Party Princess

by Meg Cabot

  —Black tights

  —My black velvet skirt (transformed into a mini—the edges were kind of raggedy because Fat Louie kept batting at the scissors as I was cutting, but whatever, it still looked okay)

  —My black Docs

  —A black leotard left over from that Halloween I dressed as a cat, and Ronnie from next door said I looked like a flat-chested Playboy bunny so I never wore it again

  —A black beret my mom used to wear when she was performing acts of civil disobedience with her fellow Guerrilla Girls

  —And the water bra. Which I didn’t even fill up all that much, because, you know, I was scared of leaks.

  Plus I put on red lipstick and tousled my hair all sexily, like Lindsay Lohan’s when she’s coming out of New York clubs like Butter after just narrowly having missed running into her ex, Wilmer.

  But instead of being all, “That’s hot,” about my new look, Michael—who was answering the door as the first of his guests began to arrive, just raised his eyebrows at me like he was kind of alarmed about something.

  And Lars actually looked up from his Sidekick as I walked by and started to say something, but then apparently thought better of it, since he went back to leaning against the wall and looking up stuff on the Web.

  And then Lilly, who was busy getting her camera ready to film the festivities for a piece she’s doing for Lilly Tells It Like It Is on male-female dynamics in a modern urban setting, was like, “What are you supposed to be? A mime?”

  But instead of getting mad at her, I tossed my head, the way Lana does, and was like, “Aren’t you funny?”

  Because I was trying to act mature in front of Michael’s friends, who were coming in just then.

  And I guess I succeeded, because Trevor and Felix were like, “Mia?” as if they didn’t recognize me. Even Paul was all, “Nice sticks,” which I guess was a compliment about my legs, which look quite long when I wear a short skirt.

  Even Doo Pak went, “Oh, Princess Mia, you are looking very nice without your overalls.”

  And J.P.—who showed up a little while later, at the same time as Tina and Boris—said, “‘Your beauty would put even the loveliest Mediterranean sunset to shame, my lady,’” which is one of his lines from the play, but whatever, it was still nice.

  And he accompanied it with the same courtly bow from the play, too. I mean, musical.

  Michael was the only one who didn’t say anything. But I figured it was because he was too busy putting on the music and making everyone feel at home. Also, he wasn’t too thrilled Lilly had invited Boris and those guys without asking him first.

  So I tried to help him out. You know, make things go smoother. I went up to some girls from his dorm who had come in—none of whom was wearing a beret or even a particularly sexy outfit. Unless you consider Tevas with socks sexy—and was like, “Hi, I’m Michael’s girlfriend, Mia. Would you like some dip?”

  I didn’t mention that I’d made the dip myself, because I didn’t think a true party girl would really make her own dip. Like, I doubt Lana’s ever made dip. Making dip was a bad miscalculation on my part, but not one that was impossible to overcome, because I didn’t have to tell people I’d made the dip.

  The college girls said they didn’t want any dip, even when I assured them I had made it with low-fat mayonnaise and sour cream. Because I know college girls are always watching their weight in order to avoid gaining that Freshman Fifteen. Although I didn’t SAY this to them, of course.

  But I wasn’t going to let their refusal of dip get me down. I mean, that had really just been an opening to start a conversation with them.

  Only they didn’t seem to really want to talk to me very much. And Boris and Tina were making out on the couch, and Lilly was showing J.P. how her camera worked. So I didn’t have anyone to talk to.

  So I sort of drifted over to the kitchen and got a beer. I figured this is what a party girl would do. Because Lana had told me so. I took the cap off with the bottle opener that was lying there, and since I saw that everyone else was drinking their beer straight out of the bottle, I did the same.

  And nearly gagged. Because beer tasted even worse than I remembered. Like worse than that skunk Papaw ran over smelled.

