mommy of three

A Former Dominican Pupil Sets Her Sights on the Vatican

ONE EVENING, JOHN PAUL II WAS DUE TO LEAVE the Hôtel de Ville dock in Paris aboard a bateau-mouche riverboat on his way to the Nunciature. I was then living in an attic apartment opposite the Hôtel de Ville on the Quai aux Fleurs. It was June 1980, and the Pope was in Paris on a pastoral trip. A few hours before the Holy Father’s appearance, a squad of marksmen armed with binoculars and telescopic-sight rifles invaded my apartment. A ballistics specialist accompanied members of the anti-terrorist squad, who were hooded and clad in midnight-blue coveralls. It was feared that the jubilant city of Paris could be the scene of an assassination attempt on the Eastern European Pope. I was 28 years old, and the event revived my curiosity and passion for the history of the Roman Church, a subject that I was already fascinated with when I was a pupil at the Dominican convent in the Via Cassia. I was now getting closer to Saint Peter’s Square . . .

I had once met a Supreme Pontiff during an audience granted to junior and senior pupils. Hieratic and majestic, Paul VI corresponded perfectly to the holy image that a young girl from an austere boarding school would have of the Patriarch of the West. I will never forget that extraordinary morning. The Vatican seemed to me so mysterious, especially when, a few weeks later, Mother Superior Marie Johannès sent me with a group of other pupils to represent our establishment at Saint-Louis-des-Français, the French national church in Rome, at a mass celebrated by Cardinal Tisserant. She inspected our dark-colored uniforms and checked that we had remembered our black mantillas before telling us in an authoritative tone that she counted on us to do credit to our institution, since the Frenchman who was celebrating mass was the senior member of the Sacred College—in other words, the second most important person at the Vatican after the Pope. In addition to his prestigious post, this eminent native of the Lorraine region had an imposing air, a serious gaze and a gray beard trimmed in the style of a Renaissance cardinal, in short, a panache that struck me from the very first. When I saw him arrive in his scarlet cape, his pectoral cross attached to a heavy gold chain, his right hand bearing an Episcopal ring set with a gleaming purple amethyst that covered a third of his finger, I was, then and forever after, intrigued and dazzled by the princes of the Church and everything to do with them.

Since then, and having become a journalist, I have been haunted endlessly by the desire to penetrate the mysteries and life of the Vatican and the Pope, just as others dream of gaining access to the Kremlin or the White House. But on that day back in 1980 in Paris, I vowed I would force open the doors of Saint Peter’s. I was driven by passion and by the challenge it represented: by passion, since the Pope who had set the Lutetia on fire was Slavic, and I myself, through my mother, had Slavic blood in my veins, and by the challenge it represented, because it seemed far from easy for a female journalist to approach Karol Wojtyla, the charismatic shepherd to more than 1 billion 71 million Catholics, or 17.2% of the planet’s population.

The idea of writing a report on the Holy Father—and, later on, a book—took firm root in my mind and stayed there. I thus spent many years, each time I found myself in Rome, going to Saint Peter’s Square to breathe in the air of the Vatican while trying to catch sight of the Pope during the Sunday Angelus. At midday, I was blessed along with the crowd of pilgrims and tourists, all applauding and chanting “Viva il papa!” before leaving once again, filled with emotion and enthusiasm. His powerful voice invariably resonated in me. I was deeply moved, beyond the realm of words, and I told myself that it would bring me luck and that the happy day would come when I would finally bring my plan to fruition—although, in reality, this challenge seemed to be insurmountable, demanding as it did a fund of patience, diplomacy and persistence. I did finally succeed, and, excluding the birth of my two daughters, Marina and Cosima, nothing else has given me as much happiness as coming into such close contact with John Paul II. Thanks to this Pope, I enjoyed many years’ worth of exceptional moments and marvelous discussions with him and his close entourage, first within the Vatican and then in the intimacy of his private apartments, where he received me on several occasions. I also accompanied him as a reporter during his pastoral visits throughout the world. It is thanks to him that I discovered the real meaning of the famous words that had, in my eyes, long been an abstract concept from my childhood catechism: “Go forth and teach all nations.” I was also able, sadly, to observe the slow transformation of his triumphant apostolate into a long, hard, sorrowful road.

Outside of his close colleagues and friends, who encouraged me and helped me to appreciate him, few people have had the chance to share the things I saw and learned—unforgettable moments of respite from an existence which, when the melancholy of journalism descends, continue to comfort me when I am assailed by the endless doubts and fears inherent to my profession. These memories, as moving as they are astonishing, allow me today to paint a faithful, frank portrait of John Paul II in his daily life without, I hope, allowing myself to be too carried away by my feelings.

The Vatican was, in principle, open to everyone, since every Wednesday the Pope gave a general audience to the faithful. But they observed him from afar: until 2000, some people could just about manage, by jostling and shoving, to touch his cassock as he passed through the rows, without, however, managing to talk to him. But I wanted more than that: I would never be content with the holy image and distant views of the Supreme Pontiff. My ambition was to read the story of his life. I did not want to merely skim the surface of the man in white; I dreamed of entering his mythical, secret universe. However, that universe, the Vatican, was a fortress, and over the centuries many imposing barriers, invisible gulfs and prohibitions have built up around the Popes.

During John Paul II’s era, the first barrier for a journalist was the director of the pressroom, Dottore Joaquin Navarro-Valls. This handsome Spaniard was a psychiatrist trained at America’s famed Harvard University, a former correspondent for Iberian newspapers and an influential member of Opus Dei, the powerful and highly structured international organization for Catholic propaganda created in Spain and comprising a secretive elite of laymen, priests and even cardinals whose official object is to attain holiness through work. With his psychiatrist’s reflexes, he analyzed every visitor and suspected French journalists in particular—a major drawback since Rousseau and Voltaire—of religious disrespect or even insolence; excluded from this suspicion were certain colleagues who kept him happy by taking such measures as giving their front page articles obliging titles like, “Navarro-Valls: a key man at the pontificate.” For the rest of us, he represented the unavoidable obstacle that French reporters had to overcome. Reaching him on the telephone was impossible for anyone he didn’t know. Élisabeth Fouquet Cucchia, his omnipresent, gruff French secretary (whose career in the Holy See press room began under Paul VI), was ruthlessly daunting in blocking access to him. And if, miracle of miracles, you did succeed in getting an interview, there was always a considerable waiting period—coincidentally, longer than the duration of your stay! The princes of the Church have, in any event, a relationship with time similar to the one they have with eternity. For example, when I asked for an audience in October 1999 with the new nuncio to Paris, Msgr. Fortunato Baldelli, the adroit papal ambassador in France, he suggested that I call back in October 2000 since his schedule was too full!

