Party Princess pd-7

by Meg Cabot

This does not sound like the kind of thing someone with a hidden burning passion for me would say.

  So Tina must be wrong. It really must be Lilly J.P. likes after all.

  That would be cool if they started going out. Because then it would give Lilly something to be happy about, you know, after she finds out the truth about her parents. And Michael and me.

  Plus maybe then Lilly would have less time to try to psychoanalyze me at the lunch table, like she’s started doing right now.

  Lilly:

  What’s wrong, POG? Why haven’t you finished your Devil Dog?

  Me:

  Because I’m not in the mood for a Devil Dog.

  Lilly:

  When have you ever not been in the mood for a Devil Dog?

  Me:

  Since today, okay?

  Rest of the table:

  Ooooooo.

  Me:

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.

  Lilly:

  See. We all know something’s wrong, Thermopolis. Spill.

  Me:

  NOTHING IS WRONG. I’M JUST TIRED, OKAY?

  J.P.:

  Hey, does anyone want to see my blisters? From my new jazz shoes? They’re pretty sweet. Take a look.

  Is it my imagination, or was J.P. just trying to distract Lilly from picking on me?

  God, he is SO nice.

  I HAVE to get that story away from Lilly. Only how? HOW????

  Tuesday, March 9, G & T

  Well. THAT didn’t go well.

  And okay, maybe I should have just dropped the whole thing about her liking him.

  But still. She didn’t have to tell Mrs. Hill I was trying to sabotage her ’zine, then gather everything up and go staple by herself in the teachers’ lounge.

  I have the blood of many generations of strong, independent women coursing through my veins. How would one of them handle this situation? Besides strangling Lilly, I mean.

  Tuesday, March 9, G & T

  Well. THAT didn’t go well.

  And okay, maybe I should have just dropped the whole thing about her liking him.

  But still. She didn’t have to tell Mrs. Hill I was trying to sabotage her ’zine, then gather everything up and go staple by herself in the teachers’ lounge.

  I have the blood of many generations of strong, independent women coursing through my veins. How would one of them handle this situation? Besides strangling Lilly, I mean.

  Tuesday, March 9, third-floor stairwell

  Kenny took the pass to the men’s room, and a few minutes later, I took the pass to the ladies’, and we both ditched Earth Science and met Tina, who ditched Geometry, and Boris, who ditched English, and Ling Su, who ditched Art, up here to go over the choreography we haven’t quite gotten yet.

  I feel bad about ditching, and I recognize that getting an education is important.

  But so is not making a fool of yourself in front of Bono.

  Tuesday, March 9, the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza

  When we walked into the Grand Ballroom this afternoon, there was a full orchestra tuning up there.

  Also all these sound and lighting guys, running around, going, “One, two, check. One, two, one, two, check.”

  Also, there was a stage.

  Yes. An actual stage had appeared at one end of the room.

  It was like Ty and the cast of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition had come in the night and constructed this giant stage, complete with a full, rotating set containing castle walls, a beach scene, village shops, and a blacksmith’s forge.

  It was incredible.

  And so was Grandmère’s bad mood when we walked in.

  “You’re late!” she screamed.

  “Uh, yeah, sorry, Grandmère,” I said. “There was a horse and carriage accident on Fifth Avenue.”

  “What kind of professionals are you?” Grandmère, apparently choosing to ignore me, shouted. “If this were a real Broadway show, you’d all be fired! There is no excuse for lateness on the stage!”

  “Um,” J.P. said. “The horse fell into a sinkhole. It took ten cab drivers to pull him out. He’s going to be okay, though.”

  This information caused Grandmère to go into a complete transformation. Or rather, the person who DELIVERED the information did.

  “Oh, John Paul,” she said. “I didn’t see you standing there. Come along, my dear, and meet the costume mistress. She’s going to fit you into your smith suit.”

  !!!!!

  Geez!!! Never mind who J.P. likes, me or Lilly. It’s pretty clear who GRANDMÈRE likes, anyway.

