Party Princess pd-7

by Meg Cabot

  Amelia Thermopolis Renaldo

  FIRST REHEARSAL TODAY, 3:30 P.M.

  The Plaza Hotel, Grand Ballroom

  I know I’m only supposed to use my cell phone for emergencies. But the minute I saw that cast list, I could tell this was an emergency. A MAJOR one. Because Grandmère has no idea of the MAGNITUDE of what she’s done.

  I called her from the jet line.

  “Hello, you’ve reached Clarisse, Dowager Princess of Genovia. I’m either shopping or receiving a beauty treatment at the moment, and cannot come to the phone. At the tone, please leave your name and number, and I’ll ring you back shortly.”

  Boy, did I let her have it. Or her voice mail, anyway:

  “Grandmère! What do you think you’re doing, casting me in your musical? You know I didn’t even want to audition for it, and that I don’t have any acting talent whatsoever!”

  Tina, in line beside me, kept nudging me, going, “But your version of ‘Barbie Girl’ was so good!”

  “Well, okay, maybe I can sing,” I shouted into the phone, “but Lilly is much better! You better call me back right away so we can get this mess straightened out, because you’re making a HUGE mistake.” I added this last part for Lilly’s sake, who, even though she’s taken the whole thing really well, still looked a little red around the eyes when she joined us in the jet line, after having disappeared into the ladies’ room for a long time once she’d seen the cast list.

  “Don’t worry,” I said to Lilly after I hung up. “You’re destined for the part of Rosagunde. Really.”

  But Lilly pretended not to care. “Whatever. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. I don’t know if I’d have had time to memorize all those lines, anyway.”

  Which is ridiculous, since Lilly practically has a photographic memory, and almost a hundred percent aural recall (which makes fighting with her super hard because sometimes she drags out stuff you said, like, five years before and have no memory of ever saying. But SHE remembers it. Perfectly).

  It’s just so wrong! If anyone deserves the lead in Braid!, it’s her!

  “At least by playing Alboin’s mistress,” Lilly said, all bravely, “I only have a few lines—‘Why would you marry her, who doesn’t even want you, when you could have me, who adores you?’, or whatever. So I’ll have plenty of time to work on things that REALLY matter. Like Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.”

  And okay, I feel really bad for Lilly, because she totally deserves the part of Rosagunde, and all.

  BUT I STILL HATE THAT NAME!!!

  Friday, March 5, later during Lunch

  So everyone is freaked out because on the way back to our table from the jet line I stopped by where J.P. was sitting by himself and asked him if he wanted to join us.

  I don’t know what the big deal is. I mean, it’s not like I suddenly whipped off my clothes and started doing the hula in front of everyone. I just told a guy we know, who some of us may be spending a lot of time with in the near future, that he can come sit with us, if he wants to.

  And he said thanks.

  And next thing I knew, John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth was sliding his tray down next to mine.

  “Oh, hi, J.P.,” Tina said. She shot a warning look at Boris, since he was the one who’d objected so strongly when I’d suggested inviting J.P. to join us, back when we’d only known him as the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili.

  But Boris wisely refrained from saying anything about not wanting to eat with a corn hater.

  “Thanks,” J.P. said, squeezing into the spot we made for him at our table. Not that he’s fat. He’s just… big. You know, really tall, and everything.

  “So what do you think of the falafel?” J.P. asked Lilly, who looked startled at being spoken to by a guy who for, the past two years, we’ve sort of mocked.

  She looked even more startled when she realized they both had the exact same things on their trays: falafel, salad, and Yoo-hoo chocolate drink.

  “It’s good,” she said, staring at him with kind of a funny look on her face. “If you put enough tahini on it.”

  “Anything’s good,” J.P. said, “if you put enough tahini on it.”

  THIS IS SO TRUE!!!!!

  Trust Boris to go, “Even corn?” all mock-innocently.

  Tina shot him another warning look…

  …but it was too late. The damage was done. Boris was clearly unable to restrain himself. He started smirking into a napkin, while pretending to be blowing his nose.

