another year if I didn’t graduate, I’ll never know, but Dr. Marco sent for the English teacher to see if a treaty could be negotiated.
    It was the same teacher whose class I had interrupted to jump Sophia. Who knew it was
my
class, too? Hey, I had forty-fiveabsences. She looked like one of those grandmotherly nannies who turns fifty shades of psycho when the parents leave and drowns the children in the bathtub. Beady eyes behind old-fashioned spectacles, mousy hair in a tight bun. She addressed Dr. Marco as if I weren’t standing right there.
    “Miss DePandi has a total disregard for Shakespeare,” Psychobun declared. “She never read
Hamlet
along with the other seniors. If she wants a passing grade, she needs to recite the soliloquy in front of the class. Without a single mistake.”
    Home free.
    Two things I happen to excel at are juggling and memorization. I taught myself how to juggle off a cheesy tutorial tape I bought at Circuit City, and I still like to show off my moves on the red carpet or to any interviewer who’ll let me. I will challenge some star to a juggle-off while wearing a ten-thousand-dollar couture gown. They almost always agree, because really, who’s going to turn down a five-foot-ten circus seal in Valentino? Memorization, on the other hand, isn’t something I trained myself to do: It’s just a freak talent I’ve always had. I can look at a page of script once and my mind will take a picture of it. I cracked open my like-new English lit book, read the soliloquy through a couple of times, closed the book, went to class, and recited it perfectly.
    Diploma accomplished.
    Next stop, Miss USA.

chapter four
    I was right: You didn’t have to have talent, perfect SAT scores, or the spun-sugar heart of a Disney princess. From what I could tell, as long as you weren’t a call girl, coke addict, or drag queen, you had a shot at becoming Miss USA. You could be the fugliest girl in Maryland, but as long as you had a pulse and the $1,500 entry fee, you were more than welcome to enter the state pageant.
At last,
I thought, as I sat down with my official paperwork. I went to work happily filling in the blanks. Name, gender, address, birth date, high school attended.
Done, done, done, done, done.
Citizenship.
    Sound of cartoon brakes screeching inside my head.
    Whaaa?
    Shocking true fact: You have to be an actual American citizen to become Miss USA. Let’s be honest here. It’s not like you’re actually
representing
the country in some official capacity,right? How many international peace talks have been brokered by nineteen-year-olds wearing rhinestone tiaras and silk sashes? This was stupid! I wanted to be Miss USA, dammit, not secretary of state.
    If there was a sneaky way around this hurdle, believe me, I would have found it. After all, guile had worked its evil magic when I wanted to be a homecoming princess during my senior year at Whitman. I had simply run off a couple hundred Xerox copies of the nominating ballot and filled in my name on each one, trying to alter the handwriting, until my fingers cramped. I