  So we all got into our costumes and started dress rehearsal. To keep our voices from being drowned out by all the violins and the horn section and stuff, we had to wear these little microphones, just like this was some kind of professional show, or whatever. It felt really weird to be singing into a microphone—a REAL one, not just a hairbrush, which is what I usually sing into. Our voices really CARRY.

  I’m sort of glad I practiced lifting that piano with Madame Puissant so many times. Because at least now I can hit those high notes.

  All that practicing in the stairwell didn’t help Kenny much, though, with the dancing. He’s still hopeless. It’s like his feet aren’t attached to his legs, or something, and don’t obey commands from his brain. Grandmère is now making him stand back behind the chorus in the dance numbers.

  Right now, she is giving us “cast notes.” This is what she does after each run-through. She takes notes during the show, and instead of stopping it to correct something, reads us each our notes at the end. Currently, she is instructing Lilly not to lift the train of her long dress with BOTH hands when she goes up the palace steps to greet Alboin. A lady, Grandmère says, would lift her train with ONE hand.

  “But I’m not a lady,” Lilly is saying. “I’m a prostitute, remember?”

  “A mistress,” Grandmère says, “is not a prostitute, young lady. Was Camilla Parker Bowles a prostitute? Was Madame Chiang Kai-shek? Evita Perón? No. Some of the greatest female role models in the world started out as men’s mistresses. That does not mean they ever prostituted themselves. And kindly do not argue with me. You will use only ONE HAND to lift your train.”

  Now she’s moving on to J.P. Of course everything HE does is perfect.

  Although I really don’t get how she thinks sucking up to John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy’s kid is going to get him to back off on his bid for the faux island of Genovia.

  But then, I’ve officially given up trying to second-guess Grandmère. I mean, the woman is clearly an enigma wrapped in a mystery. Just when I think I’ve got her figured out, she comes up with some new whackadoo scheme.

  So by now I should just be like, “Why bother?” She’s never going to tell me the true motivations behind most of her actions—like why she’s so insistent that I play Rosagunde, and not someone who’d actually be good at it, like Lilly.

  And she’s never going to admit why she thinks this whole being-nice-to-J.P. thing is going to help her win her island. We just have to sit and listen to her while she goes, “I really enjoyed that little bow you made during the final number, John Paul. But may I make a suggestion? I think it would be lovely if, after bowing, you swept Amelia into your arms and kissed her, with her body bent back—here, Feather, dear, show him what I mean—”

  WAIT. WHAT????

  Tuesday, March 9, limo home from the Plaza

  OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!! J.P. HAS TO KISS ME!!!!!!!!!!! IN THE PLAY!!!!!!!!!

  I MEAN, MUSICAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I can’t even believe this. I mean, the kiss isn’t even in the script. Grandmère clearly just added it because—I don’t even know why. It doesn’t ADD anything to it. It’s just this stupid kiss at the end between Rosagunde and Gustav.

  I doubt it’s even historically accurate.

  But then, all of the townspeople and the king of Italy gathering around after Rosagunde killed Alboin and singing about how happy they are that he’s dead probably isn’t historically accurate, e
ither.

  Still. Grandmère KNOWS my heart belongs to another man—even if right now we might be sort of on the skids.

  Still. What does she think she’s doing, asking me to kiss someone else?

  “For God’s sake, Amelia,” she said, when I went up to her—QUIETLY, because of course I didn’t want J.P. to know I wasn’t one hundred percent behind the whole kissing thing. I don’t want to betray my boyfriend by kissing another guy—especially a guy he watched me sexy dance with not even a week ago—but I don’t want to hurt J.P.’s feelings, either—and asked if she had lost her mind.

  “People expect a kiss between the male and female leads at the end of a musical,” Grandmère snapped. “It’s cruel to disappoint them.”