  “Well,” J.P. said, cheerfully falling for the bait. “I don’t know about that. But maybe, like, erasers.”

  Perin brightened at this statement.

  “I’ve always thought erasers would taste good fried,” she said. “I mean, sometimes, when I have calamari, that’s what it reminds me of. Fried erasers. So I bet they’d taste good with tahini on them, too.”

  “Oh, sure,” J.P. said. “Fry anything, it’d taste good. I’d eat one of these napkins, if it was fried.”

  Tina, Lilly, and I exchanged surprised looks. J.P., it turns out, is kind of… funny.

  Like, in a humorous, not strange, way.

  “My grandmother makes fried grasshoppers sometimes,” Ling Su volunteered. “They’re pretty good.”

  “See,” J.P. said. “Told you.” Then, looking at me, he went, “What’re you working on so diligently over there, Mia? Something due next period?”

  “Don’t mind her,” Lilly said with a snort. “She’s just writing in her journal. As usual.”

  “Is that what that is?” J.P. said. “I always kinda wondered.” Then, when I threw him a questioning look, he went, “Well, every time I see you, you’ve got your nose buried in that notebook.”

  Which can mean only one thing: The whole time we’ve been watching the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili, he’s been watching us right back!

  Even freakier, he opened his backpack and pulled out a Mead wide-ruled composition notebook with a black marbled cover with KEEP OUT! PRIVATE! written all over it.

  JUST LIKE MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  “I, too, am a fan of the Mead Composition notebook,” he explained. “Only I don’t keep a journal in mine.”

  “What’s in it, then?” Lilly, always ready to ask prying questions, inquired.

  J.P. looked slightly embarrassed.

  “Oh, I just do some creative writing from time to time. Well, I mean, I don’t know how creative it is. But, you know. Whatever. I try.”

  Lilly asked him immediately if he had anything he’d like to contribute to the first issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. He flipped through a couple of pages, and then asked, “How about this?” and read aloud:

  Silent Movie

  by

  J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV

  All the time we’re being seen

  By Gupta’s silent surveillance machine.

  What type of fly needs so many eyes?

  Every turn of a hallway another surprise.

  Gupta’s security is not so secure

  since we know it’s based on nothing but fear.

  If I had my way, I would not be here

  Except that my tuition’s paid to the end of the year.

  Wow. I mean… WOW. That was, like… totally good. I don’t really get it, but I think it’s about, like, the security cameras, and how Principal Gupta thinks she knows everything about us, but she doesn’t. Or something.

  Actually, I don’t know what it’s about. But it must be good, because even Lilly seemed really impressed. She tried to get J.P. to submit it to Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. She thinks it might bring down the entire administration.

  God. It’s not often you meet a boy who can write poetry. Or can even read anything. Beyond the instructions on an Xbox, I mean.

  How weird to think that the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili is a writer like me. What if the whole time I’ve been writing short stories about J.P., he’s been writing short stories about ME? Like, what
if HE’s written a story called “No More Beef!” about the time they put meat in the vegetarian lasagna and I accidentally ate some and threw that giant fit?

  God. That would kind of… suck.

  Friday, March 5, G & T

  Grandmère called back right as the bell signaling the end of lunch started ringing.

  “Amelia,” she said prissily. “You wanted me for something?”

  “Grandmère, what are you doing, casting me in your musical?” I demanded. “You know I don’t want to be in it. I didn’t fill out the audition form, remember?”

  “Is that all?” Grandmère seemed disappointed. “I thought you were only supposed to use your mobile in cases of emergency. I hardly think this constitutes an emergency, Amelia.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” I informed her. “This IS an emergency. An emergency crisis in our relationship—yours and mine.”

  Grandmère seemed to find this statement totally hilarious.

  “Amelia,” she said. “What is the one thing you have been complaining about most since the day you discovered you were, in reality, a princess?”

  I had to think about this one.

  “Having a bodyguard follow me around?” I asked, in a whisper, so Lars wouldn’t overhear and get his feelings hurt.

