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QUEEN OF BABBLE IN THE BIG CITY by Meg Cabot
On Sale: June 29^th
Hardcover
320 pages
ISBN-10: 0060852003
ISBN-13: 9780060852009

Meg Cabot was born in Bloomington, Indiana. In addition to her adult contemporary fiction, she is the author of the bestselling young adult fiction series THE PRINCESS DIARIES. She lives in Key West, Florida, with her husband.

Lizzie Nichols has landed on her feet in New York City. For now, she and her boyfriend Luke settle in his mother's gorgeous Fifth Avenue apartment while her best friend Shari moves in with her boyfriend Chaz. Naturally, Lizzie couldn't refuse Jean-Luc (Luke) and his invitation to live with him, which made her swoon with pleasure.

Lizzie expects to open her own vintage wedding gown refurbishment shop. Meanwhile, she views her future, both professionally and romantically, as infinitely rosy. But things don't go as planned for the charming chatterbox.

She is busy planning her future wedding to her prince (he is an actual prince), although Luke hasn't gotten around to asking her to marry him yet. But surely that's what he intends. Their wedding, Lizzie decides, will be at his family's chateau on their vineyard near Paris. Shari shocks Lizzie by predicting there will be no marriage proposal, causing Lizzie to question her own happily-ever-after fantasies.

However, Lizzie has more urgent matters to panic over. After she insisted on paying a chunk of rent, she’s realizing that she has no money (whoops!) and her job interviews are not resulting in job offers. Finally, she approaches Monsieur Henri's Wedding Gown Restoration Specialists shop where she --- tada! --- finagles a job for --- oh, no! --- no pay. Will she have to sell her treasured vintage clothing collection to come up with rent money?

Shari's boyfriend, Chaz, comes to Lizzie's rescue by finding her a part-time receptionist job at his father's law firm. Lizzie is ecstatic. But her joy doesn't last long because Chaz scoffs at the notion of an actual marriage between Lizzie and Luke when she inadvertently mentions her intentions after gin loosens her tongue. Chaz is definitely cynical about Luke's ability to commit. Surely, though, he is wrong about Luke. Right?

Lizzie finds herself forgetting her uncertainties as she becomes embroiled in Shari and Chaz's relationship issues, a friendship with a bubble-headed model, and a sudden yearning to better the wedding of the target of catty gossip columnists.

As always, Meg Cabot dishes up a light, funny, entertaining read. The chapters in QUEEN OF BABBLE IN THE BIG CITY are interspersed with hilarious illustrated segments of "Lizzie Nichols's Wedding Guide" plus historical (and hysterical) quotes. Lizzie's motor mouth is powered by a kind and impulsive heart, which makes her quite the endearing character. An intriguing twist in the tale, paired with an irresistible cliffhanger, will ensure that the next QUEEN OF BABBLE leaps off the shelves.

  --- Reviewed by Terry Miller Shannon (terryms2001@yahoo.com)

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Chapter One

It is still not enough for language to have clarity and content . . . it must also have a goal and an imperative. Otherwise from language we descend to chatter, from chatter to babble, and from babble to confusion.

—René Daumal (1908–1944), French poet and critic

I open my eyes to see the morning sunlight slanting across the Renoir hanging above my bed, and for a few seconds, I don’t know where I am.

Then I remember.

And my heart swells with giddy excitement. No, really. Giddy. Like, first --- day --- of --- school --- and --- I’ve --- got --- a ---brand -- new --- designer --- outfit --- from --- TJ Maxx giddy.

And not just because that Renoir hanging over my head? It’s real. Although it is, and not a print, like I had in my dorm room. An actual original work, by the Impressionist master himself.

Which I couldn’t actually believe at first. I mean, how often do you walk into someone’s bedroom and see an original Renoir hanging over the bed? Um, never. At least if you’re me.

When Luke left the room, I stayed behind, pretending like I had to use the bathroom. But really I slipped off my espadrilles, climbed onto the bed, and gave that canvas a closer look.

And I was right. I could see the globs of paint Renoir used to build up the lace he so carefully detailed on the cuff of the little girl’s sleeve. And the stripes on the fur of the cat the little girl is holding? Raised blobby bits. It’s a REAL Renoir, all right.