  But since no one else was making a face every time they drank from their beer bottle, I tried to control myself, and settled for taking very small sips. That made it a little more bearable. Maybe that’s how beer drinkers stand it. By taking in very small amounts of it at a time. I kept on taking small sips until I noticed J.P. had Lilly’s camera, and was pointing it right at me. At which point I hid the beer behind my back.

  J.P. lowered the camera. He said, “Sorry,” and looked really uncomfortable.

  But not as uncomfortable as I felt, when Lilly, who was standing next to him, went, “Mia. What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I said to her in an annoyed voice. Because that is how I imagined a party girl would feel about her friend asking her what she was doing. Unless she was one of those party girls from Girls Gone Wild, in which case she’d just have lifted up her shirt for the camera.

  But I decided I wasn’t that kind of party girl.

  “You’re drinking?” Lilly looked sort of shocked. Well, maybe more amused than shocked, actually. “Beer?”

  “I’m just trying to have a good time,” I said. I was excruciatingly aware of J.P.’s gaze on me. Why that should have made me feel so uncomfortable, I don’t know. It just did. “It’s not like I don’t drink all the time in Genovia.”

  “Sure,” Lilly said. “Champagne toasts with foreign dignitaries. Wine with dinner. Not beer.”

  “Whatever,” I said again. And moved away from her—

  —and smacked right into Michael, who was like, “Oh, hey, there you are.”

  And then he looked down at the beer in my hand and went, “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, you know,” I said, tossing my head again, all casually and party-girl-like. “Just having a good time.”

  “Since when do you drink beer?” Michael wanted to know.

  “God, Michael,” I said, laughing. “Whatever.”

  “She said the same thing to me,” Lilly informed her brother, as she took her camera from J.P. and stuck the lens into both our faces.

  “Lilly,” Michael said. “Quit filming. Mia—”

  But before he got to say whatever it was he was going to say, his computer’s Party Shuffle (he’d wired the speakers in his parents’ living room to his hard drive) started to play the first slowish song of the evening—Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound”—so I went, “Oh, I love this song,” and started dancing, the way Lana had said to.

  The truth is, I am not even the biggest Coldplay fan, because I don’t really approve of the lead singer letting his wife, Gwyneth Paltrow, name their kid Apple. What is going to happen to that poor kid when she gets to high school? Everyone is going to make fun of her.

  But I guess that beer, skunky as it had been, did the trick. Because I didn’t feel anywhere near as self-conscious as I had before I’d started sipping it. In fact, I felt sort of good. Even though I was the only person in the whole room who was dancing.

  But I figured that was okay because a lot of times when one person starts dancing, everyone else does. They are just waiting for someone to break the ice.

  Only I couldn’t help noticing that as I danced, no one was joining me. Especially Michael. He was just standing there staring at me. As was Lars. As was Lilly, although she was doing it through a camera lens. Boris and Tina, over on the couch, stopped kissing and started looking at me instead. The college girls were staring at me, too. One of them leaned over to whisper something to one of her friends, and the friend giggled.

  I figured they were just jealous because I had actually made an effort to dress up for the party, what with my beret and all, and kept dancing.

  Which was when J.P. totally came to my rescue. He started dancing, too.

  He wasn’t really dancing with me, since
he wasn’t touching me, or anything. But he kind of walked over to where I was and started moving his feet around, you know, the way really big guys dance, like they don’t want to draw a lot of attention to themselves, but they want to join in the fun.

  I was so excited someone else was finally dancing, I sort of shimmied (Feather taught us that term—it’s when you wiggle your shoulders) closer to him, and smiled up at him, to say thanks. And he smiled back.

  The thing is, after that, I guess—technically, speaking—we were sort of dancing together. I guess, technically, what was happening was, I was dancing with another guy. In front of my boyfriend. At a party being given by my boyfriend.

  Which I guess—technically speaking—constitutes really bad girlfriend behavior.

  Although I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time, all I could think about was how stupid I’d felt when no one would dance with me, and how happy I was that J.P.—unlike my other so-called friends—hadn’t left me hanging there, dancing by myself, in front of everyone… particularly Michael.

  Who hadn’t even told me I looked nice. Or that he liked my beret.

  J.P. had said I looked more beautiful than the loveliest Mediterranean sunset. J.P. had come over and started dancing with me.

  While Michael just stood there.

  Who knew how long J.P. and I would have kept dancing—while Michael just stood there—if just then the front door hadn’t opened, and Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz hadn’t come in?

  And okay, Michael had gotten permission to have the party and they weren’t mad about it at all.

  But still! They walked in right as I was dancing! With ANOTHER GUY! It was super-embarrassing!!! I mean, they’re Michael’s PARENTS!!!!

  This was almost as embarrassing as the time they walked in when Michael and I were kissing, you know, on the couch over Winter Break (well, okay, we were doing MORE than kissing. There was some under-the-shirt and over-the-bra action going on. Which I will admit for a girl who doesn’t want to have sex until prom night of her senior year is pretty risky behavior. But whatever. The truth is, I got so involved in the whole kissing thing, I didn’t even notice what Michael’s hands were doing until it was too late. Because by then I was LIKING it. So in a way, I was like, THANK GOD Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz walked in when they did. Or who knows WHERE I’d have let Michael’s hands go next?).

  Still. This was even MORE EMBARRASSING than THAT time, believe it or not. Because, I mean—dancing! With another guy!

  Which I don’t even know if they saw, because they were like, “Sorry, don’t mind us,” and hurried down the hall to their room before any of us could practically even say hello.

  Still. Every time I think of what they MIGHT have seen, I go all hot and cold—the way Alec Guinness said he always felt every time he saw himself in the scene in Star Wars: A New Hope where Obi Wan talks about feeling a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

  Worse, as soon as the Drs. Moscovitz were gone—I totally stopped dancing when I saw them; in fact, I froze—Lilly came up to me and whispered, “Were you supposed to be sexy dancing or something? Because you sort of looked like someone stuck an ice cube down your shirt and you were trying to shake it out.”

  Sexy dancing! Lilly thought I was sexy dancing! With J.P.! In front of Michael!

  After that, of course, it was impossible to keep up my party-girl charade. I fully went and sat down by myself on the couch.

  And Michael didn’t even come over to ask me if I’d lost my mind or challenge J.P. to a duel or anything. Instead, he followed his parents, I guess to see if they’d come back early because something was wrong, or if the conference had just ended early, or what.

  I sat there for like two minutes, listening to everyone around me laughing and having a good time, and feeling my palms break into a cold sweat. I was surrounded by people—surrounded by them!—but I swear I had never felt more alone in my life. Sexy dancing! I’d been sexy dancing! With another boy!

  Even Lilly had stopped filming me, finding the sight of Doo Pak tasting Cool Ranch Doritos for the first time much more interesting than my intense mortification.

  J.P. was the only one who said a word to me after that—besides Tina, on the couch opposite mine, who leaned over and said, “That was a very nice dance, Mia,” like I’d been doing some kind of performance piece, or something.

  “Hey,” J.P. said, coming over to where I was sitting. “I think you forgot this.”

  I looked at what he was holding. My three-quarters-empty beer! The substance responsible for my having thought it might be a good idea to do a sexy dance with another boy in the first place!

  “Take it away!” I moaned and buried my face in my knees.

  “Oh,” J.P. said. “Sorry. Um… are you all right?”

  “No,” I said to my thighs.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  “Can you create a rift in the space-time continuum so no one will remember what an ass I just made of myself?”

  “Um. I don’t think so. How did you make an ass of yourself?”

  Which was sweet of him—to pretend he hadn’t noticed, and all. But seriously, that just made it worse.

  Which is why I did the only thing I thought I reasonably could: I gathered up my things—and my bodyguard—and left before anybody could see me cry.

  Which I did all the way home.

