Party Princess

by Meg Cabot

  “Too late!” Grandmère cried. “You’ve already done it! Because only an ASS gets embarrASSed. Where do you think the word comes from, anyway? A true artist is never embarrassed by her work. NEVER.”

  “Fine,” Lilly said. “I’m not embarrassed. But—”

  “This show,” Grandmère went on, “into which all of you have poured your lifeblood, is too important not to be shared with as many people as we possibly can. And what venue could possibly be as fitting for its one and only performance than a benefit that is being held to raise money for the poor olive growers of Genovia? Don’t you see, people? Braid! bears a message—a message of hope—that it is vital people—especially Genovia’s farmers—hear. In these dark times, our show illustrates that evildoers will ultimately never win, and that even the weakest among us can play a role in thwarting them. Were we to deny people this message, would we not, in essence, be letting the evildoers win?”

  “Oh, brother,” I heard Lilly mutter, under her breath.

  But everybody else looked pretty inspired.

  Until it sunk in that Wednesday night is the day after tomorrow.

  And some of us—okay, Kenny—still don’t even know the choreography.

  Which is why Grandmère said to be prepared for tomorrow night’s rehearsal to go all night long, if necessary.

  Still, Grandmère’s speech WAS pretty inspiring. We really CAN’T let the evildoers win.

  Even if the evildoers happen to be…well, ourselves.

  Which is why I’ve just told Hans to take me to Engle Hall, the dorm where Michael lives at Columbia. I am going to get him to forgive me if I have to grovel on the floor like Rommel when he realizes it’s bath time.

  Monday, March 8, the limo home from Michael’s dorm

  Wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow.

  That is all I can think of to say.

  Also: I’m such an idiot.

  Seriously. I mean, all the clues were there, and I just didn’t put them together.

  Okay, maybe if I write it all down in a lucid manner, I’ll be able to process it.

  So I walked into Engle Hall, where Michael lives, and buzzed his room from the lobby. He was actually home for a change—thank God. He seemed kind of surprised when he heard my voice on the intercom, but he said he’d be right down, because campus security officers guard the doors to the hall, and won’t let anybody past the lobby and into the building unless they’re escorted by a resident. Not even princesses and their bodyguards. The resident has to come down and sign them in, and the guests have to leave ID, and stuff.

  I took the fact that Michael was willing even to come down and sign me in as a good sign.

  Until I saw him.

  Then I realized there was nothing good about it at all.

  Because Michael looked REALLY sad about something. I mean, REALLY sad.

  And I started getting a very bad feeling.

  Because, you know, I know he has midterms this week, and all. Which would be enough to depress anyone.

  But Michael didn’t look midterm-depressed.

  He looked more I-just-found-out-my-girlfriend-is-a-stark-raving-lunatic-and-I-have-to-break-up-with-her-now depressed.

  But I thought maybe I was just, you know. Projecting, or whatever.

  Still, the whole way up to his room, in the elevator, I was rehearsing in my mind what to say. You know, how I should act when he brought up the Sexy Dance. And the beer. I was thinking it shouldn’t be too hard for me to convince him that I had been suffering from a temporary hormonal imbalance at the time, on account of how I should be used to acting by now, since I’ve been doing it all week.

  Plus, you know, I’m the world’s biggest liar.

  But the J.P. thing. That was going to be harder to explain. Because I wasn’t sure I even understood it myself.

  Then, when we got to Michael’s floor, Lars discreetly took a seat in the TV lounge, where there was a game on, and Michael and I went to his room, which was fortunately empty, his roommate, Doo Pak, being at a meeting of the Korean Student Association.

  “So,” I said, trying to sound all casual after sitting down on Michael’s neatly made bed. Even though the last thing I felt was casual. In fact, I felt as if all the blood in my veins had frozen up. If someone had chopped my arm off at that moment, I’m pretty sure it would have shattered into a thousand pieces instead of bleeding, like I was one of those frozen guys in that cryogenic prison in Demolition Man (also a dystopic sci-fi film).