And it’s hanging over the bed I’m waking up in . . . the same bed that’s currently bathed in sunlight from the tall windows to my left . . . sunlight that’s bouncing off the building across the street . . . that building being the METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. The one in front of Central Park. On Fifth Avenue. In NEW YORK CITY.

Yes! I am waking up in NEW YORK CITY!!!! The Big Apple! The city that never sleeps (although I try to get at least eight hours a night, or my eyelids will get puffy, and Shari says I get cranky)!

But none of that is what’s making me so giddy. The sunlight, the Renoir, the Met, Fifth Avenue, New York. None of that can compare to what’s really got me excited . . . something better than all of those things, and a new back---to---school outfit from TJ Maxx put together.

And it’s in the bed right next to me.

Just look how cute he is when he’s sleeping! Manly cute, not kitten cute. Luke doesn’t lie there with his mouth gaping wide with spit leaking out the side, like I do (I know I do this because my sisters told me. Also because I always wake up to a wet spot on my pillow). He manages to keep his lips together very nicely.

And his eyelashes look so long and curly. Why can’t my eyelashes look like that? It’s not fair. I’m the girl, after all. I’m the one who is supposed to have long curly eyelashes, not stubby short ones I have to use an eyelash curler I’ve heated with a hair dryer and about seven layers of mascara on if I want to look like I have any eyelashes at all.

Okay, I’ve got to stop. Stop obsessing over my boyfriend’s eyelashes. I need to get up. I can’t lounge around in bed all day. I’m in NEW YORK CITY!

And okay, I don’t have a job. Or a place to live.

Because that Renoir? Yeah, it belongs to Luke’s mother. As does the bed. Oh, and the apartment.

But she only bought it when she thought she and Luke’s dad were splitting up. Which they’re not now. Thanks to me. So she said Luke could use it as long as necessary.

Lucky Luke. I wish MY mom had been planning on divorcing MY dad and bought a totally gorgeous apartment in New York City, right across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, that she now only planned on using a few times a year for shopping trips in the city, or to attend the occasional ballet.

Okay, seriously. I have to get up now. How can I stay in bed—a king---sized bed, by the way, totally comfortable, with a big white fluffy goose---down---stuffed duvet over it—when I have all of NEW YORK CITY right outside the door (well, down the elevator and outside the ornate marble lobby), just waiting to be explored by me?

And my boyfriend, of course.

It seems so weird to say that . . . to even think it. Me and my boyfriend. My boyfriend.

Because for the first time in my life, it’s real! I have an honest---to---God boyfriend. One who actually considers me his girlfriend. He isn’t gay and just using me as a cover so his Christian parents don’t find out he’s really going out with a guy named Antonio. He isn’t just trying to get me to fall so deeply in love with him that when he springs the idea of doing a threesome with his ex, I’ll say yes because I’m so afraid he’ll break up with me otherwise. He isn’t a compulsive gambler who knows I have a lot of money saved up and can bail him out if he gets too deeply in debt.

Not that any of those things have happened to me. More than once.

And I’m not just imagining it, either. Luke and I are together. I can’t say I wasn’t a little scared—you know, when I left France to go back to Ann Arbor—that I might never hear from him again. If he hadn’t really been that into me, and wanted to get rid of me, he had the perfect opportunity.

But he kept calling. First from France, and then from Houston, where he went to pack up all his stuff and get rid of his apartment and his car, and then from New York, when he arrived. He kept saying he couldn’t wait to see me again. He kept telling me all the stuff he was planning on doing to me when he did see me again.

And then when I finally got here last week, he did them—all those things he’d said he’d been going to.

I can barely believe it. I mean, that a guy I like as much as I like Luke actually likes me back, for a change. That what we have isn’t just a summer fling. Because summer’s over, and it’s fall now (well, okay, almost), and we’re still together. Together in New York City, where he’ll be going to medical school, and I’m going to get a job in the fashion industry, doing something—well, fashion---related—and together, we’re going to make a go of it in the city that never sleeps!

Just as soon as I find a job. Oh, and an apartment.