Another barrier that has historically hindered access to the Holy See is language. Cardinals and monsignori always express themselves in such a diplomatic fashion, with such subtle nuances and playful airs, that those not familiar with Machiavelli and Talleyrand are thrown off balance. Their manner is smooth, oblique, solemn and deceptively gentle, and even though they give the impression that they are whispering in Church Latin, they are in fact speaking Italian! Communication is therefore difficult for the barbaric foreigner. With no knowledge of the language, rites and rhythm of the life lived in this little world—holy and remote, traversing the centuries, confined to majestic, hushed palaces—it is almost impossible to penetrate this universe, in others words, to find some charitable soul who will initiate you into the secrets of the keys and locks that open the doors to Saint Peter’s.

With the Italian blood inherited from my father, maybe I was better equipped than many to infiltrate the heart of this strategic circle and decipher the codes that governed it, thanks to my childhood years with the Dominican nuns in the Via Cassia. In the library there, between missals bound in bottle green or burgundy and the Lives of the Saints, you could still find a weekly publication called Bernadette, l’illustré catholique des fillettes (Bernadette, the Catholic Illustrated Magazine for Girls). An efficient group of Dominicans ran a large religious boarding school whose pupils included Italian girls from the Black Nobility—the Roman aristocracy that has produced so many Popes and palaces—as well as a handful of French girls and many young daughters of those who moved in the glittering cosmopolitan and diplomatic circles. These included the Habisht girls, Polish twins whose parents were friends of Msgr. Wojtyla and with whom he occasionally stayed in Piazza Callisto when he was in Rome. My chaplain and frequent confidant was Father Poupard, who lived at Saint-Do and then worked at the Vatican’s Secretariat of State. He afterwards became rector of the Catholic Institute of Paris, then president of the Pontifical Council, and finally minister of culture under John Paul II, a post he retained throughout the papacy. He took a liking to me because of my insatiable curiosity about the mysteries of that seat of power where he carried out his ministry. He was fond of describing the inner workings of the place to me, revealing its secrets, both major and minor, with sparkling eyes and precise words. He had arrived there as a young priest under John XXIII, and knew everything there was to know, just like an influential member of an important ministerial cabinet. Entranced by his captivating tales, I dreamed of becoming a journalist so that I could penetrate even further into this wonderfully enigmatic world, and he encouraged me to pursue my ambitious goals.

The third obstacle to overcome was the almost insurmountable Polish barrier. It is no criticism of Karol Wojtyla to say that he surrounded himself with his compatriots: councilors, private secretaries, and even the humble nuns who served him all came from his country. Since their names were not only unpronounceable but also extravagantly spelled, it was impossible to make the impatient, suspicious nuns on the switchboard understand whom one wished to talk to. The Pope’s private secretary, to take one example, was called Dziwisz, a name that, to a French person, resembled something like a sneeze. And the good nuns were inflexible and rather distrustful, jealously protective of “their” Holy Father.

When, thanks to my friendship with Cardinal Poupard, I was able to attend innumerable audiences, solemn masses and blessings given by John Paul II in order to try and understand how his entourage functioned by closely observing the ceremonies, I was intrigued to see Karol Wojtyla constantly looking at two people who were always close to him: Msgr. Stanislaw Dziwisz and his second secretary, Msgr. Mieczyslaw Mokrzycki, two Poles who were never more than a few meters away from him. And yet the Holy Father was seemingly surrounded by high-ranking prelates of the curia, including a good many Italians. In reality, as one of his Italian colleagues confided to me later, the Pope was only really close to his intimate friends and colleagues, almost all Polish, and a few intellectuals he liked to philosophize with. He shared the surprising characteristic of lacking a court and courtiers with King Juan Carlos, whom I observed minutely when I followed him for a month for Paris Match; they both preferred their direct entourage to comprise only those they liked, respected professionally and held in deep affection.

Never averting my gaze from the Supreme Pontiff during all of these religious ceremonies, which often lasted hours at a time, I suddenly noticed, from barely perceptible signs, that he must have been a little bored by the protocol, not only because it was tedious in itself, but because it threatened to keep those near and dear to him at a distance. That is when I realized that, to approach His Holiness, I had to play the Polish card, unluckily the hardest card of them all.

One last obstacle remained, possibly to my eyes the most troublesome: the Vatican was, and still is, a male universe. Even the Virgin Mary would feel ill at ease in this overwhelmingly masculine environment, which only two laywomen in 26 years had miraculously succeeded in invading: Lucienne Sallé, research assistant at the Pontifical Council for the Laity and also a former Dominican pupil, who joined the Council in March 1977 as deputy assistant secretary; and American law professor Mary Ann Glendon, who in March 2004 became president of the Pontifical Academy of Social Sciences.

This shortage of women was not evidently the result of misogyny, per se; these holy men simply have very little contact with the feminine world, apart from the nuns assigned to such secondary tasks as domestic services, cooking, housework, sewing and staffing the switchboard. The ultimate promotion for a nun might be to work as a secretary or, even better, a restorer of old tapestries, a translator or an archivist, like Sister Mary Epiphany, or even—an extraordinary privilege—to be put in charge of running the pontifical sacristy, like Sisters Rita, Adelaida and Elivra, who ironed John Paul II’s liturgical vestments to the sounds of Radio Vatican. These humble, self-effacing women moved quietly through the long marble corridors of the Vatican like mice, without ever making their voices heard. They were all, of course, clad in nuns’ habits, veiled, carrying large moleskin bags and shod in sensible nun’s shoes.

