Free Princess In Training by Meg Cabot Page B

own television show, like that horrible Ashton Kutcher. Then tell me how you would answer this question: What improvements would you implement to help make Albert Einstein High School a better learning facility, and why?”
    Seriously, I don’t get her sometimes. It’s like she was dropped at birth. Only onto parquet, not onto a futon couch, like I dropped Rocky not too long ago. Except that that totally wasn’t my fault, on account of Michael walking in unexpectedly wearing a new pair of jeans.
    “Grandmère,” I said. “What is the point of this? THERE IS NO DEBATE.”
    “JUST ANSWER THE QUESTION.”
    God. She is impossible sometimes.
    Okay, all the time.
    So just to placate her I went behind the stupid podium and said into the microphone, “Improvements I would implement to help make Albert Einstein High School a better learning facility would include incorporating more meatless entrees into the lunch service for vegan and vegetarian students, and, uh, posting homework assignments on the school website every night, so that students who might, er, have forgotten to write them down would know exactly what they have due the next day.”
    “Don’t hunch so over the podium, Amelia,” Grandmère said, critically, from where she was standing, blowing her smoke into a large potted rhododendron (Grandmère is so lucky. Because in ten years, when all the petroleum runs out and the polar ice cap is completely melted, she’ll probably be dead already from lung cancer on account of all the cigarettes she smokes). “Stand up straight. Shoulders back. That’s it. You may proceed.”
    I had totally forgotten what I was talking about.
    “What about teachers?” called Grandmère’s chauffeur, trying to sound like a baggy-panted Ashton Kutcher wannabe. “Whaddya gonna do about them, huh?”
    “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Teachers. Isn’t it their jobs to encourage us in our dreams? But I’ve noticed that certain teachers seem to feel that part of their job description includes crushing our spirit and…and…stifling our creative impulses! Just because they might, you know, be more entertaining than educational. Are those really the kinds of people we want molding our young minds? Are they?”
    “No,” cried one of the maids.
    “Damn straight,” yelled Grandmère’s chauffeur.
    “Oh,” I said, feeling more confident on account of their positive feedback. “And the, er, video surveillance cameras outside. I can see how, as a security measure, they are very worthwhile. But if they are being used as—”
    “Amelia!” Grandmère screamed. “Elbows off the podium!”
    I took my elbows off the podium.
    “As a tool with which to monitor student behavior, I have to say, should the administration have the right to essentially spy on us?” I was kind of getting into this debate thing. “What happens to the tapes in the video cameras after they’re full? Are they rewound and taped over, or are they stored in some fashion, so that the contents might be used against us at some future date? For instance, if one of us gets appointed to the Supreme Court, could a tape of our spraying Joe the Lion with Silly String be made available to reporters, and used to bring us down?”
    “Feet on the floor, Amelia!” Grandmère shrieked, just because I’d rested one foot on the little shelf in the podium where you’re supposed to put your purse or whatever.
    “And what about the issue of girls who wear their boyfriends’ team athletic shorts beneath their skirts?” I went on. I have to admit, I was kind of enjoying myself. The Plaza maids were totally paying attention to me. One of them even clapped when I said the thing about the security video possibly being used against us if we were appointed to the Supreme Court. “As sexist as I find the practice, is it the administration’s business what goes on beneath the skirts of its female student population? I say no! No! Don’t you dare mess with MY underwear!”
    Whoa! This last