TITLE: HOW I BECAME A WIMBLEDON BALL GIRL, MET THE QUEEN, AND FOUND
THE BOY OF MY DREAMS
We're lying on my heart-shaped canopy bed, doing lopsided leg lifts, eating our way through a plate of gooey fudge, and arguing over what to do with our summer.
"Omigod, I got it! Let's get jobs on a cruise ship to Hawaii. We can learn the hula and see firsthand where Elvis made all those sexy movies," I say to Mitsy, my best friend.
Even though her name's Madge, I call her Mitsy, because she reminds me of my Great Aunt Mitsy who died years ago, but left me her opera gloves, satin cape, and a risqué diary about her escapades in Rome with a duke.
Mitsy lets her leg flop onto the bed, grabs my elbow, and flutters her eyelashes at me. "And just how in freakin' heck do you think that's going to fly with our parents, my dear?" she says in a fake English accent, tossing her blonde hair out of her face.
She sounds a bit like my great aunt, but looks nothing like her. This Mitsy reminds me more of a cucumber slice in her pale green jeans and top--a very slim slice--whereas everything I put into my mouth sticks right to my hips. She may be a cucumber, but in my red Capri pants and top, I look more like a stuffed pepper. A long stuffed pepper with curly brown hair. It’s depressing, but whenever I get
upset, I eat.