  “What else?”

  “Not being able to go anywhere without the paparazzi stalking me?”

  “Think again.”

  “The fact I have to spend my summers attending meetings of Parliament instead of going to camp like my friends?”

  “Princess lessons, Amelia,” Grandmère says, into the phone. “You loathe and despise them. Well, guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Princess lessons are canceled for the duration of rehearsals for Braid! What do you think of that?”

  You could almost hear the smug satisfaction in her voice. She totally thought she’d pulled one over on me.

  Little did she know that my loyalty to my friends is stronger than my hatred for princess lessons!

  “Nice try,” I informed her. “But I’d rather have to learn to say ‘Please pass the butter’ in fifty thousand languages than see Lilly not get the part she deserves.”

  “Lilly is unhappy with the part she received?” Grandmère asked.

  “Yes! She’s the best actress of all of us, she should have had the lead! But you gave her the stupid part of Alboin’s mistress, and she only has, like, two lines!”

  “There are no small parts in the theater, Amelia,” Grandmère said. “Only small actors.”

  WHAT? I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Whatever, Grandmère,” I said. “If you don’t want your show to suck, you should have cast Lilly in the lead. She—”

  “Did I mention,” Grandmère interrupted, “how much I enjoyed meeting your friend Amber Cheeseman?”

  My blood literally ran cold, and I froze in front of the G & T room, my phone clutched to my face.

  “Wh-what?”

  “I wonder what Amber would say,” Grandmère went on, “if I happened to mention to her how you’d squandered the money for her commencement ceremony on recycling bins.”

  I was too shocked to speak. I just stood there, while Boris tried to edge past me with his violin case, going, “Um, excuse me, Mia.”

  “Grandmère,” I said, barely able to speak because my throat had gone so dry. “You wouldn’t.”

  Her reply rocked me to my very core:

  “Oh, I would.”

  GRANDMÈRE, I wanted to scream. YOU CAN’T GO AROUND THREATENING YOUR ONLY GRANDDAUGHTER!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??????

  But of course I couldn’t. Scream that. Because I was in the middle of the Gifted and Talented room. On a cell phone.

  And even if it IS Gifted and Talented, and everyone in that class is incredibly weird anyway, you can’t go around screaming into cell phones there.

  “I thought that might change your outlook on the situation,” Grandmère purred. “I will, of course, say nothing to your little friend about the state of the class treasury. But in return, you will help solve my current real estate crisis by starring in Braid! The fact is, Amelia, as a descendant of Rosagunde, you will lend much more authenticity to the role than your friend Lilly would—besides which, you are much more attractive than Lilly, who, in certain lights, often resembles one of those dogs with the flat faces.”

  A pug! And I thought I was the only one who’d ever noticed!

  “See you at rehearsal tonight, Amelia,” Grandmère sang. “Oh, and, if you know what’s good for you, young lady, you’ll mention our little agreement to no one. NO ONE, including your father. Understand?”

  Then she hung up.

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I can’t believe this. I really can’t. I mean, I guess I always secretly kind of knew it, deep down inside. But she’s never done anything quite this BLATANT before.

  Still, I guess I finally have to admit it, since it really is true:

  My grandmother is EVIL. Seriously.

  Because what kind of woman uses BLACKMAIL to get her granddaughter to do her bidding?

  I’ll tell you what kind: an EVIL one.

  Or possibly Grandmère’s a sociopath. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least. She exhibits all the major symptoms. Except possibly the one about breaking laws repeatedly.

  But while Grandmère may not break federal laws, she breaks laws of common decency ALL the time.

  After I’d hung up with Grandmère, I caught Lilly staring at me over the computer on which she was doing the layout for the first issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.

  “Something wrong, Mia?” she wanted to know.

  “About the Rosagunde thing,” I explained to her. “I’m sorry, but Grandmère won’t budge. She says I have to play her, or she’ll tell You Know Who about You Know What and I’ll get my butt kicked from here to Westchester.”

  Lilly’s dark eyes glittered behind her glasses. “Oh, she did, did she?” She didn’t look surprised.

  “I really am sorry, Lilly,” I said, meaning it. “You would have made a way better Rosagunde than me.”

  “Whatever,” Lilly said with a sniff. “I’ll be fine with my part. Really.”

  I could tell she’s just being brave, though. Inside, she’s really hurting.

  And I don’t blame her. None of it makes any sense. If Grandmère wants her show to be a success, why wouldn’t she want the best actress she could find? Why would she insist on the part being played by ME, basically the worst actress in the whole school—with the possible exception of Amber Cheeseman?

  Oh well. Who knows why Grandmère does half the things she does? I imagine there’s some kind of rationale to it.

  But we mere humans will never understand what it is. That is a privilege reserved only for the other aliens from the mothership that brought my grandmother here from the evil planet she was born on.

  Friday, March 5, Earth Science

  Just now Kenny asked me if I would recopy our mole-mass worksheet, because last night, while completing it, he got Szechuan sauce on it.

  I don’t know what got into me. Maybe it was residual meanness left over from my conversation with Grandmère. I mean, like, maybe some of HER meanness rubbed off on me, or something. I don’t know of any other way to explain it.

  In any case, whatever it was, I decided to apply economic theory to the situation. I just thought, Why not? The whole self-actualization thing hasn’t worked out for me. Why not give old Alfred Marshall a try? Everyone else seems to be doing it. Like Lana.

  And SHE always gets what SHE wants. Just like GRANDMÈRE always gets what SHE wants.

  So I told Kenny I wouldn’t do it unless he did tonight’s homework, too.

  He looked at me kind of funny, but he said he would. I guess he looked at me funny because he does our homework EVERY night.

  Still. I can’t believe it has taken me this long to catch on to how society works. All this time, I thought it was Jungian transcen
dence I needed in order to find serenity and contentment.

  But Grandmère—and Lana Weinberger, of all people—have shown me the error of my ways.

  It’s not about forming a base of roots such as trust and compassion in order to reap the fruits of joy and love.

  No. It’s about the laws of supply and demand. If you demand something and can provide proper incentive to get people to hand it over, they’ll supply it.

  And the equilibrium remains stable.

  It’s sort of amazing. I had no idea Grandmère was such an economic genius.

  Or that LANA would ever teach ME something.

  It sort of casts everything in a new light.

  And I do mean everything.

  HOMEWORK

  PE: GYM SHORTS!!! GYM SHORTS!!!! GYM SHORTS!!!!!

  U.S. Economics: Read Chapter 9 for Monday

  English: Pages 155–175, O Pioneers

  French: Vocabulaire 3ème étape

  G&T: Find that water bra Lilly bought me that time as a joke. Wear it to the party.

  Geometry: Chapter 18

  Earth Science: Who cares? Kenny’s doing it! HA-HA-HA-HA

  Friday, March 5, the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza

  For the first rehearsal ever of Braid! we had what Grandmère called a “read-through.” We were supposed to read through the script together as a group, each actor saying his or her lines out loud, the way he or she would if we were performing the show onstage.

  Can I just say read-throughs are very boring?

  I had my journal tucked up behind my script so no one could see that I was writing instead of following along. Although it was kind of awkward to shift the script out from behind my journal when one of my cues came up.

  A cue is the line before you are supposed to say yours. I am finding out all sorts of theater-y stuff today.

  Like, Grandmère, while she may have written the dialogue for Braid!, she didn’t write the MUSIC. The music was composed by this guy named Phil. Phil is the same guy who was playing the piano to accompany us at the audition yesterday. Grandmère, it turns out, paid Phil a ton of money to write music to go with her lyrics for all the songs in Braid!

  She says she got his name off the employment board at Hunter College.

  Phil doesn’t look like he’s had much time to enjoy his newfound cash windfall, though. Basically, he pulled an all-nighter to compose the music for Braid!, and it also looks like he still hasn’t really caught up with his sleep. He seemed to be having a lot of trouble staying awake during the read-through.