But I’m sure Shari and I will find a charming pied---à---terre to call home soon. And until we do, I have Luke’s place to crash, and Shari can stay in the walk---up her boyfriend Chaz found last week in the East Village (he rightfully refused his parents’ invitation to move back into the house in which he grew up—when he wasn’t being shipped off to boarding school—in Westchester, from which his father continues to commute to the city to work every morning).

And even though it’s not on the best block exactly, it’s not the worst place in the world, having the advantage of being close to NYU, where Chaz is getting his Ph.D., and cheap (a rent---controlled two---bedroom for only two grand a month. And okay, one of the bedrooms is an alcove. But still).

And okay, Shari’s already witnessed a triple stabbing through the living room window. But whatever. It was a domestic dispute. The guy in the building across the courtyard stabbed his pregnant wife and mother---in---law. It’s not like people in Manhattan go around getting stabbed by strangers every day.

And everyone turned out to be fine. Even the baby, who was delivered by the cops on the building’s front stoop when the wife went into early labor. Eight pounds, six ounces! And okay, his dad is locked up in a prison cell on Rikers Island. But still. Welcome to New York, little Julio!

In fact, if you ask me, Chaz is sort of secretly hoping we won’t find a place, and Shari will have to move in with him. Because Chaz is romantic that way.

And seriously, how fun would that be? Then Luke and I could come over, and the four of us could hang out just like we did back at Luke’s place in France, with Chaz mixing kir royales and Shari bossing everyone around and me making baguette---and---Hershey---bar sandwiches for everyone, and Luke in charge of the music, or something?

And it could really happen, because Shari and I have had no luck on the apartment front. I mean, we’ve answered about a thousand ads, and so far the places are either snapped up before one of us can get there to look at them (if they’re at all decent), or they’re so hideous no one in their right mind would want to live there (I saw a toilet that was balanced on wooden blocks over an OPEN HOLE in the floor. And that was in a studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen for twenty---two hundred dollars a month).

But it will be all right. We’ll find a place eventually. Just like I’ll find a job eventually. I’m not going to freak out.

Yet.

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QUEEN OF BABBLE by Meg Cabot
On Sale: May 22^nd
Hardcover
336 pages
ISBN-10: 0060851996
ISBN-13: 978-0060851996

From New York Times bestselling author Meg Cabot comes the hilarious story of a lovable blabbermouth who can't seem to stay out of trouble. . . .

What's an American girl with a big mouth but an equally big heart to do?

Lizzie Nichols has a problem, and it isn't that she doesn't have the slightest idea what she's going to do with her life or that she's blowing what should be her down payment on a cute little Manhattan apartment on a trip to London to visit her long-distance boyfriend, Andrew. But what's the point of planning for the future when she's done it again? See, Lizzie can't keep her mouth shut. And it's not just that she can't keep her own secrets, she can't keep anything to herself.

This time when she opens her big mouth, her good intentions get Andrew in major hot water. So now Lizzie's stuck in London with no boyfriend and no place to stay until the departure date on her nonrefundable airline ticket.

Fortunately, there's Shari, Lizzie's best friend and college roommate, who's spending her summer in southern France, catering weddings with her boyfriend, Chaz, in a sixteenth-century château. One call and Lizzie's on a train to Souillae. Who cares if she's never traveled alone in her life and only speaks rudimentary French? One glimpse of gorgeous Château Mirac -- not to mention the gorgeous Luke, the son of Château Mirac's owner -- and she's smitten.

But while most caterers can be trusted to keep a secret, Lizzie's the exception. And no sooner has the first cork been popped than Luke hates her, the bride is in tears, and it looks like Château Mirac is in danger of becoming a lipo-recovery spa. As if things aren't bad enough, her ex-boyfriend Andrew shows up looking for "closure" (or at least a loan), threatening to ruin everything, including Lizzie's chance at finding real love. . . .

Unless she can figure out a way to use that big mouth of hers to save the day.