At the time, there were almost no female journalists accredited to the Holy See. The cardinals and monsignori had nothing against me: they simply could not understand what I was doing in their closed universe. They took me for a kind of pious laywoman, a deadly-dull diehard, or a possible affiliate of the Association of Consecrated Virgins or of the Society of Christ the King, members of which are not nuns but laywomen who have taken vows of chastity and poverty, something like a parallel sisterhood of nuns. They were also disconcerted that I was addressing them: in the Vatican, a nun modestly lowers her gaze, does not speak and is not spoken to—though she may perhaps be smiled at. They were likewise intrigued because, so as not to attract attention to myself, I always wore a black, shapeless, cowl-like garment with a little white collar, opaque tights and flat shoes, but no silver wedding ring—after all, I was not wedded to God, which is why I also wore make-up. I did not want to be put in the same category as the women who were part of the Vatican’s religious personnel. The curious thing is that any woman who finds herself before the prelates of the Roman curia is generally in an extreme situation. She is either ignored, as though she were part of the furniture, or she arouses the liveliest curiosity, like some rare breed, and finds herself drawn into incredibly long conversations. In any event, the churchmen’s attitude toward women remains irrational. Simple conversations in a friendly and detached tone—what we would call small talk—are out of the question. It must be said that these gentlemen are so astute, so cultivated, their minds so keen, that even the most minor conversations with them can never be banal or superficial. In truth, this did not strike me, as it may well have done others, as an insurmountable obstacle—for which I had my past to thank, a past where, lulled by the sound of hymns plus interminable years of Latin, I learned to talk to God and his servants with the simplicity of a young girl familiar with the psalms, her rosary and Gregorian chants. I was also perfectly capable of crossing myself with holy water and genuflecting at the right moment. I had learned how to address a mother superior, an abbot or a confessor, and that one should never take a cardinal’s hand but rather kiss his Episcopal ring respectfully, and that you should call him Eminence and on no account Excellence like a bishop.

In the Vatican, I was neither awkward nor intimidated, and people knew it. And it is possible that my modest attitude did not frighten those dignified figures decked out in mauve and purple, usually so quick to slip away with a quick blessing.

When the Paris Match news editor, Patrick Jarnoux, suggested in December 1995 that I write a feature on the Vatican because I spoke Italian, I accepted immediately, brimming with enthusiasm, taking the offer as a gift from the heavens. And what a privilege to actually be sent there on Christmas Day! I had long been on the lookout for just such an opportunity as this. Before joining Paris Match, I had spent 13 years working at a major magazine staffed by devout writers and a boss who had just rediscovered God, and where John Paul II was the private property of André Frossard. Reporters dreamed of approaching John Paul II and had absolutely no intention of granting this (rare) privilege to a less experienced journalist than themselves, and a woman at that!

In Rome that morning, the heavens were on my side as I called up someone that destiny had already put in my path: Paul Poupard. It was just after the Pope had been struck down by an attack of dizziness during the traditional urbi et orbi blessing, which was broadcast worldwide. Cardinal Poupard was concise on the telephone: in fact, everyone in the Vatican distrusted the telephone, thanks to the days when some nuns on the Holy See switchboard under Pius XII used to listen to conversations on behalf of their governor, Cardinal Canali. Cardinal Poupard’s words were brief but his tone reassuring: “Come and see me at home at six this evening.”

The cardinal lived in the working class area of Trastevere, above the Tiber, in the San Callisto palace, an extra-mural Vatican enclave. Behind this ancient palace, overlooking the Piazza Santa Maria di Trastevere, a number of large, modern, ochre-colored buildings surrounded a courtyard. On the third floor, from where one can admire the cupola of Saint Peter’s, live several eminent members of the Holy See. When I left the elevator, I found myself facing a long corridor open to the sky and lined on both left and right with high, varnished doors, all identical. Nobody was in sight to tell me where to go, and not a sound could be heard other than the occasional muffled toll of a neighboring church’s bells. No Swiss Guard appeared to guide me around this solemn, soothing, almost monastic place. Finding Cardinal Poupard’s apartment was the first test. I was on the point of losing heart when I noticed a gleaming copper plaque, to the left of a heavy oak door, engraved with the name Cardinal Etchegaray. It was not him I was looking for, even if I had read his book (whose title—J’avance comme un âne [I go forward like a donkey]—had struck me), but the sight encouraged me to venture farther. I took a few more steps, and finally saw “Cardinal Poupard” on an identical plaque. Feeling anxious, I pressed the copper bell nervously.

As my former chaplain received me at his door with a broad smile, his neighbor, Msgr. De Nicolò, was watering his many plants on the landing. Having congratulated him on his green fingers, the cardinal introduced me; always happy to bestow a compliment, and no doubt wishing to avoid any misunderstanding on the subject of our meeting, he therefore told him, “This is one of my brilliant former students at Saint-Do. She has come to visit me and give me a book.” Even if prelates can be suspicious of each other, there was nothing unusual at this time of the year in my sparing a kindly thought for a respected former teacher. Msgr. De Nicolò immediately proved remarkably affable, and his trust in me later on was extremely precious, since he was the regent of the Papal Household and thus one of the organizers of pontifical ceremonies. How could I not believe that the heavens were with me and I was guided by God that day, or at least by one of his angels? Thanks to a chain of unanticipated circumstances, I had finally gotten a toe in the door of the Vatican fortress.

After prayers in Cardinal Poupard’s small private chapel, where we were joined by Sister Marie Béatrice and Sister Claire Marie, two French nuns who looked after him, I noticed to the left of the oratory, in a corridor, above a door, the cardinal’s coat of arms: a red hat from which hung, on either side of the shield, two cords and 30 tassels in the same color, 15 on each side, with a small yellow boat at sail on an azure sea in the middle, and the Augustinian motto inscribed below: “For you I am a bishop, with you I am a Christian.” “My coat of arms, presented to me by the Franciscans of Naples,” explained the cardinal, giving me a tiny glimpse into his universe. This was the first confidence he entrusted me with. My former chaplain then led me to his huge library, where some 15,000 works were meticulously archived. Once there, he did not beat around the bush, and told me, with the same frankness he had always used in the past: “There is no way for me to pick up the telephone and ask Msgr. Dziwisz for an interview with His Holiness for you and your photographer. It has never been done before. However, what I can do is work diplomatically toward you being able to approach the Holy Father’s entourage; it would then be up to you to seize any opportunity that came along.” What this meant in reality was that he was giving me an unexpected chance to break through the great barrier that the Polish circle represented. It would then be up to me to succeed in obtaining a certificate of good conduct—the prelude, as it were, to the precious pass that would grant me entry to the most secret, closed-off place on earth.

It was a highly perilous enterprise, since, if my plan failed, there would never be another way in. I could certainly never hope to gain the favor of Joaquin Navarro-Valls, who would always bear me a grudge for having casually gone over his head. Pinning me with his bright and determined gaze behind unadorned glasses, the cardinal concluded: “I will have you invited to all John Paul II’s New Year’s ceremonies. I will also arrange for you to be placed close to the front row, discreetly, on the right. After that, you will have to manage on your own.”

I quickly understood his message. My past and my experience as a political journalist helped me, and maybe my feminine intuition as well. Surmounting the high walls of the Vatican was proving to be something of a detective game. Who was the most important policeman, the least distrustful papal gendarme? Who did I need to have on my side—the master of ceremonies in charge of all the others? The kindly Swiss Guard? The Pope’s close companion, whose attention I would have to catch? The trick would be to succeed in getting on the good side of some people without annoying others, and to be aware that, surreptitiously, people would be observing me coolly. I therefore could not make any mistakes in the liturgical actions or protocol that had to be respected.

At the end of six days of masses, offices, blessings and other celebrations, all those unsympathetic eyes were on me. Was she, like other journalists, going to start by getting annoyed, then become discouraged, and then trip up? My steadiness and silence saved me. Even when John Paul II visited a little suburban church to bless a delegation of road workers, I was there. On the seventh day, Msgr. Dziwisz finally noticed me. On that memorable Sunday, he approached and spoke very politely to me: “I believe that you have come to write an article on the Holy Father? In six days you have surely been able to observe everything you needed to see . . . now you can go back to Paris in peace. You surely have enough information to write your article!”

The trap was sprung! I immediately retorted, politely but very firmly: “I am missing lots of things, the most essential element, in fact! What I would like is to follow His Holiness at close quarters in his daily and private life.” I knew from a Vatican gendarme that at six that very evening, the Pope was meant to be receiving some 40 Polish pilgrims in a private audience. I asked Msgr. Dziwisz, “Could I not attend the audience?” He paused for a minute, torn between astonishment that I knew about the invitation, and his inner feeling that, if I knew about it, I must be a well-informed journalist indeed. He then replied, joining his hands in a gesture of piety: “But you would understand nothing of their conversation!” I in turn replied, lowering my eyes: “I wouldn’t need a translation. I could read their words on their faces.” Then, gently, he took my hand, looked upon me benevolently and murmured: “Come back this evening.”

At the appointed hour, I presented myself with beating heart at the bronze door. Behind his light-colored wooden lectern, a vice-corporal in the Swiss Guard stopped me, asking me my name and that of whom I wished to see. I answered in the most natural possible fashion: “The Pope.” Looking suspicious, as I had no invitation, he checked by telephoning the second floor to see if I was really expected by the Supreme Pontiff. He then handed me over to a second guard, who led me up the monumental staircase. There a haughty usher escorted me to the stately Consistory Hall, a flamboyant room of intimidating proportions, harmonious frescos, magnificent tapestries and rare marble statues. Agitated, I waited alone for a few minutes until the arrival of the euphoric Poles dressed in black and white. We had to remain standing and to surround Karol Wojtyla at a distance. A little while later, he entered by one of the two doors at the back of the hall, blessed us all together, and then sat on his throne, as straight as it was simple. On his right was a cardinal, to his left a bishop and, a few meters away, a large bouquet of white lilies and yellow roses.

I then discovered a very different Supreme Pontiff from the one I had been seeing on television over the years. With his compatriots, he left his official persona behind, so transported with joy did he seem. He joked and laughed with them. That evening, I even heard him sing airs from his native land in their company. Msgr. Dziwisz had placed me at the end of the line of Poles. Everyone had to be presented to the Holy Father. When he approached me, Msgr. Dziwisz whispered in his ear: “This is a former pupil of Father Poupard’s at the Dominican convent in Via Cassia,” before adding kindly, “Mme. de Gaulle was also a pupil of the Dominicans.” This detail was the little extra piece of comfort I needed before such an intimidating moment in my life. John Paul II then took my hands in his and asked me: “Are you pleased with Rome?” I replied: “Very much so, Holy Father, I am dazzled by this décor and impressed by Your Holiness’ celebrations, but I would be even happier here if I could follow Your Holiness at close quarters to write a splendid article on His Holiness!” The Pope smiled at me, blessed me and walked away. Msgr. Dziwisz, who then took me to one side, murmured in a reassuring tone, “You will be called.” “But when?” “You will see. It is in God’s hands. In the meantime, may heaven bless you.”

I did not dare leave my hotel all the next day—although I was very tempted by the sales at the luxury boutiques on the Via Conditto, on the corner near where I was staying. The day after, at 10:45 a.m. precisely, the telephone rang. “Hello? This is Msgr. Dziwisz. His Holiness will receive you at midday in his private apartments on the third floor.” I was so astounded that I made the caller repeat his words—I found it almost impossible to believe them.

An hour and a half later, along with Jean-Claude Deutsch, one of the top photographers at our paper, I joined John Paul II at the heart of his apartments. The Holy Father welcomed us in his private office. He gave us a piercing look, and those moments when we were, for the first time, alone with him seemed to me an eternity. I was immediately struck by the serenity that emanated from his radiant face. We bowed low before him, full of emotion. I kissed his gold ring without really daring to look at his hand. The Holy Father smiled at me. I had tears in my eyes. Msgr. Dziwisz motioned to the photographer to begin his work. He hesitated a few minutes. The Pope then asked him in perfect French, “Is there perhaps a lighting problem? Would you like me to move closer to the window, or maybe further away from it? Would you like me to move back a little?” He was well aware that his white chasuble and capelet were hard to see against the light. This spontaneity and simplicity from the most famous man on the planet, who appeared to have all the time in the world for us, came as something of a surprise.

After the photo session, which lasted a good 20 minutes, the Holy Father blessed us. We then bowed low once more and thanked him profusely before he moved away. At that exact moment Jean-Claude noticed that there was no photo of the Pope at his desk. “Get him back immediately!” he cried out to me. “That’s impossible, he blessed us and he’s gone,” I said. It did indeed seem to me unthinkable to run after the Supreme Pontiff of the Catholic Church down the corridor of his own apartment. I still ask myself today how Msgr. Dziwisz, who overheard snatches of our conversation, managed to catch up with the Pope and talk to him. Nevertheless, here was John Paul II, returning to our side and agreeing to pose again in a session that lasted for quite a while. He was infinitely accommodating in his behavior toward us, complying with all our demands, always governed by simplicity.

And that was how my second meeting with John Paul II turned out. When he smiled at me that day, I instinctively understood that I was beginning to win his respect, which, over the years, evolved into trust, a privilege that allows me today to share with you the private existence of this extraordinary Pope, a unique experience as recounted in the pages of this book.

Copyright © 2000, 2005 by Nils editions, Paris

Get on the Bus

One of my favorite authors and speakers, Patsy Clairmont, tells the story of when her son was about six years old. Because they lived out in the country, she walked her son to the bus stop every morning. One day, early in the school year, before she got back to the house, she heard the footsteps of her son running up behind her.

“What in the world are you doing?” she said to him. “The school bus will be here any minute.”

“I’m quitting school,” he said, looking her straight in the eye.

“You can’t quit school,” she replied. “You’re only in first grade. Why do you want to quit?”