  Because suddenly, I was sure Michael was going to break up with me for being such an immature freak at his party.

  And the next thing I knew, I heard myself blurting, “Look, I’m sorry about the stupid sexy dance. Really, really sorry. And there’s nothing going on between me and J.P. Seriously. It’s just that I was FREAKING OUT. I mean, all those supersmart college girls—”

  Michael, who’d taken a seat across from me in his desk chair, blinked. “Sexy dance?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The one I was doing with J.P.”

  Michael raised his eyebrows. “Was that what you were doing? A sexy dance?”

  “Yes.” I could feel my cheeks heating up. Can I just say that when Buffy did a sexy dance at the Bronze to make Angel jealous in that one episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I’m pretty sure Angel went out and killed a bunch of vampires afterward just to work out his sexual frustration? Trust MY boyfriend to not even recognize a sexy dance when he saw one.

  I tried not to think about what this suggested for the future of our relationship. Not to mention my sexy-dancing skills.

  “It’s not totally my fault,” I insisted. “Well, I mean, the sexy-dance part was. But you invite me to this party knowing I’ll be the youngest, least intelligent person there. How did you EXPECT me to feel? I was totally intimidated!”

  “Mia,” Michael said, a little dryly. “You were by far not the least intelligent person there. And you’re a princess. And you were intimidated?”

  “Well,” I said. “I may be a princess, but I still get intimidated. Especially by older girls. College girls. Who know about…college things. And I’m sorry I spazzed. But was what I did really so unforgivable? I mean, all I did was have ONE beer and do a sexy dance with another guy. And I wasn’t even technically dancing with him, just sort of in front of him. And okay, maybe ultimately it wasn’t that sexy. And I do realize now that the beret was a mistake. The whole thing was totally immature, I know. But—” I could feel tears welling in my eyes. “But you still could have called instead of giving me the silent treatment for two days!”

  “The silent treatment?” Michael echoed. “What are you talking about? I haven’t been giving you the silent treatment, Mia.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, fighting to keep from bursting into tears. “I left you, like, fifty messages, plus sent you bagels AND a giant cookie, and all I heard from you is this cryptic text, WE NEED 2 TALK—”

  “Give me a break, Mia,” Michael said. Now he looked kind of annoyed. “I’ve been slightly preoccupied—”

  “I realize your History of Dystopic Sci-Fi in Film course is very intense, and all,” I interrupted. “And I know I acted like a fool at your party. But the least you could have done was—”

  “I haven’t been preoccupied with homework, Mia,” Michael said, interrupting me right back. “And yes, you did act like a fool at my party. But that’s not it, either. The fact is, I’ve been trying to deal with total family drama. My parents…they’re separating.”

  Um. WHAT??????

  I blinked at him. I didn’t think I could have heard him right. “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Yeah.” Michael stood up and, turning his back to me, ran a hand through his thick dark hair. “My parents are calling it quits. They told me the night of the party.” He turned to face me, and I saw that, even though he was trying not to let it show, he was upset. Really upset.

  And not because his girlfriend isn’t a party girl. Or is TOO much of one. Not because
of either of those things at all.

  “I’d have told you then,” he said. “If you’d stuck around. But I came out of their room, and you were gone.”

  I stared at him in horror, realizing the true magnitude of my stupidity that night. I had fled his party, embarrassed about having gotten caught doing a sexy dance with another guy by Michael’s parents, and assuming he’d felt the same way about it…. Why else had he gone off and left me alone like that?

  But now I realized he’d had a good reason to disappear the way he had. He’d been talking to his parents. Who hadn’t been telling him to break up with his slutty, sexy-dancing girlfriend.

  Instead, they’d been telling him they were splitting up.

  “It wasn’t a conference they went to this past weekend,” Michael went on. “They lied to me. They went to a marathon session with a marriage counselor. It was a last-ditch effort to see if they could iron things out. Which failed.”