© Copyright 2006 by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

Meg Cabot is the author of the bestselling, critically acclaimed Princess Diaries books, which were made into the wildly popular Disney movies of the same name. Her other books for teens include the Mediator series, the 1-800-Where- R-You books, ALL-AMERICAN GIRL, READY OR NOT, TEEN IDOL, and AVALON HIGH, as well as NICOLA AND THE VISCOUNT and VICTORIA AND THE ROGUE. She also writes books for adults, including THE BOY NEXT DOOR, BOY MEETS GIRL, EVERY BOY'S GOT ONE, and SIZE 12 IS NOT FAT. She is still waiting for her real parents, the king and queen, to restore her to her rightful throne. She lives in Key West and New York City with her husband and a one-eyed cat named Henrietta.

It's enough to scare anyone, but chatty Lizzie Nichols is speechless. Clad in her beloved vintage togs, she heads to London to spend a month with her boyfriend, Andrew. Unfortunately, she only actually met Andrew one dark, smoky night when her dorm caught fire and he rescued her. So she can't quite remember what he looks like. She's stunned when the airport stalker in the awful red leather jacket (with epaulets!) and the strange haircut turns out to be her intended. Oops --- maybe she shouldn't have tried to turn him in to airport security.

That's just the first of her shocking revelations and open-mouth-insert-retro-kitten-heeled-pump incidents. Lizzie soon discovers that Andrew lives with his parents and younger brothers (not in his own flat as he'd suggested during their correspondence). Oh, and they don't actually have a room for her, but a bed rigged over the laundry facilities and dog dishes. It also turns out that Andrew described Lizzie to his family as a "fatty." Grr. Lizzie hears this last bit of information from Andrew's brother since Andrew is gone 12 hours at his job, which, oh yes, is actually waiting tables instead of teaching young children, as Lizzie had thought.

Lizzie's mood improves when Andrew comes home from his shift, and hormones come into giddy play. Unfortunately, the rigged bed is not ideal for amour. Chemistry and invention save the day, as Lizzie gives Andrew a "present" --- the first she has given any lover.

The good times last...until the next morning when Lizzie blurts out in front of a government official that Andrew does SO have a job, just as he is renewing his unemployment status. Major oops. Can Andrew, Lizzie's knight in shining armor (or red leather with epaulets), actually be cheating the government by receiving a paycheck while being on the dole? Well, yes. And then Andrew's financial revelations reach a dreadful new low, which spurs Lizzie to drastic action.

Soon she is alone in Europe --- and heartbroken. Most of all, she wants that love gift she bestowed on Andy returned. But back to her predicament: Lizzie refuses to call her parents and let her sisters gloat over her terrible mistake. So where will she turn? What will she do? Wherever and whatever, you can bet it will be hilarious and fascinating. Lizzie definitely can leave her own sassy mark, even in a world of fabulous old vineyard estates, family intrigues, manipulative fiancées, damaged Givenchy evening gowns, and impossible love interests.

Lizzie's story is interspersed with snippets of her unintentionally hilarious master thesis on the history of fashion (did you know the Crusades were all about style?) and quotations on one of Lizzie's own talents, the gift of gab. QUEEN OF BABBLE is a charming, rollicking read, written in Meg Cabot's signature ebullient and side-splitting style. Lizzie's eager participation in some incredibly hot love scenes not withstanding, she shines as an endearing innocent abroad. There's plenty of froth to the tale, but there is no lack of substantial plot and luscious description. I absolutely loved this madcap adventure, which is the equivalent of taking the most enjoyable literary vacation ever. Highest recommendation.

   --- Reviewed by Terry Miller Shannon (terryms2001@yahoo.com)

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May 26, 2006

In addition to authoring popular teen series like The Princess Diaries and All-American Girl, Meg Cabot has written numerous novels for adults, including SIZE 12 IS NOT FAT and the recently released QUEEN OF BABBLE. In this interview with Carol Fitzgerald, Wiley Saichek and Terry Miller Shannon, Cabot describes the disparities of writing for different age groups, explains how she's honed her sense of humor, and shares her favorite step in the writing process. She also dishes on favorite clothes, exes, and her inability to keep secrets.

Bookreporter.com: Tell us about what inspired you to create the character of Lizzie and write QUEEN OF BABBLE.

Meg Cabot: Like all of my books, QUEEN OF BABBLE is semi-autobiographical. I had NO idea what I wanted to do when I grew up. I still have nightmares about that scary time of life --- just out of college, trying to make your own way in the world for the first time, not knowing whether or not you're going to be able to make the rent that month. Of course, it was much more fun to relive that period of my life when I was doing it through Lizzie, who is a bit more adventurous than I am.

BRC: Lizzie has a passion for clothing and fashion. How closely do Lizzie's passions mirror your own? What's your fashion weakness? Shoes? Jewelry? Clothes?

MC: I went through a serious vintage clothing obsession in the '80s and early '90s.  One of my (many) majors in college was fashion history. I wanted to be a costume designer! So I transferred that love to Lizzie. She's way into vintage Lilly Pulitzer, who is a favorite designer of mine, although you can't really wear her clothes in New York without sticking out like a sore thumb --- flamingo pink capris kind of draw attention when everyone else is in black!

BRC: Lizzie's deft way with fashion rescue is intriguing. Is this an interest of yours? Was there much research involved?

MC: Oh, yes, I'm hypervigilant about VPLs (visible panty lines) and loafers with tassels (they make me so sad). I am addicted to makeover shows --- "What Not To Wear" (both the BBC America and TLC versions), "Ambush Makeover," "A Makover Story" --- you name it. I don't know what's so compelling about seeing a badly dressed ugly duckling transformed into a beautiful swan, but I love it --- and so, consequently, does Lizzie.

BRC: We loved Lizzie's wacky family, especially her Grandmother! What inspired those characters?

MC: Lizzie's family is based very loosely on the relatives of a friend of mine. Of course, eccentric family members never seem as fun to their own relations as they do to those of us who aren't actually related to them. 

BRC: Your descriptions of London and France (and of vineyards, French chateaus, and the Chunnel train) are so vivid. Have you spent much time in these locations?

MC: Yes, I've been to England several times --- lately, on book tours. And I was lucky enough in college to be going out with a guy who had a chateau in the Dordogne. Of course, now he's going to read this and think the book is about him.  But, it's not --- I said it's semi-autobiographical!

BRC: In QUEEN OF BABBLE, you perfectly capture Lizzie's sense of desperation when she finds herself alone in London and tries to find her way to France. Has a similar incident ever happened to you?

MC: I have been lost --- and generally penniless --- in foreign countries more times than I could count. I seriously don't know how I made it home. Mostly due to people taking pity on me, I think. 

And, okay, full confession time: I also had a British boyfriend who pulled a similar stunt to the one Lizzie's British boyfriend pulls in the book. And, great, now he's going to read this and think the book is about him! 

Let's just put it this way: Some parts of QUEEN OF BABBLE are more semi-autobiographical than others.

BRC: Humor is so difficult to carry off, yet your books appear effortlessly hilarious. Does comedy come naturally to you, or do you have to work at it?

MC: Wow, thanks! I come from a family of amateur comedians. In my house, if you weren't funny, no one would pay any attention to you. I fought against my tendency to write funny stories for a long time, out of fear of never being taken "seriously." Then a great fiction-writing instructor I had, the novelist Judy Troy, told me that being able to write humorously is a gift, not a curse, and that I should embrace it, not be ashamed of it. So I did! It was a big relief when I finally realized being taken seriously isn't actually all it's cracked up to be.

BRC: Lizzie cannot stop talking. How about Meg Cabot? Can you keep a secret?

MC: Yeah, not so much. I warn all my friends and co-workers not to tell me things they want kept confidential, because I know I won't be able to keep them to myself. It's surprising how many of them go on to tell me things anyway --- they honestly seem to think I won't put their secret in a book someday. Sillies! 

BRC: We loved Lizzie's "History of Fashion" thesis sprinkled throughout the book. Did you write these paragraphs as you went along, or was the entire "thesis" written at one time and then divided up?

MC: Actually the thesis is a real paper I wrote my senior year in high school. I just had to tweak it a bit for the book because the emphasis in my paper was on the punk movement and the role British designers (Vivienne Westwood, etc) played in it. I got an A, I'm happy to say!

BRC: QUEEN OF BABBLE touches on a number of universal --- if controversial --- topics such as sexual attraction versus true love, as well as relationships with family and friends. What do you want readers to take with them after reading QUEEN OF BABBLE?

MC: Heh! Well, yeah, when I decided to fictionally recreate my post-collegiate experience, I decided to FULLY re-create it. Seriously, though, I think there comes a time in every girl's life when she realizes that if she's giving sexual pleasure, but not getting any in return, she's in a dead-end relationship. If I can help anyone reach this epiphany before she's wasted too much time on the loser, mission accomplished.

BRC: You have written numerous books for younger readers and an increasing number for adults. What are the challenges and rewards of writing for each age group?

MC: Well, most notably, you can have sex scenes in adult fiction. It's possible to have them in YA as well, but you can pretty much count on getting some angry mail. On the other hand, in YAs, your characters can go to the prom. It's sort of a toss-up: sex scenes, or prom. Both are fun to write about in their own unique way.

BRC: You are incredibly prolific. Have you become more so as you've become a more experienced writer? Do you write everyday? Do you experience spurts where you get so caught up while writing a book that you can't stop working on it?

MC: Definitely more the latter. I tend to go weeks without writing a word, then suddenly, weeks where I can't STOP writing. I wish I were more even --- I've heard of writers who write a page or two a day, every day. I wish I could do that. But it's feast or famine with me, I'm afraid.

BRC: What is your favorite part of the writing process (getting the idea; researching; actually writing; revising; publicizing; etc.)?

MC: I love writing that first draft. For me, writing has always been a hobby, so it's especially fun for me when the manuscript I'm working on is spec, meaning I haven't pitched it to anyone yet, and no one knows about --- or is paying me --- for it. When I don't have to think about anyone's expectations but my own, that's when I really love my job.

BRC: What do you read for enjoyment?

MC: I'm a huge mystery fan. Mostly, I like British country manor house murders set between the World Wars, or just after. These are getting harder to find than you would think. So lately I've been supplementing my mystery addiction with some excellent chick-lit from writers like Megan Crane, Valerie Frankel, Robyn Sisman, and Sophie Kinsella.

BRC: QUEEN OF BABBLE is the first title in a trilogy. What can you share with readers about the next two books and when will they be available?

MC: If everything goes according to plan, readers can expect to find copies of QUEEN OF BABBLE IN THE BIG CITY on shelves around this time next year. In it, Lizzie and her friends hit the Big Apple, looking for jobs, apartments and --- in the case of one character --- love, after a romantic relationship fizzles. Lizzie's going to find out just how hard it is to make your dreams come true in the city that never sleeps! In QUEEN OF BABBLE GETS HITCHED, which will be out in 2008 (with luck!), Lizzie finally gets a chance to design her own dream bridal gown. 

Whether or not she actually gets the opportunity to wear it remains to be seen --- readers should remember the books ARE semi-autobiographical --- and my husband (who is not French OR British, but a Hoosier, just like me) and I eloped!
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Clothing. Why do we wear it? Many people believe that we wear clothing out of modesty. In ancient civilizations, however, clothing was developed not to cover our private parts from view, but merely to keep the body warm. In other cultures, clothing was thought to protect its wearers from magic, while in still others, clothing served merely ornamental or display purposes.

In this thesis, I hope to explore the history of clothing --- or fashion --- starting with ancient man, who wore animal hides for warmth, to modern man, or woman, some of whom wear small strips of material between their buttocks (see: thong) for reasons no one has yet been able to adequately explain to this author.

History of Fashion

Senior Thesis by Elizabeth Nichols

Chapter One

Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall
William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British poet and playwright

I can't believe this. I can't believe I don't remember what he looks like! How can I not remember what he looks like? I mean, his tongue has been in my mouth. How could I forget what someone whose tongue has been in my mouth looks like? It's not like there've been that many guys who've had their tongues in my mouth. Only, like, three.

And one of those was in high school. And the other one turned out to be gay.

God, that is so depressing. Okay, I'm not going to think about that right now.

It isn't like it's been THAT long since I last saw him. It was just three months ago! You would think I'd remember what someone I've been dating for THREE MONTHS looks like.

Even if, you know, for most of those three months, we've been in separate countries.

Still. I have his photo. Well, okay, you can't really see his face in it. Actually, you can't see his face at all, since it's a photo of his --- oh, God--naked ass.

Why would anyone send someone something like that? I didn't ask for a photo of his naked ass. Was it supposed to be erotic? Because it so wasn't.

Maybe that's just me, though. Shari's right, I've got to stop being so inhibited.

It was just so shocking to find it in my inbox, a big photo of my boyfriend's naked ass.

And okay, I know they were just goofing around, he and his friends. And I know Shari says it's a cultural thing, and that the British are much less sensitive about nudity than most Americans, and that we should strive as a culture to be more open and carefree, like they are.

Also that he probably thought, like most men do, that his ass is his best feature.

But still.

Okay, I'm not going to think about that right now. Stop thinking about my boyfriend's ass. Instead, I'm going to look for him. He has to be here somewhere, he swore he'd be here to pick me up--

Oh my God, that can't be him, can it? No, of course it's not. Why would he be wearing a jacket like that? Why would ANYONE be wearing a jacket like that? Unless they're being ironic. Or Michael Jackson, of course. He is the only man I could think of who would wear red leather with epaulets. Who isn't a professional breakdancer.

That CAN'T be him. Oh, please God, don't let that be him....

Oh, no, he's looking this way...he's looking this way! Look down, look down, don't make eye contact with the guy in the red leather jacket with the epaulets. I'm sure he's a very nice man, it's a shame about his having to shop for coats from the 1980s at the Salvation Army.

But I don't want him to know I was looking at him, he might think I like him, or something.

And it's not that I'm prejudiced against homeless people, I'm not, I know all about how many of us are really only a few paychecks away from being homeless ourselves. Some of us, in fact, are less than a paycheck away from being homeless. Some of us, in fact, are so broke that we still live with our parents.

But I'm not going to think about all that right now.

The thing is, I just don't want Andrew to get here and find me talking to some homeless guy in a red leather breakdancing jacket. I mean, that is so not the first impression I want to give. Not that, you know, it will be his FIRST impression of me, since we've been dating for three months, and all. But it will be the first impression he'll have of the New Me, the me he hasn't met yet....

Okay. Okay, it's safe, he's not looking anymore.

Oh, God, this is awful, I can't believe this is how they welcome people to their country. Herding us down this walkway with all these people LOOKING at us....I feel like I'm personally disappointing each and every one of them by not being the person they're waiting for. This is a very unkind thing to do to people who just sat on a plane for six hours, eight in my case if you count the flight from Ann Arbor to New York. Ten if you count the two-hour layover at JFK--

Wait. Was Red Breakdancing Jacket just checking me out?

Oh my God, he WAS! Red leather jacket with the epaulets totally checked me out!

Oh, God, this is so embarrassing. It's my underwear, I KNOW it. How could he tell? That I'm not wearing any, I mean? It's true I don't have any visible panty lines, but for all he knows, I could be wearing a thong. I SHOULD have worn a thong. Shari was right.

But it's so uncomfortable when they go up your--

I KNEW I shouldn't have picked a dress this tight to get off the plane in --- even if I did personally modify it by hemming the skirt to above the knee, so I'm not hobbled by it.

But, for one thing, I'm freezing --- how can it be this cold in AUGUST?

And for another, this silk is particularly clingy, so there's the whole panty line thing.

Still, everyone back at the shop said I look great in it...though I wouldn't have thought a Mandarin dress--even a vintage one--would actually work on me, seeing as how I'm Caucasian, and all.

But I want to look good, since he hasn't seen me in so long, and I did lose those thirty pounds, and you wouldn't be able to tell I'd lost all that weight if I got off the plane in sweats. Isn't that always what celebrities are wearing when they show up on Us Weekly's "What Were They Thinking?" page? You know, when they get off a plane in sweats and last year's Uggs, with their hair all crazy? If you are going to be a celebrity, you need to LOOK like a celebrity, even when you're getting off a plane.