“Well, it’s too long, too hard and too boring,” he said.

“Son, that’s life,” said Patsy. “Get on the bus.”

* * *

Have you ever wanted to give up?

There’s a worthy goal ahead, but to reach the goal takes time, effort and focus. When you run into obstacles, your first inclination might be to quit. That’s when the best thing you can do is square your shoulders, set your lunch kit firmly under your arm and get on the bus—in other words, take one simple step toward your goal.

If you’re reading this book, chances are good that you have a worthy goal in mind—you want your life and health to change for the better. Maybe you haven’t fully articulated the goal, but you know that you can’t stay the same. You know that something has to change in your life because parts of your life—perhaps all parts—aren’t what they could be right now.

What’s the most obvious part of your life that needs to change—is it your weight?

Being overweight is an obvious catalyst that invites you to open the door to positive change. It’s easy to admit to a struggle with weight when the mirrors, the scale and the clothes closets in your house don’t lie. Being overweight is noticeable—to you and to others. You can’t ignore it. It never lets you forget its presence.

• Maybe you feel the extra weight in your heart and lungs. It’s difficult to climb stairs. It’s difficult or impossible to play with your kids or grandchildren. You dread your annual physical checkup because you already know what the doctor is going to tell you.

• Perhaps buying clothes is distressing and embarrassing for you. You see the clothes you’d like to wear, but nothing fits or feels right. You dread wearing shorts. You detest wearing a swimsuit, and you might even refuse to participate in any activity that requires your wearing a swimsuit.

• Maybe you sense a subtle discrimination at work. You are passed over for a promotion and wonder if it has anything to do with your weight. Maybe your sales would be higher if you looked fit. Maybe you’d get more respect if you weren’t packing on the pounds.

• You dread social events, such as a class reunion, where you’re with people who haven’t seen you for a while. You hear people say good things to others, but no positive comments come your way. Maybe people give you pointed stares. Maybe they even joke that your spouse’s cooking must be really good.

• Weight affects your pocketbook. Your grocery bill is higher. Your life insurance premiums are elevated. You spend more on medical deductibles. Maybe you have paid a lot of money for weight-loss programs and related books.

• You fear the severe repercussions of being overweight. One of your grandmothers suffers from diabetes. An uncle died of heart disease. Another had a stroke. You’re about the same age and condition as they were when their bodies became diseased. What will be your fate?

The reasons why you are overweight are numerous. You may have struggled with weight forever. You’ve always been the “fat kid,” the one picked last in gym class, the girl without a date at prom or the tubby guy who’s always good for a joke. You blame the weight on your genes, the way you were raised or the fact that your mother always cooked with butter. But it doesn’t matter—in the end you’re overweight because you’ve always been that way.

Some people struggle with weight only after a major life change—the pounds came on after marriage, after reaching a certain age, during pregnancy. You remember what it was like to be fit, but that was definitely yesterday’s body. You see pictures of yourself taken a few years ago, before you gained weight, and wonder if you’ll ever look like that again.

Some of us wrestle with weight because, in our most honest moments, we know it acts as a cocoon. If this is your reason, perhaps you gained weight because something terrible happened years ago. Maybe your father died when you were young and you’re still grieving his loss; you were date raped as a teenager and it has taken years to overcome the tragedy; you went through an ugly divorce and are still scarred and wounded. The extra pounds feel like a protection. You believe your weight hides you from a hurtful world. Food is a refuge that always seems to make you feel better.

Some people struggle with weight because age or other health conditions hinder ease of movement. If this is your story, you long to be fit and healthy, but most mornings when you wake up you simply feel miserable. It’s hard to get off the couch, much less walk around the block.

Others struggle with weight because life moves too fast. You’ve got to work all day and pick up the kids after soccer practice and get dinner on the table and make phone calls for the committee after dinner and on and on and on—how can you possibly take time to focus on your health?

Whatever the reasons, you know one thing for sure: The pounds are there, and you wish they weren’t. You long for a better life—a vibrant, healthy life. Deep down you long to be the kind of person whose life is characterized by balance and satisfaction.

You can glimpse the better goal of being fit and well, but to reach that goal, you know it will take time, effort and focus. Obstacles will come up—they’ve come up every other time you’ve tried to lose weight, and when this happens, the temptation is always to quit. You know that you need to take one simple step at a time toward your target. But how do you do that?

The Place to Begin

There is hope for your future weight loss, and it’s found in a place you may have never imagined. The easy thing would be for me to give you another diet to follow. But statistics tell us that 95 percent of people who lose weight gain it back again.1 The simple fact is that another diet is not the solution you’re looking for.

I repeat: If all you’re looking for is a quick way to lose weight, then this book will disappoint you. That’s not what First Place 4 Health is all about. Besides, I won’t give you a quick fix that will take the pounds off only to have them come back on a short time later.

I want to give you a lasting solution that addresses not only the number you see on a scale but also your whole person—spiritually, mentally, emotionally and physically. It’s the plan that helps you lead the life you were meant to live—a good life filled with hope, purpose and health.

If that kind of life is something that interests you, I want to let you in on a little secret. The hope for your future weight loss begins with this simple fact:

God is good.

That’s where the First Place 4 Health program begins. Does that statement sound so simple that you feel like dismissing it? “God is good” is one of the most far-reaching principles of the Bible, and it affects your life in ways that you may never have imagined. Let’s take that one fact and unpack it a bit.

Imagine for a moment that you lived a few thousand years ago. You’re in a community of people loved by God, but you have all made mistakes over a long period of time, and you find yourself conquered, captured and carted off to Babylon by order of King Nebuchadnezzar.

In this new land, nothing feels the same and nothing looks the same. Obstacles are all around you. You’re a stranger in a strange land. But you get a letter from one of your “pastors”—the prophet Jeremiah—and the letter lays out the very words of God.

In the letter, God says that He knows everything there is to know about you, including the events of your life that have led you to this place of exile. God knows the mistakes you have made, but He offers you His grace. The Lord declares these simple yet profound words:

I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future (Jer. 29:11).

That’s the simple fact: God has good plans for you, plans to give you a hope and a future. In other words—God is good.

God is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. Even though He wrote those words through the prophet Jeremiah, to a specific group of people at a specific place and time, His righteous character is still the same toward us today. Whenever we turn to the Lord and ask for His help, He extends His hand of grace to us.

Nahum 1:7 repeats that thought:

The Lord is good, a refuge in times of trouble.

He cares for those who trust in Him.