  I stared at him. I felt like someone had kicked me in the chest. I couldn’t quite catch my breath.

  “Ruth and Morty?” I heard myself whisper. “Separating?”

  “Ruth and Morty,” he confirmed. “Separating.”

  I thought back to something Lilly had said that day we bumped our heads in the limo. I think Ruth and Morty have bigger things to worry about, she’d said.

  I flung a startled look at Michael. “Does Lilly know?”

  “My parents are waiting for the right time to tell her,” Michael said. “They didn’t even want to tell me, except that—well, I could tell something was wrong. Anyway, they seem to think with this magazine Lilly’s working on, and this play you guys are in—”

  “Musical,” I said.

  “—that she seems stressed right now, so they thought they’d tell her later. I don’t necessarily agree with their decision, but they asked me to let them do it their own way. So please don’t say anything to her.”

  “I think she knows,” I said. “In the limo the other day…she said something.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Michael said. “She has to have at least suspected. I mean, she’s been home with the two of them fighting all year, while I’ve been here at the dorm, sort of removed from it.”

  “Oh, God,” I said, feeling a stab of pity for Lilly. Suddenly, I sort of understood why she was being so weird about the literary magazine thing. I mean, if she knew her parents were splitting up, that would totally explain her mood swings and general weirdness.

  Too bad I didn’t have any such excuse for MY weirdness.

  “Michael,” I said. “I had no idea. I thought…I thought you were mad at me because I acted like such a head case the other night. I thought you were disgusted with me. Or disappointed in me. Because I’m not a party girl.”

  “Mia,” Michael said, shaking his head—almost as if HE couldn’t believe any of this was happening, either. “I was mad at you. I don’t want a party girl. All I want is—”

  But before he could say anything else, the door to his dorm room opened, and Doo Pak came in, looking cheerful as ever…especially when he saw me.

  “Oh, hello, Princess!” he cried. “I was thinking you are here, since I see Mr. Lars in the lounge! How are you doing tonight? Thank you for the giant ‘Sorry’ cookie. It was very delicious. Mike and I have been eating it all day.”

  I was going to say “You’re welcome.” I was going to say “I’m great, Doo Pak. How are you?”

  Which wasn’t what I WANTED to say. What I WANTED to say was, “Get out, Doo Pak! Get out! Michael, finish what you were saying. All you want is what? ALL YOU WANT IS WHAT???”

  Because, you know, it had sounded like it might be slightly important—especially considering the “I was mad at you,” part right before it.

  But then the phone rang, and Doo Pak picked it up, and said, “Oh, hello, Mrs. Moscovitz! Yes, Mike is here. You wish to speak to him? Here, Mike.”

  And even though Michael was making slashing motions under his chin and mouthing, “I’m not here,” at Doo Pak, it was too late. He had to take the phone, and go, “Um, Mom? Yeah, hi. Now’s not a real good time, could I call you back later?”

  But I heard his mother droning on and on.

  And Michael, always the dutiful son, listened. While I sat there going, Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz, splitting up? It CAN’T be. It’s not possible. It’s just not NATURAL for them to split. It’s like…well, it’s like Michael and me splitting up.

  Which we might actually be doing. Because, you know, he never actually did say he forgave me. For the J.P. thing. He admitted he was mad at me, but never said if he was STILL mad.

  Oh my God. Are the Moscovitzes not the only couple breaking up right now?

  Except there was no way I could actually find out. At least not just then, since Michael was holding the phone to his face, going, “Mom. Mom, I know. Don’t worry.”

  And I knew then that what was going on with him—and with us—was more than a “Sorry” cookie could solve.

  I also knew there was nothing else I could do.

  Which was why I got up and left.

  Because what else was I supposed to do?

  From the desk of

  Her Royal Highness

  Princess Amelia Mignonette

  Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo

  Dear Dr. Carl Jung,

  I realize that you are still dead. However, things have suddenly gotten much worse.

  And now I’m not worried so much about transcending my ego and achieving self-actualization.

  Instead, I’m worried about my friends.

  Not that I don’t have my own problems, of course. But now I’ve learned that my boyfriend’s parents are splitting up. Dr. Jung, this could devastate a young man in his prime like Michael. Not only is it clearly breaking his heart, but it could give him abandonment issues that I fear will have a trickle-down effect into MY relationship with him. I mean, what if, from his parents’ example, Michael learns that walking away from a relationship is the way to handle conflict?

  This could totally happen. I know because I saw it once on Dr. Phil.

  And the fact is, there is conflict going on in our relationship RIGHT NOW, due to an ill-timed sexy dance on my part.

  Could things possibly GET any worse? PLEASE SEND HELP.

  Your friend,

  Mia Thermopolis

  Monday, March 8, midnight, the loft

  You know what this reminds me of? “No More Corn!” Seriously. The part where the nameless main character is wandering the streets of Manhattan, surrounded by people and yet, ultimately, so very, very alone. So alone that he realizes he has no choice but to step in front of that F train.

  Which if you think about it is a very selfish thing to do since the poor conductor driving the train will be traumatized for life because of it.

  Still. It is like my life has started imitating my ART!!! Seriously!!! My fictional story is coming true—only not for J.P.

  For ME.

  The thing is, as soon as I got in the limo, I sent Michael a long e-mail via Lars’s Sidekick, telling him how much I loved him, and how sorry I was, both about his parents and for my being so immature and self-centered. And for the sexy dance.

  I fully expected to get a long e-mail back from him by the time I got home, saying he loved me, too, and that he forgave me for being such a weirdo at his party.

  But he didn’t write back.

  At all.

  I can’t believe this. I mean, what do I do NOW? I already sent him a “Sorry” cookie. I have no idea what to do next. I’d buy him a ride on the space shuttle if I thought it would help. But I don’t think it would.

  Besides, I can’t afford a ride on the space shuttle. I can’t even afford a TOY space shuttle.

  As if all that weren’t enough, Michael’s parting words to me keep echoing in my head: “Mia, I don’t want a party girl. All I want is—”

  All I want is…WHAT?

  I will probably never know. But I can’t help worrying
that, whatever it is Michael wants, I’m not it.

  And right now, I can’t say I blame him.

  Tuesday, March 9, the limo on the way to school

  So Lilly was just all, “Oh my God, what happened to YOU?” when she got into the car.

  And I was like, “What do you mean?”

  And she was like, “You look like crap. What, did you not get any sleep last night or something? Your grandmother is going to kill you. We have dress rehearsal tonight.”

  So obviously, she doesn’t know that I know about her parents. It’s possible that Michael was wrong, and Lilly herself doesn’t even know about them. Not really.

  Unless she’s actually as fine an actress as she thinks she is.

  Which means I can’t tell her why I look like crap. I mean, Lilly would only SLIGHTLY kill me for knowing her parents are splitting up before SHE even knows her parents are splitting up. Besides, Michael asked me to keep it to myself.

  I guess I could tell her that I think Michael and I are breaking up on account of my sexy dance with J.P.

  But isn’t that just a little more than she should have to deal with right now? I mean, if she DOES know about her parents? Is it really fair for me to expect her to cope with their breakup AS WELL AS mine? If that’s even what’s going on with Michael and me?

  No. No, it is not.

  So instead of telling her the truth, I just went, “I don’t know. I think I’m getting a cold.”

  “Bummer,” Lilly said. And then she told me how she’d gotten almost twenty of her ’zines completely collated and stapled. Only nine hundred and eighty to go. Because, of course, Lilly thinks every single person in the entire school is going to buy one.

  I didn’t bother to contradict her. For one thing, I feel totally empty inside, so it’s not like I even care.

  And for another, she was totally mean to me when I asked her, AGAIN, to pull “No More Corn!” She was like, “Where would we be today if Woodward and Bernstein had asked the Post to pull their story on Watergate? Huh? Where would we be?”