by Meg Cabot
Sometimes Grandmère does kind of rock.
Although I’m glad she wasn’t there at that particular moment because the conversation was definitely not one you’d want your grandmother to overhear.
“Oh, the Waldorf,” Trisha was saying in response to a question Shameeka asked her, while the lady doing her feet rubbed gigantic salt granules all over her calves. “Brad and I got a room.”
“There weren’t any rooms left by the time I called,” Shameeka was saying, all mournfully.
“Me, either.” Lana had cucumbers over her eyelids. “Well, there were rooms, but not suites. Derek and I are staying at the Four Seasons instead.”
“But that’s across town!” Trisha practically yelled.
“I don’t care,” Lana said. “I won’t stay anywhere that only has one bathroom. I’m not sharing a bathroom with some random guy.”
“But you’ll have sex with him,” Trisha pointed out.
“That’s different,” Lana said. “I want to be able to use the bathroom without having to wait for someone else to be through with it. I can’t be expected to share.”
About which, I’d just like to ask, WHO is the princess in the room?
“Where are you and J.P. staying after the prom, Mia?” Shameeka wanted to know, gracefully changing the subject.
“He still hasn’t asked her yet,” Tina told them matter-of-factly. “So, they’ll probably be joining you at the Four Seasons, Lana.” I didn’t have the heart to correct Tina on this. “Oh, Mia…can I tell them?”
Shameeka looked excited. “Tell us about what?”
“About…you know.” Tina raised her eyebrows excitedly at me.
I seriously panicked when Tina came up with her Can I tell them, Mia? I thought—really—that she was referring to our conversation in the penguin exhibit yesterday. About Michael, and how I’d smelled him, and all of that.
And seeing as how I’d just gotten his note about my book—Love, Michael—and was holding his Princess Leia USB flash drive in my pocket, and the whole thing had made me feel a little…I don’t know. I guess crazy would be the appropriate word. If unicorns can get crazy.
Plus, I was already extra sensitive about the fact that they were all talking about their boyfriends, and where they were taking them after the prom, and mine hadn’t even asked me properly, let alone ever even touched me below the neck….
Well, I guess you could say I overreacted, a little.
Because suddenly I heard myself saying, way too loudly, as the woman who was giving me a pedicure ground away at one of my heel calluses, caused from standing around in too-high heels at too many royal benefits, “Look, I’ve never had sex, all right? J.P. and I have never done it. So sue me! I’m eighteen, and I’m a princess, and I’m a virgin. Is that all right with everyone? Or should I go wait in the limo until you’re all done with your sexy talk?”
For a second all four of them (well, nine if you count the ladies who were doing our feet) just stared at me in stunned silence. The silence was finally broken by Tina, who said, “Mia, I just meant, would it be okay if I told them how you’d written a romance novel.”
“You wrote a romance novel?” Lana wore an expression of shock. “A book? You, like…typed it?”
“Why?” Trisha looked stunned. “Why would you do that?”
“Mia,” Shameeka said, after exchanging nervous glances with everyone else. “I think it’s great you wrote a book. S-seriously! Congratulations!”
It took a minute for it to sink in that they were more shocked by the fact that I’d written a book than that I was a virgin. In fact, they seemed not even to care about the fact that I was a virgin, and were fixated on the fact that I’d written a book.
About which, can I just say—well, I was insulted, actually.
“But the sex scenes in your book,” Tina said. She looked as shocked as everyone else in the room. “They were so…”
“I told you.” I could feel myself turning as red as Elizabeth Arden’s door. “I read a lot of romance novels.”
“Is it, like, a real book?” Lana wanted to know. “Or is it one of those books you make at the mall where you put your own name in it? Because I wrote one of those when I was seven. It was all about how LANA went to the circus and how LANA got to perform with the trapeze artists and bareback riders because LANA is just as pretty and talented as—”
“Yes, it’s a real book,” Tina said, shooting LANA a look. “Mia wrote it herself, and it’s really—”
“HELLO!” I yelled. “I just told all of you that I’ve never had sex! And all you seem to be able to talk about is the fact that I wrote a book. Can we please FOCUS? I’ve never had sex! Do you have nothing to say about that?”
“Well, the book thing is more interesting,” Shameeka said. “I don’t see what the problem is, Mia. Just because we’ve all done it doesn’t mean you should feel strange about having waited. I’m sure there’ll be tons of girls at the University of Genovia who haven’t done it, either. So you won’t be at all out of place.”
“Totally,” Tina said. “And how sweet is it that J.P. hasn’t pressured you?”
“That’s not sweet,” Lana said flatly. “That’s weird.”
Tina shot her another dirty look, but Lana refused to back down. “Well, it is! That’s what boys do. It’s, like, their job to try to get you to have sex with them.”
“J.P. is a virgin, too,” I informed them. “He’s been saving himself for the right person. And he says he’s found her. Me. And he’s willing to wait until whenever I’m ready.”
When I said that, everyone in the room looked at one another and sighed dreamily.
All except Lana. She went, “So what’s he waiting for then? Are you sure he’s not gay?”
Tina shouted, “Lana! Could you be serious for one second, please?” just as Shameeka asked, “Mia, if J.P. is willing to wait, then what’s the problem?”
I blinked at her. “There’s no problem,” I said. “I mean, we’re fine.”
Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Eight.
And Tina busted me on it.
“But there is a problem,” Tina said. “Isn’t there, Mia? Based on something you mentioned yesterday.”
I widened my eyes at her. I knew what she was going to say, and I really didn’t want her to. Not in front of Lana and those guys.
“Uh,” I said. “No. No problem. I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer….”
“I’ll say.” Lana snorted. “Geek.”
But Tina didn’t notice my subtle hint.
“Do you even want to have sex with J.P., Mia?” Tina asked.
Love, Michael. Now, why did that have to pop into my head?
“Yes, of course!” I cried. “He’s totally foxy.” I was borrowing a phrase from the bathroom wall, about Lana. She’d written it about herself. But I figured it applied to J.P., too.
“But…” Tina looked as if she were trying to choose her words carefully. “You told me yesterday that you think Michael smells better.”
I saw Trisha and Lana exchange glances. Then Lana rolled her eyes.
“Not the neck thing again,” she said. “I told you, just buy J.P. some cologne.”
“I did,” I said. “It’s not that—Look, forget it, okay? You guys all have sex on the brain, anyway. There’s more to a relationship than sex, you know.”
This caused all the ladies who were doing our feet to start giggling hysterically.
“Well,” I said to them. “Isn’t there?”
“Oh, yes,” they all said. “Your Highness.”
Why did I get the feeling that they were making fun of me? That they were ALL making fun of me? Look, I knew from my vast romance reading that sex was fun.
But I ALSO knew from my vast romance reading that there were some things more important than sex.
LOVE, MICHAEL.
“Besides,” I added desperately, “just because I think Michael smells better than J.P. doesn’t mean I’m still in love with
him or anything.”
“Okay,” Lana said. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “Except for the part where it totally does.”
“Oh my God, love triangle!” Trisha squealed, and the two of them started laughing so hard that they splashed the water in their foot basins, causing their pedicure specialists to have to ask them to please control themselves.
It was at that moment Grandmère hobbled back into the room, wearing her robe and flip-flops and looking particularly frightening because she’d also just had a facial and so all of her pores were still open and her face was devoid of makeup and very shiny and she was wearing an expression of extreme surprise….
But not, it turned out (much to my relief), because she’d overheard us.
It was because no one had drawn her eyebrows back on.
Monday, May 1, 7 p.m., the Royal Genovian Yacht Clarisse 3, master suite
I have never seen so much pre-party psychosis in my life. And I’ve been to a lot of parties.
The florist brought the wrong floral arrangements—whites roses and purple lilies, not pink—and the caterer’s crispy seafood spring rolls came with a peanut sauce instead of an orange sauce (I don’t care, but there’s some speculation that Princess Aiko of Japan has a peanut allergy).
Grandmère and Vigo are having CORONARIES about it. You would think somebody had forgotten to polish the silver, or something.
Don’t even get me started on the aneurysm they had when I suggested we use the helicopter landing pad as a dance floor.
Whatever! It’s not like anybody’s going to be landing the helicopter on it!
At least my dress arrived safely. I’ve been stuffed into it (it’s silver and sparkly and formfitting and what can I say? It was made especially for me, and you can tell. There’s not a whole lot left to the imagination), and my hair is all twisted up and tucked into my tiara, and I’ve been ordered to sit here quietly out of everyone’s way, and not move until it’s time to make my grand entrance, once all the guests have arrived.
Like I’m all that jazzed to go anywhere, seeing as how what awaits me out there are my twin “surprises”—one from J.P., and the other from Lilly.
I’m sure I’m overreacting. I’m sure whatever J.P. got me, I’m going to like it. Right? I mean, he’s my boyfriend. He’s not going to do anything to embarrass me in front of my family and friends. The whole thing with the guy who dressed up like the knight and rode up on the horse painted white—I mean, I explained that already. He got the message. I know he got the message.
So…why do I feel so sick to my stomach?
Because he called me a little while ago to see how I was. (I’m actually feeling a little better about some things now that I’ve shared my “secret” with all the girls. The one about my book AND the one about my being the last unicorn in the Albert Einstein High senior class—besides J.P., I mean. The fact that they didn’t seem to think it was such a big deal was a pretty big relief. I mean, not that it IS a big deal, because it’s not. It’s just…well, it’s good to know they don’t think it’s a big deal. Although I wish Lana would quit texting me with alternative titles for my book. I don’t actually think Put It in My Candyhole is that good a name for a novel.)
J.P. also wanted to ask if I was “ready” for my birthday surprise.
Ready for my birthday surprise? What is he talking about? Is he trying to freak me out on purpose? Seriously, between him and Lilly—with her talk of how she can only give me my present tonight—I’m going to go mental. I really am.
I don’t know how anyone can expect me to sit still, either. In fact, I haven’t been sitting. I’ve been looking out one of the portholes, at all the people coming up the gangplank. (I’m trying to keep myself hidden behind the curtains so no one can see me, keeping in mind Grandmère’s golden rule: If you can see them, they can see you.)
I can’t believe everyone who’s showing up for this shindig. So many celebrities: There’s Donald Trump and his wife. Princes William and Harry. Posh Spice and David Beckham. Bill and Hillary Clinton. Will Smith and Jada Pinkett. Bill and Melinda Gates. Tyra Banks. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Barack and Michelle Obama. Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick. Sean Penn. Moby. Michael Bloomberg. Oprah Winfrey. Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick. Heidi Klum and Seal.
And the evening’s entertainment, Madonna, and her band, are already setting up. She’s promised to do her old-school stuff, in addition to some of her new songs (Grandmère is donating extra money to the charity of Madonna’s choice for her to sing “Into the Groove,” “Crazy for You,” and “Ray of Light”).
Hopefully it won’t be at all weird for Madonna that her ex, Sean Penn, is also here.
Grandmère had initially planned on having a different musical entertainer for my eighteenth birthday (Pavarotti) but fortunately he died. (No offense, he was awfully nice, but opera is kind of hard to dance to.)
The thing is, in addition to celebrities…there are so many people from my past here! My cousin Sebastiano (stopping to talk to all the paparazzi, snapping pictures where all the limos and taxis are dropping people off), with a supermodel on his arm. He’s a famous fashion designer now. He even has a line of jeans in Wal-Mart.
Oh, and there’s my cousin Hank, in white leather pants and a black silk top. His stalkers have found their way to the Seaport (they must have read about the party on Page Six, where it was announced this morning), and are screaming for his autograph. Hank pauses suavely and signs for them. It’s hard to believe we used to hunt for crawdads together in overalls and bare feet, back in Versailles, Indiana, all those years ago. Now Hank routinely has giant billboards of himself in his underwear up in Times Square. Who would have thought? I mean, I’ve seen him squirt Coca-Cola out of his nose.
Aw, and there’s Mamaw and Papaw. I see Grandmère got them a stylist. I wonder if she was worried they’d show up in NASCAR T-shirts?
But they clean up beautifully! Papaw’s in a tux! He looks a little like James Bond. You know, if James Bond chewed tobacco.
And Mamaw’s wearing an evening gown! And it looks as if Paolo got to her hair. And okay, she keeps stopping and waving to the paparazzi, none of whom wants to take her picture.
But she looks great! Kind of like Sharon Osbourne. If Sharon Osbourne had bleached-blond hair and a really big butt and said, “Hey, y’all!” a lot.
And there’s my mom and Mr. G and Rocky! My mom looks beautiful, as always. If only I could ever be that pretty someday. Even Mr. G isn’t a total wash. And doesn’t Rocky look cute in his little toddler tux? I wonder how long it will be until he spills something all down the front of it (I give him five minutes). I’m betting it will be the peanut sauce.
And there are Perin and Ling Su and Tina and Boris and Shameeka and Lana and Trisha and their parents…oh, don’t they all look nice? Well, except Boris.
Oh, all right. Even Boris. When you’re wearing a tuxedo, at least you’re supposed to tuck the shirt into your pants.
And there’s Principal Gupta! And Mr. and Madame Wheeton! And Mrs. Hill and Ms. Martinez and Ms. Sperry and Mr. Hipskin and Nurse Lloyd and Ms. Hong and Mrs. Potts and just about the entire rest of the staff of Albert Einstein High!
It was nice of Grandmère to let me invite them all, even if it’s super weird to see your teachers outside of school. The fact that they’re wearing evening clothes makes them basically unrecognizable and, ew, I think Mr. Hipskin brought his wife and she looks almost exactly like him, except for the mustache. Sadly, I mean hers, not his…
Wow, this is actually kind of fun, aside from the fact that eventually I have to—
Oh! And there he is. J.P., I mean. He’s brought his parents.
And he certainly does look GORGEOUS in his evening jacket and white tie.
He doesn’t have any large packages with him. So…what can it be? His surprise for me, I mean? Because he’s not carrying a present, that I can see…
Oh, look, he’s stopping now, with his parents, to talk to the
paparazzi. Why does something tell me he’s going to mention his play?
Well, if I were writing my book under my own name, would I waste any possible opportunity to mention it? Probably not, right?
On the other hand, considering what—or rather who—Tina seemed to think it was about, maybe not…
Okay, I can’t stand this! I think I’m going to be sick. When can I join the party? I’d rather just get it over with already than keep waiting like—
Here come the Moscovitzes! They’re getting out of a LIMO! There are the Drs. Moscovitz—I’m so glad they got back together! Doesn’t Dr. Moscovitz look distinguished in his tuxedo? And Lilly and Michael’s mom, in her red evening gown, with her hair all up? So pretty! So unlike her normal self, in her glasses and business suit and Lady Air Jordans…
And there’s Kenneth, also in a tux, turning around to help—LILLY! Whoa, she actually dressed up—in a really nice black velvet dress. I wonder where she got that, certainly not her normal clothing store of choice, the Salvation Army. And look, her video-camcorder bag matches her dress! That’s so stylish of her!
She looks so pretty. I can’t imagine she really can be up to anything that devious tonight. Can she?
And there’s MICHAEL! He CAME! He looks so GORGEOUS in his tuxedo! Oh my God, I think I’m going to—
ACK! It’s Grandmère…and…
The captain!
Great. Captain Johnson says he can’t possibly unmoor from the dock because the boat is already filled to capacity and there are still more limos and taxis pulling up, and if he attempts to head out to sea with more than the maximum capacity the ship can hold, we’ll sink.
“Fine,” Grandmère says. “Amelia, you’re going to have to tell your guests to leave.”
I just laughed in her face. She’s had WAY too many Sidecars already if she thinks that’s going to happen.
“My guests? Excuse me, who invited Brangelina? And all their kids?” I wanted to know. “I don’t even know them! I want to have a nice time at my birthday party with my friends. You ask your celebrity guests to leave!”
Grandmère gasped.
“You know I can’t do that,” she cried. “Angelina is a Domina Rei! There’s a strong possibility she’s carrying your invitation to join—unless it’s Oprah!”