Not that I'm a celebrity, but I still want to look good. I went to all this trouble, I haven't had so much as a crumb of bread for three months, and ---

Wait. What if he doesn't recognize me? Seriously. I mean, I did lose thirty pounds, and with my new haircut, and all ---

Oh, God, could he be here and not recognize me? Did I already walk right by him? Should I turn around and go back down that walkway thingie and look for him? But I'll seem like such an idiot. What do I do? Oh, my God, this is so not fair, I just wanted to look good for him, not be stranded in a foreign country because I look so different my own boyfriend doesn't recognize me! What if he thinks I haven't shown up and just goes home? I don't have any money --- well, twelve hundred bucks, but that has to last me until my flight home at the end of the month ---

RED LEATHER JACKET IS STILL LOOKING THIS WAY!!! Oh, God, what can he want from me?

What if he's part of some kind of airport white slavery ring? What if he hangs out here all the time looking for na•ve young tourists from Ann Arbor, Michigan, to kidnap and send to Saudi Arabia to be some sheik's seventeenth bride? I read a book where that happened once...although I have to say the girl seemed to really enjoy it. But only because at the end the sheik divorced all his other wives and just kept her, because she was so pure, and yet so good in the sack.

Or what if he just holds girls for ransom, instead of selling them? Except that I am so not rich! I know this dress looks expensive, but I got it at Vintage to Vavoom for twelve dollars (with my employee discount)!

And my dad doesn't have any money. He works at a cyclotron, for crying out loud!

Don't kidnap me, don't kidnap me, don't kidnap me--

Wait, what is this booth? Meet Your Party. Oh, great! Customer service! That's what I'll do! I'll have Andrew paged. And that way, if he's here, he can come find me. And I'll be safe from the Red Leather Breakdancing Jacket, he won't dare kidnap me and send me to Saudi Arabia in front of the pager guy ---

"Hullo, love, you look lost. What can I do for you, then?"

Oh, the booth guy is so nice! And such a cute accent! Although that tie was an unfortunate choice.

"Hi, I'm Lizzie Nichols," I say. "I'm supposed to be being picked up by my boyfriend, Andrew Marshall. Only he doesn't seem to be here, and--"

"Want me to page him for you, then?"

"Oh! Yes, please, would you? Because there's a guy following me, see him over there? I think he might be homeless, or a kidnapper, or the operator of a white slavery ring--"

"Which one?"

I don't want to point, but I do feel I have a duty, you know, to report Red Leather Breakdancing Jacket to the authorities, or at least to the Meet Your Party booth attendant, because he DOES look very odd in that jacket, and he IS still staring at me, really rudely, or at least suggestively, like he still wants to kidnap me.

"Over there," I say, nodding my head towards Red Leather Breakdancing Jacket. "That one in the hideous jacket with the epaulets. See him? The one staring at us."

"Oh, right." The Meet Your Party booth attendant nods. "Right. Very menacing. Hold on, then, I'll have your boyfriend over here, giving that git the thrashing he so richly deserves, in a second. ANDREW MARSHALL. ANDREW MARSHALL, MISS NICHOLS IS WAITING FOR YOU AT THE MEET YOUR PARTY BOOTH. ANDREW MARSHALL, PLEASE FIND MISS NICHOLS AT THE MEET YOUR PARTY BOOTH. There? How was that?"

"Oh, that was great," I say, encouragingly, because I feel a little sorry for him. I mean, it must be hard to sit in a booth all day, yelling over a loudspeaker. "That was really--"

"Liz?"

Andrew! At last!

Only when I turn around, it's Red Leather Breakdancing Jacket.

Except.

Except that it WAS Andrew, all along.

And I just didn't recognize him, because I was distracted by the jacket--the most hideous jacket I've ever seen. Plus he seems to have had his hair cut. Not very flatteringly.

Sort of menacingly, in fact.

"Oh," I say. It is extremely difficult to hide my confusion. And dismay. "Andrew. Hi."

Behind the glass of the Meet Your Party booth, the attendant bursts into very, very loud laughter. And I realize, with a pang, that I've done it.

Again.

Excerpted from QUEEN OF BABBLE © Copyright 2006 by Meg Cabot. Reprinted with permission by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. All rights reserved.

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