  And now all I can do is hope that J.P. was lying and that he really does know how to create a rift in the space-time continuum that will make it so that everyone who was at that party forgets I was ever there, too.

  Especially Michael.

  Who by now has to be way more than slightly aware that I am, in the worst sense of the word, a party girl.

  Oh, God.

  I think I need an aspirin.

  Sunday, March 7, 9 a.m., the loft

  No messages from Michael. No e-mail. No calls.

  It’s official: He is disgusted to even know me.

  And I don’t blame him one bit. I’d go throw myself into the East River in shame if I didn’t have rehearsal.

  I just called Zabar’s and, using my mom’s credit card (um, unbeknownst to her, since she’s still sleeping, and Mr. G has taken Rocky out to go buy orange juice), ordered bagels and lox to be delivered to the Moscovitzes’ apartment, as my way of saying I’m sorry.

  No one can stay mad after an everything bagel from Zabar’s.

  Right?

  Sexy dancing! What was I THINKING?????

  Sunday, March 7, 5 p.m., the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza

  We never should have worried about memorizing our lines by Monday. I know them cold already, we’ve been through this play so many times.

  And my feet are killing me from all the (not sexy) dancing. Feather says we all have to get something called jazz shoes. She’s bringing a bunch for us tomorrow.

  Except that by tomorrow, my feet will have fallen off.

  Also, my throat is starting to hurt from all the singing. Madame Puissant has us sipping hot cups of Emergen-C.

  Phil, the pianist, looks ready to drop. Even Grandmère is starting to droop. Only Señor Eduardo, dozing in his chair, looks rested. Well, Señor Eduardo and Rommel.

  Oh, God. She’s making them run through, “Genovia, My Genovia” one more time. I freaking HATE this song. At least I’m not in this number. Still. Can’t she see she’s driving us past the breaking point? My God, aren’t there rules about how long you can force a child to work?

  Oh, well. At least all of this is keeping my mind off last night’s humiliation. Sort of. I mean, Lilly still brings it up every chance she gets—“Oh, Mia, hey, thanks for the bagels,” and “Hey, Mia, maybe you could work that sexy dance into the scene where you murder Alboin,” and “Where’s your beret?”

  Which of course has everyone who wasn’t there going, “What’s she talking about?” At which Lilly just smiles all knowingly.

  And then there’s the Micha
el thing. Lilly says he wasn’t even there to GET the bagels I sent over this morning. He went back to his dorm room last night after the party ended because his parents were home and didn’t need him to keep Lilly out of trouble anymore.

  I’ve sent him, like, three text messages apologizing for being such a weirdo.

  All I got back from him was this:

  WE NEED 2 TALK

  Which can only mean one thing, of course. He—

  Oh, wait. J.P. just passed me a note, so we won’t get yelled at for whispering, as happened earlier when he leaned over to let me know my combat boot had come untied.

  J.P.:

  Hey. You aren’t mad at me, are you?

  Me:

  Why would I be mad at you?

  J.P.:

  For dancing with you.

  Me:

  Why would I be mad at you for DANCING with me?

  J.P.:

  Well, if it got you in trouble with your boyfriend, or anything.

  It was looking more and more like it totally had. But that wasn’t anybody’s fault but mine… and certainly not J.P.’s.

  Me:

  No. That was totally NICE of you. It helped me not look like the biggest freak in the universe. I’m so STUPID. I can’t believe I had that beer. I was just so nervous, you know. Of not being enough of a party girl.

  J.P.:

  Well, you looked like you were having a great time, if it’s any consolation. Not like today. Today you look—well, that’s why I thought you might be mad at me. Either because of last night, or maybe because of that thing I said the other day, about knowing you’re a vegetarian because of that fit you had in the caf that one time.

  Me:

  No. Why would that make me mad? It’s true. I DID have a fit when I found out they put meat in the lasagna. I mean, it was supposed to be vegetarian.