  “But, Grandmère—”

  “And please don’t try to tell me that you feel kissing John Paul is a huge betrayal of your love for That Boy.” (“That Boy” is what Grandmère calls Michael.) “It’s called ACTING, Amelia. Do you think Sir Laurence Olivier minded when his wife, Vivien Leigh, was called upon to kiss Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind? Certainly not. He understood it was ACTING.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, Amelia, please! I don’t have time for this! I have a million things to do before the performance tomorrow, programs to run up, caterers to meet with. I really don’t care to stand here and argue with you about it. You two are kissing and that’s final. Unless you want me to have a word with a certain chorus member—”

  I threw a panicky look in Amber Cheeseman’s direction. I’m stuck. And Grandmère knows it.

  Which might be why she was wearing a smug little smile on her face as she stormed off to wake up Señor Eduardo and send him home.

  As if all of that weren’t bad enough, though, when I walked out the doors of the hotel just now, and started toward the limo, J.P. stepped out from the shadows and said my name.

  “Oh,” I said, all confused. I mean, had he been waiting for me? Well, obviously. Only…why? “What’s wrong? Do you need a ride home? We can drop you off if you want.”

  But J.P. was like, “No, I don’t need a ride. I want to talk to you. About the kiss.”

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Okay. So THAT didn’t freak me out too much.

  But I couldn’t show it or anything, because Lilly was in the limo waiting for me, and she totally saw us there on the red carpet, and put the window down and was like, “Come on, you two, I have to get home and collate!”

  God, she can be annoying sometimes.

  “Look, Mia,” J.P. said, completely ignoring Lilly, as was only fitting. “I know you’re having problems with your boyfriend, and that they’re partly because of me—no, don’t try to deny it. Tina already told me. I was really worried about you, because you just looked so down all day, so I forced it out of her. So, listen. We don’t have to kiss. Once we’re up there during the performance, we can pretty much do what we want, anyway. I mean, it’s not like your grandmother would be able to stop us. So, I just wanted to tell you, if you, you know, don’t want to, we don’t have to. I won’t be offended, or anything. I totally understand.”

  OH MY GOD!

  Isn’t that the sweetest thing you ever heard in the whole world?????

  I mean, it’s just so thoughtful and mature and unlike me of him!

  I think that’s why I did what I did next:

  Which was stand up on my tiptoes and kiss the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili on the cheek.

  “Thank you, J.P.,” I said.

  J.P. looked extremely surprised.

  “For what?” he asked in a voice that cracked a little. “All I said was that you don’t have to kiss me if you don’t want to.”

  “I know,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze. “That’s why I kissed you.”

  Then I jumped into the car.

  Where Lilly was immediately all over me with questions, since we were dropping her off on our way to the loft:

  Lilly:

  What was that about?

  Me:

  He said I didn’t have to kiss him.

  Lilly:

  Then why did you? Kiss him, I mean?

  Me:

  Because I thought he was sweet.

  Lilly:

  Oh my God. You like him.

  Me:

  Just as a friend.

  Lilly:

  Since when do you kiss your guy friends? You’ve never kissed Boris.

  Me:

  Ew. Did you hear what he said that one time about being an over–saliva secreter, or whatever it was? I don’t know how Tina stands it.

  Lilly:

  What is going on with you two, Mia? You and J.P.?

  Me:

  Nothing. I told you, we’re just friends.

  And the thing is, even though I knew I shouldn’t go there, because Lilly is about to receive the worst news she’s ever had, in the form of her parents breaking up—I mean, when someone finally gets around to telling her, and all—I totally went there. Because I was just so mad.

  Me:

  The real question is, what’s going on with YOU and J.P.?

  Lilly:

  ME? I’m not the one who kissed him. Or sexy danced with him. I just like him as a friend, like you CLAIM you do.

  Me:

  Then why won’t you pull the story I wrote about him from your ’zine? I mean, you know it’s just going to hurt his feelings. If you really like him as a friend, why would you want to hurt him?

  Lilly:

  I won’t be the person hurting him. You will. I didn’t write that story.