That’s the real answer to your goal of losing weight and becoming healthy. Start with the fact that God is good. He cares for you. The answer you’re looking for encompasses not just taking off pounds, but also living the life of purpose and hope you were meant to live. This is the life God calls you to live. And that life is well within your grasp. This book will show you what it’s all about.

Do the Next Right Thing

To begin learning about this new, healthier lifestyle, you need to start right where you are. That means taking whatever positive step is right in front of you; or, in other words, “do the next right thing.”

I want to share with you part of a letter I received from one of our First Place 4 Health group leaders. She has chosen to show up to life every day. She takes small steps. She makes ordinary decisions for positive change. But she is walking the path of balance that leads to total health.

I have battled depression most of my life. When I became a Christian, that battle did not go away. In 1990, when I weighed 220 pounds, I prayed that God would deliver me from my addiction to food. One week later, I learned about First Place. (First Place has been a lifesaver for me. I have been a First Place leader off and on since 1991.)

When my mother came to live with us, and I became her full-time caregiver, I dropped out of First Place and my weight went up to 273 pounds. I am disabled and live with chronic pain on a daily basis. During this time there were days when I only got out of bed to take care of my mother’s most basic needs.

When she went home to be with the Lord in 2002, I chose to have gastric bypass surgery the next year instead of returning to First Place. I lost 90 pounds the first year and then stopped. I have since realized that there’s no magic cure for weight gain. Even with gastric bypass surgery, the answer is to eat less and exercise more.

I wanted so badly to start leading First Place again, but since I’d had weight-loss surgery, I felt that I couldn’t justify leading the class. I prayed and sought the Lord and called your office and was encouraged to share with the class and go forward. I have done that now for the last two years.

All of this leads up to why I am writing. I have battled depression since I was a very young girl. God has helped me so much since becoming a Christian, but it is a battle every day, and some days I lose the fight. One of my First Place assistants brought a copy of the April 2007 First Place Newsletter to class for each of our members. That newsletter has changed my life.

We all have Aha! moments in life when one word or one Scripture reaches us and the light bulb turns on. For me it was one line from that newsletter. “When there are times when all I can do is the next right thing, then I do the next right thing.” Wow! I thought. Maybe I can do that. So I typed up this saying and placed it on my bathroom mirror. The very next day I woke up in great pain, not knowing how to begin doing all the things

I needed to do, and with no energy and no desire to do anything. Then I remembered the saying—Do the next right thing. I read it out loud, and I read it again. And then, I did the next right thing. All day that day, if I got confused or overwhelmed or sad, I went back to the bathroom and read that statement and then did the next right thing.

My husband can’t believe the things I have gotten accomplished. My house is cleaner; my laundry is done (folded and put away); I go to bed earlier and get up earlier. I have started swimming at the YWCA. I have become interested in reading and doing crafts again. Previously, I just wanted to stay in bed until noon; but now I tell myself to just get up and do the next right thing.

The words “Do the next right thing” have completely changed my life. Do I still battle depression? Yes. Maybe I will for the rest of my life unless the Lord chooses to heal me. Am I still in constant pain? Oh, yes. I need surgery, and maybe now I will find the courage to go ahead with that. But I don’t have to worry about that—I just have to do the next right thing.

In the pages ahead, you will see more specifically what taking positive steps looks like. Together we will examine the model of the foursided person and explore what it means to live a balanced life mentally, spiritually, emotionally and physically. You are invited to make foundational shifts toward positive habits that will help you along your new journey. Through the power of God, you can decide to live a healthier life, and you can experience lasting positive change.

When I think of a person who has succeeded in this area, I think of my friend Deborah, a woman in my First Place 4 Health group.

Deborah had a number of strikes against her. At 5'8", she weighed more than 200 pounds. She had been in an emotionally and physically abusive marriage and was in the process of getting a divorce. She had custody of her two preteen girls and was tired a lot. After suffering from chronic depression for years, Deborah was on several medications.

When Deborah came to her first meeting, all she did was sit. She sat through an entire 12-week session and didn’t lose a pound. She signed up for another 12-week session. She came and sat, and didn’t lose a pound.

So she signed up for a third 12-week session. On the day the session was to start, she sent me this email: “Carole, please take my name off the roll. I’m just dragging the group down.”

I knew that Deborah wasn’t doing her Bible study. I knew that she had not learned the food plan. I knew that she was convinced that all she was able to do was sit. And I knew that she had reached the point where the pain of not changing was forcing her to move beyond the lies and make a choice. Her choice was that she needed to make a choice.

I replied to her email message with one line: Deborah—just come today.

That day, when Deborah arrived, I hugged her, and she started crying.

That was her moment of choice. From that moment on, she started responding to the program. She began doing her Bible study and memorizing verses. She started walking around her neighborhood with her girls. She started eating according to the Live It plan.

Soon, she had lost 60 pounds.

Previously hidden aspects of Deborah’s personality began to shine through. She was fun! We learned that she was a talented photographer. In fact, in March 2006, she went to Israel with a tour group arranged by First Place 4 Health. She took pictures for the group and walked up and down the rocky terrain. I had never seen her like that—so vibrant and full of action. She had just been so squashed down all of her life.

“Deborah,” I said, a while ago, “tell me what finally happened for you to make a choice.”

“Carole,” she said, “you believed in me. You believed that I could do it. Nobody ever believed in me before.”

What she said is true. I believed in her. And I believe in you. I believe that you can do it. Even if no one has ever believed in you before, know that someone believes in you now. With God’s help, you can change. It’s your choice. And you have the power to do it.

As you take your next steps toward positive change, keep in mind that you must choose to change before change will begin.

First Place 4 Health is not a diet; it’s a lifestyle shift.

People often believe that if they can just get on the right diet, all their weight problems will be solved. That’s an easy mistake to make, because the latest, greatest diets are always marketed as the solution we need. Yet First Place 4 Health is much more than a diet; it’s a change in how to approach life. The good thing about the First Place 4 Health food plan is that it’s not restrictive like a diet would be. We invite you to explore all the wonderful world of food choices the Lord has provided.

• First Place 4 Health is not about rigid rules; it’s about helpful invitations. We used to stress commitments—which is a good concept. We wanted people to be dedicated to pursuing health. But we have found that people sometimes looked at commitments as laws, and if laws were broken, then guilt and rigidity set in. Instead, we are inviting you to make a number of positive changes in your life. No one does them all perfectly, all of the time. So relax. There isn’t just one way to live a healthy life. Develop the plan that works best for you, and give yourself grace to make mistakes and adjustments along the way.

• Get involved at your own pace. When it comes to living a healthy, balanced life, success will look different for different people. Some people lose 100 pounds the first year they’re involved in First Place 4 Health. Other people lose 20 pounds and keep it off for 20 years. For others, success is found in not gaining any more weight. You are welcome in First Place 4 Health regardless of where you are with your current level of health. We encourage you to do no more than what you are ready for. Yet we do encourage you to take a first positive step as soon as possible.

• Your invitation starts right now. Any change requires some sort of adjustment. Your invitation is to jump in to this new life today. Just begin. Get on the bus. Make the choice to give yourself wholeheartedly to this new season in your life—a season that will hopefully stretch into a lifetime of healthy living. Have fun exploring new ways to grow in your faith and in your understanding of health. Develop new friendships by getting involved in something good for you. Don’t be satisfied with standing on the outside—come on in! Be courageous and take the next step in living a balanced life.

What Keeps You Going?

The formula for lasting change:

A worthy goal reached through time + effort + focus

When obstacles to meeting your goal come up, your first inclination may be to quit. That’s when you take the next step toward your goal— just one simple step at a time.

It helps to have a clear idea of what a worthy goal looks like. You may not have articulated more than the words “to lose weight.” While this is a worthy goal, it usually breaks down when obstacles come up, because you need a greater understanding of the motivation behind your goal. When you remember why it is that you wanted to lose weight in the first place, that knowledge keeps you heading toward your goal.

People lose weight for all sorts of reasons. The Bible provides the foundational motivation, and it’s as simple as this: God is interested in your health. The motivations are shown in two passages of Scripture.

Check out Romans 12:1-2:

Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.

In other words, you are urged to present your body—your actual flesh and blood and bone and skin—to God as an act of worship. How you take care of your body is a reflection of what you think about God. It’s honoring to the Lord to take care of the body He has given you.

When your body is presented to God, He invites you to use your life in service to Him.

Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body (1 Cor. 6:19-20).

The benefit here is yours. To live for the Lord God of All is an incredible privilege. God’s invitation is to an abundant life full of purpose and hope. A foundational motivation for weight loss and total lifestyle change is to give your body to God.

It seems strange to think about it, but if you have accepted Christ as your Savior, then you have the actual Spirit of God living inside your body. It doesn’t make you a god. It means that your body houses the spirit of God, and that He works in your life by faith.

So what are the foundational motivations for losing weight and living a life of balance?

First, God wants you to. God is interested in your health.

Second, when your life is in balance, it’s much easier to be a leader in your family and a role model for your children and spouse. It’s difficult to lead people where you have never been yourself. Many children are overweight and need encouragement from their parents. Many of the weight problems of our children would evaporate if we led by example.

I’ve experienced this truth in my own life. When I first started to exercise, my oldest granddaughter, Cara, loved to walk or jog with me. Would she have done it on her own? No way! Yet in a heartbeat, she came with me at my invitation. Children love being with their family members.

Third, weight loss can also expose the true needs in our hearts. I’m talking specifically to those of you who need emotional healing. A weight gain is often a symptom of a deeper issue. For instance, women and men who have been emotionally or sexually abused often attempt to hide their pain by eating.

But whatever motivation is speaking to your heart, just take a moment now to get on the bus.

In the space on the following pages, jot down some ideas about the reasons you want to lose weight. It can be very beneficial to see your goals on paper. When obstacles come (and they will), you can refer back to this to gain encouragement.

Sometimes it helps to record a positive goal as well as its negative extrapolation of what might happen if you don’t do anything. Sometimes it can help to imagine your life in 5, 10 or 15 years. What will happen if something changes? What will happen if nothing changes?

Take some time to think through the following declarations.

I want to lose weight because . . .

I want to lose weight so that I can . . .

and be a good example to . . .

If I lose weight, then in the future I can see myself . . .

If I don’t lose weight, then in the future I can see myself . . .

There is no correct way to word your goal. What matters is that you know your goal, remind yourself of it often and keep in mind that your goal is reachable. With God’s help, you can do it.

Congratulations! You’re on Your Way

God never promised us that life would be rosy and without difficulty. Instead, the Lord promises to carry us through any situation and trial. God already knows your goals. He knows that you desire a better life filled with purpose, health and hope. And He knows the obstacles you will encounter that tempt you to quit the journey. Don’t give up! You can make it!

Remember, you have already taken the first step by reading this chapter. And it wasn’t that hard. Now you’re on the bus! You’re on your way to a whole new you.

Checklist for Success

• Acknowledge the truth that God is good and that He offers you a hope-filled plan for your life and future. Your success begins with this simple fact.

• Run from quick fixes—they never provide you with the lasting change you need. First Place 4 Health is a lifestyle change that affects your whole person—mentally, spiritually, emotionally, physically. It will take time, but it’s worth it.

• Accept the invitation to give your life to God. He is interested in everything about you—including your physical health.

• Write down the specific reasons why you want to become healthy. Refer back to your declarations often for motivation. Remind yourself why not doing anything isn’t an option.

• Start today. Obstacles and excuses will come up, but quitting isn’t the answer. Do the next right thing!

Note

1. This statistic is frequently cited in weight-loss journals and health-related articles, for example: http://preventdisease.com/fitness/weightloss/articles/carbs.html (accessed January 23, 2007).

SOME THINGS YOU just know without being told. Like, you passed the math final (or you didn't). Your boyfriend isn't into you anymore and wants to break up. Vanessa Talbot has decided that since you're the New Girl, you have a big bull's-eye on your forehead and your junior year is going to be just as miserable as she can make it.

Carly once told me she used to wish she were me. Ha! That first week at Spencer Academy, I wouldn't have wished my life on anyone.

My name is Lissa Evelyn Mansfield, and since everything seemed to happen to me this quarter, we decided I'd be the one to write it all down. Maybe you'll think I'm some kind of drama queen, but I swear this is the truth. Don't listen to Gillian and Carly—they weren't there for some of it, so probably when they read this, it'll be news to them, too.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. When it all started, I didn't even know them. All I knew was that I was starting my junior year at the Spencer Academy of San Francisco, this private boarding school for trust fund kids and the offspring of the hopelessly rich, and I totally did not want to be there.

I mean, picture it: You go from having fun and being popular in tenth grade at Pacific High in Santa Barbara, where you can hang out on State Street or join a drumming circle or surf whenever you feel like it with all your friends, to being absolutely nobody in this massive old mansion where rich kids go because their parents don't have time to take care of them.

Not that my parents are like that. My dad's a movie director, and he's home whenever his shooting schedule allows it. When he's not, sometimes he flies us out to cool places like Barbados or Hungary for a week so we can be on location together. You've probably heard of my dad. He directed that big pirate movie that Warner Brothers did a couple of years ago. That's how he got on the radar of some of the big A-list directors, so when George (hey, he asked me to call him that, so it's not like I'm dropping names) rang him up from Marin and suggested they do a movie together, of course he said yes. I can't imagine anybody saying no to George, but anyway, that's why we're in San Francisco for the next two years. Since Dad's going to be out at the Ranch or on location so much, and my sister, Jolie, is at UCLA (film school, what else—she's a daddy's girl and she admits it), and my mom's dividing her time among all of us, I had the choice of going to boarding school or having a live-in. Boarding school sounded fun in a Harry Potter kind of way, so I picked that.

Sigh. That was before I realized how lonely it is being the New Girl. Before the full effect of my breakup really hit. Before I knew about Vanessa Talbot, who I swear would make the perfect girlfriend for a warlock.

And speaking of witch . . .

"Melissa!"

Note: my name is not Melissa. But on the first day of classes, I'd made the mistake of correcting Vanessa, which meant that every time she saw me after that, she made a point of saying it wrong. The annoying part is that now people really think that's my name.

Vanessa, Emily Overton, and Dani Lavigne ("Yes, that Lavigne. Did I tell you she's my cousin?") are like this triad of terror at Spencer. Their parents are all fabulously wealthy—richer than my mom's family, even—and they never let you forget it. Vanessa and Dani have the genes to go with all that money, which means they look good in everything from designer dresses to street chic.

Vanessa's dark brown hair is cut so perfectly, it always falls into place when she moves. She has the kind of skin and dark eyes that might be from some Italian beauty somewhere in her family tree. Which, of course, means the camera loves her. It didn't take me long to figure out that there was likely to be a photographer or two somewhere on the grounds pretty much all the time, and nine times out of ten, Vanessa was the one they bagged. Her mom is minor royalty and the ex-wife of some U.N. Secretary or other, which means every time he gives a speech, a photographer shows up here. Believe me, seeing Vanessa in the halls at school and never knowing when she's going to pop out at me from the pages of Teen People or some society news Web site is just annoying. Can you say overexposed?

Anyway. Where was I? Dani has butterscotch-colored hair that she has highlighted at Biondi once a month, and big blue eyes that make her look way more innocent than she is. Emily is shorter and chunkier and could maybe be nice if you got her on her own, but she's not the kind that functions well outside of a clique.

Some people are born independent and some aren't. You should see Emily these days. All that money doesn't help her one bit out at the farm, where—

Okay, Gillian just told me I have to stop doing that. She says it's messing her up, like I'm telling her the ending when I'm supposed to be telling the beginning.

Not that it's all about her, okay? It's about us: me, Gillian, Carly, Shani, Mac . . . and God. But just to make Gillian happy, I'll skip to the part where I met her, and she (and you) can see what I really thought of her. Ha. Maybe that'll make her stop reading over my shoulder.

So as I was saying, there they were—Vanessa, Emily, and Dani—standing between me and the dining room doors. "What's up?" I said, walking up to them when I should have turned and settled for something out of the snack machine at the other end of the hall.

"She doesn't know." Emily poked Dani. "Maybe we shouldn't tell her."

I did a fast mental check. Plaid skirt—okay. Oxfords—no embarrassing toilet paper. White blouse—buttoned, no stains. Slate blue cardigan—clean. Hair—freshly brushed.

They couldn't be talking about me personally, in which case I didn't need to hear it. "Whatever." I pushed past them and took two steps down the hall.

"Don't you want to hear about your new roommate?" Vanessa asked.

Roommate? At that point I'd survived for five days, and the only good things about them were the crème brulée in the dining room and the blessed privacy of my own room. What fresh disaster was this?

Oops. I'd stopped in my tracks and tipped them off that (a) I didn't know, and (b) I wanted to know. And when Vanessa knows you want something, she'll do everything she can not to let you have it.

"I think we should tell her," Emily said. "It would be kinder to get it over with." "I'm sure I'll find out eventually." There, that sounded bored enough. "Byeee." "I hope you like Chinese!" Dani whooped at her own cleverness, and the three of them floated off down the hall.

So I thought, Great, maybe they're having dim sum today for lunch, though what that had to do with my new roommate I had no idea. At that point it hadn't really sunk in that conversation with those three is a dangerous thing.

That had been my first mistake the previous Wednesday, when classes had officially begun. Conversation, I mean. You know, normal civilized discourse with someone you think might be a friend. Like a total dummy, I'd actually thought this about Vanessa, who'd pulled newbie duty, walking me down the hall to show me where my first class was. It turned out to not be my first class, but the teacher was nice about steering me to the right room, where I was, of course, late.

That should've been my first clue.

My second clue was when Vanessa invited me to eat with them and Dani managed to spill her Coke all over my uniform skirt, which is, as I said, plaid and made of this easy-clean fake wool that people with sensitive skin can wear. She'd jumped up, all full of apologies, and handed me napkins and stuff, but the fact remained that I had to go upstairs and change and then figure out how the laundry service worked, which meant I was late for Biology, too.

On Thursday Dani apologized again, and Vanessa loaned me some of her Bumble and bumble shampoo ("You can't use Paul Mitchell on gorgeous hair like yours—people get that stuff at the drugstore now"), and I was dumb enough to think that maybe things were looking up. Because really, the shampoo was superb. My hair is blond and I wear it long, but before you go hating me for it, it's fine and thick, and the fog we have here in San Francisco makes it go all frizzy. And it's foggy a lot. So this shampoo made it just coo with pleasure.

You're probably asking yourself why I bothered trying to be friends with these girls. The harrowing truth was, I was used to being in the A-list group. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't fit in with the popular girls at Spencer, once I figured out who they were.

Lucky me—Vanessa made that so easy. And I was so lonely and out of my depth that even she was looking good. Her dad had once backed one of my dad's films, so there was that minimal connection.

Too bad it wasn't enough.

jolie.mansfield L, don't let them bug you. Some people are
threatened by anything new. It's a compliment
really.

LMansfield You always find the bright side. Gahh. Love you,
but not helping.

jolie.mansfield What can I do?

LMansfield I'd give absolutely anything to be back in S.B.

jolie.mansfield :(

LMansfield I want to hang with the kids from my youth group.
Not worry about anything but the SPF of my sun
block.

jolie.mansfield It'll get better. Promise. Heard from Mom?
LMansfield No. She's doing some fundraiser with Angelina.
She's pretty busy.

jolie.mansfield If you say so. Love you.

Copyright © 2008 by Shelley Adina