  God. Why does she have to rub it in?

  Wednesday, March 10, midnight, the loft

  No e-mails from Michael.

  No messages, either.

  I realize he has a lot on his mind right now, and can’t be, like, totally focused on me and MY needs. I wasn’t expecting to come home and find a big bouquet of roses with a note tucked in them that said, “I love you.”

  But a phone call reassuring me that we are, in fact, still going out might have been nice.

  Yeah. So didn’t happen. I came home, and everyone in the house was already asleep. Again.

  Being an actress, dedicated to her craft, is no joke. I mean, now I know how Meryl Streep must feel, stumbling home at all hours of the night after rehearsing whatever Academy Award–winning movie she’s in. I will never again think that acting is an easy career to have.

  Anyway, I am taking Tina’s advice, and Giving Michael Some Space. The way she does with Boris when he has to learn some new Bartók.

  And I can’t say I really blame Michael for not calling or e-ing me, since I’m obviously not the most stable person he knows. I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to prove I was a party girl when I’m so not. Basically, I was just trying to manipulate Michael, and that is never a good idea. I mean, unless you’re Grandmère or Lana, who are masters at the art of manipulation—particularly the manipulation of the laws of supply and demand.

  But that doesn’t mean it’s right.

  Seriously. Just because you CAN do something well doesn’t mean you SHOULD do it.

  Like my short story, for instance. I mean, sure, I can write.

  But does that give me the right to write a story based on someone who actually exists, who might possibly read that story, and get upset about it?

  No. Just because you HAVE the power doesn’t mean you should USE it. Or, at least, ABUSE it.

  Which is what Grandmère and Lana do with the whole economics thing. If you are lucky enough to HAVE a talent—like mine, for writing—you have a moral obligation to use that talent for GOOD.

  That’s what happened with the Michael thing. You know, when I did the sexy dance? That’s why it backfired. Because I was trying to manipulate people. Which is evil, not good.

  I’m an evil economics abuser. I’m—

  SOMEONE IS IMing ME!!!!!!!!!!

  LET IT BE MICHAEL

  LET IT BE MICHAEL

  LET IT BE MICHAEL
>
  LET IT

  Oh. It’s Lilly.

  WOMYNRULE: You know, it was really presumptuous of you to have kissed him if you don’t even like him that way. What if he gets the wrong idea? You already sexy danced with him, and now you’re going around kissing him? For someone so worried about hurting his feelings, you sure don’t seem to have thought that through.

  !!!!!

  FTLOUIE: Oh, yeah? Well, for someone who claims not to like him as anything but a friend, you sure do seem concerned about him liking me.

  WOMYNRULE: Only because I THOUGHT you were dating my brother. But apparently one guy’s not enough for you. You have to have ALL the guys.

  FTLOUIE: WHAT??? What are you talking about? I DO NOT LIKE J.P.

  WOMYNRULE: Sure you don’t. I bet if I looked at your nostrils right now, they’d be flaring.

  FTLOUIE: OMG, I am NOT lying. Lilly, I love your brother, and ONLY your brother. You KNOW that. What is WRONG with you?

  WOMYNRULE: terminated

  Wow. It’s a good thing her parents aren’t telling her about their separation just yet. If this is how she acts when she DOESN’T know about it, I hate to think how she’s going to act when she DOES.

  Unless she DOES know, like Michael suspects, and she’s just PRETENDING she doesn’t know. That would explain a lot about her current behavior.

  But regardless, at least I know what I have to do now. My mission is, at last, clear. A feeling of calm has descended over me.

  Oh, wait, that’s just Fat Louie, sleeping on my feet.

  Still. I have a plan.

  About how I’m going to keep J.P. from reading “No More Corn!”, I mean. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the rest of the mess that is my life.

  But I know what I’m going to do about Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.

  And truthfully, I think Carl Jung AND Alfred Marshall would approve.

  From the desk of

  Her Royal Highness

  Princess Amelia Mignonette

  Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo