Party Princess pd-7

by Meg Cabot

  I could be totally wrong, but I think I saw Prince—the artist formerly known as Prince, I mean—demanding an aisle seat just now.

  And what about the REPORTERS? There are a ton of them, crouched down behind the orchestra, their cameras poised to photograph us the minute the curtains go up. I can just see tomorrow’s headline emblazoned across the Post: PRINCESS PLAYS A PRINCESS. Or worse, PRINCESS TAKES A BOW.

  Shudder.

  With my luck, they’ll get a picture of J.P. and me kissing, and THAT will be the photo they pick for the front page.

  And Michael will see it.

  And then he’ll TOTALLY break up with me.

  Okay, I am such a shallow person, worrying about my boyfriend breaking up with me, when he is currently going through what is probably the most painful personal crisis of his life and so clearly has way bigger things to be concerned about than his dumb high school girlfriend.

  And why am I even worrying about this when I am supposed to be focusing on my performance? According to Grandmère, anyway.

  Everyone backstage is REALLY nervous. Amber Cheeseman is in the corner, doing some hapkido warm-up moves to calm down. Ling Su is doing breathing exercises she learned in her yoga class at the Y. Kenny is pacing around, muttering, “Step-ball-change. Step-ball-change. Jazz-hands, jazz-hands, jazz-hands. Step-ball-change.” Tina is helping Boris run through his lines. Lilly is just sitting quietly by herself, trying not to mess up her costume’s long white train.

  Even Grandmère has broken her own rules again and is smoking, despite the fact that her last meal was hours ago.

  Only Señor Eduardo seems calm. That’s because he’s asleep in a chair in the front row, with his equally ancient wife dozing beside him. They were the only two people I recognized before Grandmère caught me peeking.

  Two minutes until the curtain goes up.

  Grandmère has just called us over to her. She puts out her cigarette and says, “Well, children. This is it. The moment of truth. Everything you’ve worked so hard for this week has all been leading up to this. Will you succeed? Or will you fall on your faces and make fools of yourselves in front of your parents and friends, not to mention any number of celebrities? Only you can decide. It’s entirely up to you. But I’ve done all I can for you. I’ve written what is, perhaps, one of the finest musicals of all time. You can’t blame the material. Only yourselves, from this point on. Now it’s your turn, children. Your turn to spread your wings, as I have—and fly! Fly, children! FLY!”

  Then she says, into the walkie-talkie none of us has noticed she’s carrying until that very moment, “For God’s sake, it’s seven o’clock, start the overture already.”

  And the music begins…

  Wednesday, March 10, the big performance

  Oh my God, they LOVE it! Seriously! They’re eating it up! I’ve never heard a crowd applaud so hard! They are going NUTS! And we haven’t even gotten to the finale yet!

  Everybody is doing SO well! Boris hasn’t forgotten any of his lines—he sang the Warlord song perfectly—

  Going out to kill and slay

  Is what I do every single day

  No other job would I request

  Marauding is what I do best!

  Chorus:

  Riding through forests in the night

  When I emerge it’s quite a sight

  In villagers’ eyes, it’s fear I see

  Oh, what a blast it is to be me!

  And Kenny hasn’t messed up any of the choreography. Well, okay, he has, but not enough so as anyone would really notice.

  And you could have heard a pin drop when Lilly sang the mistress’s song!

  How was I to know

  When to him my mother sold

  Me, that one day I would grow

  To love him so?

  Though all he does is rape and plunder

  To me it’s always been a wonder

  That when he’s done with pillaging

  It’s me he turns to for his loving.

  She held that crowd in the palm of her hand! Her voice THROBBED with poignancy, just like Madame Puissant taught her! And she remembered to use only one hand while lifting up her train to climb the stairs.

  And J.P. practically got a standing ovation for his smith song.

  How could someone like she

  Ever love a poor man like me?

  When clearly she could have anyone

  Why would she settle for this someone?

  How could she

  Ever love me?

  And the song right before I strangle Boris was so POWERFUL!!!! You could hear people in the audience—the ones who are unfamiliar with Genovian history—gasp when I sang the line, “So with this braid, I make the turn/Around his neck, so he may burn.” Seriously.

  Though twilight brings this day to close

  What comes tomorrow none can know.

  I lie here in this bed of hate,

  And look to night to cast my fate….

  Chorus:

  Father, Genovia, together we will fight!

  Father, Genovia, for the future is tonight!

  Cross my heart and hope to die,

  My father’s death I’ll avenge, swore I

  So with this braid, I make the twist

  That by morning’s light, he’ll not exist!

  And when I sang that second chorus of “Father, Genovia, together we will fight/Father, Genovia, for the future is tonight!” I am almost positive I heard Grandmère—GRANDMÈRE, of all people—sniffle!

  Well, okay, maybe she’s just suffering from a bit of postnasal drip. But still.

  Oh, it’s time for the big finale! This is it. Time for the big kiss.

  I really hope Tina isn’t right and J.P. doesn’t like me that way. Because no matter what happens, my heart belongs to Michael and always will.

  Not that kissing someone else in a play—I mean, musical—is like cheating on him. Because it totally isn’t. What J.P. and I—

  Where IS J.P. anyway? We’re supposed to hold hands and run out onto the stage together, with looks of joy upon our faces, and then he gives me the big kiss.

  But how can I hold his hand and run out onto the stage when he’s MISSING????

  This is crazy. He was here after the last number. Where could he—

  Oh, finally, here he comes.

  Wait—that’s someone in J.P.’s costume. But that’s not J.P….

  Wednesday, March 10, the big party

  Oh my God. I can’t believe ANY of this is happening.

  Seriously. It’s all like a dream. Because when I reached out to grab J.P.’s hand and rush out onto the stage with him, I found myself grabbing MICHAEL’S hand instead.

  “MICHAEL?” I couldn’t help exclaiming. Even though we aren’t supposed to talk backstage, on account of our body mics possibly picking it up. “What are you—?”

  But Michael put his finger to his lips, pointed to my mic, then grabbed my hand and dragged me out onto the stage—

  Exactly the way J.P. had, in all our rehearsals.

  Then, as everyone sang, “Genovia! Genovia!” Michael, in J.P.’s Gustav costume, swept me into his arms, bent me back, and planted the biggest movie kiss you’ve ever seen on my lips.

  Nobody even noticed it wasn’t J.P. until the curtain call, when we all had to grab hands and bow.

  “Michael!” I cried again. “What are you doing here?”

  We didn’t have to worry about our mics picking anything up at that point, because the audience was clapping so hard, they wouldn’t have heard it anyway.

  “What do you mean, what am I doing here?” Michael asked with a grin. “Did you really think I was going to stand idly by while you kissed another guy?”

  Which was right when J.P. walked past us, and went, “Hey, man. Good one,” and held out his palm, which Michael lightly slapped.

  “Wait,” I said. “What’s going on here?”

  Which was when Lilly stepped up and draped an arm around my neck.

&nb
sp; “Oh, POG,” she said. “Chill out.”

  Then she went on to describe how she and her brother—with J.P.’s help—concocted this plan to have Michael and J.P. switch places during the finale, so Michael, not J.P., could be the one who kissed me.

  And that’s precisely what they did.

  How they managed to do so behind my back, though, I will never know. I mean, seriously.

  “Does this mean you forgive me for the sexy-dance thing?” I asked Michael, after we’d been de-miked and de-braided and we were alone in one of the wings backstage, while offstage, everyone else was getting congratulated by their family—or meeting the celebrities of their dreams.

  But what did I need with celebrities, when the person I looked up to most in the world was standing RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME?

  “Yes, I forgive you for the sexy-dance thing,” Michael said, his arms tight around me. “If you’ll forgive me for having been such an absentee boyfriend lately.”

  “It’s not your fault. You were upset about your parents. I totally understand.”

  To which he replied simply, “Thanks.”

  Which made me realize, then and there, that being in a mature relationship has nothing to do with drinking beer and dancing sexy. Instead, it has everything to do with being able to count on someone not to break up with you just because you danced with another guy at a party one night, or not to take it personally when you can’t call them as often as you’d like because you’re super-busy dealing with midterms and a family crisis.

  “I’m really sorry, Michael,” I said. “I hope things will work out for your parents. And, um, seriously…about what happened at your party—the beer—the beret—the sexy dance. None of it will ever happen again.”

  “Well,” Michael admitted. “I did sort of enjoy the sexy dance.”

  I goggled up at him. “You DID?”

  “I did,” Michael said, leaning down to kiss me. “If you promise me that next time, you’ll do it just for me.”

  I promised. Did I EVER.

  When Michael finally lifted his head for air, he said, his voice a little unsteady, “The truth is, Mia, I don’t want a party girl. All I’ve ever wanted is you.”

  Oh. So THAT’S what he’d meant to say.

  “Now, what do you say we go take these stupid costumes off,” Michael said, “and join the party?”

  I said I thought that sounded just fine.

  Wednesday, March 10, still the big party

  They are giving speeches now. The developers of The World, I mean. Which, it took me a minute to remember, is why Grandmère was having this party in the first place. NOT to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers, or even to put on a play. I mean, musical.

  This whole thing was to butter up the people in charge of deciding who gets what island.

  I can’t say I envy them—the people in charge, I mean. How do you decide who deserves Ireland more, Bono or Colin Farrell? How do you decide who should get England, Elton John or David Beckham?

  I guess ultimately it all boils down to who pays the most money. Still, I’m glad I don’t have to be the one to make the decision if, say, they refuse to bid any higher.

  One thing I KNOW has been decided is who gets Genovia. THAT was pretty obvious when J.P., looking totally red-cheeked and sheepish, was dragged over to where I was standing near Grandmère by a huge balding man, smoking a cigar.

  “There she is!” the huge balding man—John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third, I quickly realized, J.P.’s dad—exclaimed. “The little lady I’ve been dying to meet, the princess of Genovia, the one responsible for bringing my boy here outta his shell! How’re ya, sweetheart?”

  I thought J.P.’s dad must have been talking about Grandmère. You know, since she was the one who’d cast J.P. in her show, which I guess, could be considered “bringing him out of his shell.”

  But to my surprise, I saw that Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third was gazing down at ME, not Grandmère.

  Grandmère, for her part, was looking as if she smelled something foul. Probably it was the cigar.

  But all she said was, “John Paul. This is my granddaughter, Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo.” (Grandmère always reverses my last two names. It’s a thing between her and my mom.)

  “How do you do, sir,” I said, sticking out my right hand….

  Only to have it swallowed up in Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third’s big, meaty paw.

  “Couldn’t be better,” he said, pumping my arm up and down, while J.P., standing next to his dad with his hands buried deep in his pockets, looked like he wanted to die. “Couldn’t be better. I’m pleased to make the acquaintance of the girl who—sorry, princess who—is the first person at that stuck-up school you kids go to ever to ask my boy to lunch!”

  I just stood there, looking from J.P. to his dad and then back again. I sort of couldn’t believe it. I mean, that no one at AEHS had ever asked J.P. to join them for lunch before.

  On the other hand, he did say he wasn’t much of a joiner. And he WAS always really weird about the corn-in-the-chili thing. And if you didn’t know the story behind why…well, you might think he was kind of odd. Until you got to know him better, I mean.

  “And look what it’s done for him!” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third went on. “One little lunch, and the kid’s got the lead in the school musical! And he’s even got friends now! College friends! What’s that one guy’s name, J.P.? The one you were talking to all last night on the phone? Mike?”

  J.P. was looking steadfastly at the floor. I didn’t blame him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Michael.”

  “Right, Mike,” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third went on. “And the princess here.” He gave me a chuck under the chin. “Kid’s been eating lunch alone since he started at that snobby school. I was gonna make him transfer if it went on much longer. Now he’s eating lunch with a princess! It’s the damnedest thing. That is one fine granddaughter you’ve got there, Clarisse!”

  “Thank you, John Paul,” Grandmère said graciously. “And may I say, your son is a very charming young man. I am sure he will go very far in life.”

  “Damned right he will,” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy said, and now it was J.P.’s turn to get a chuck under the chin. “Eating lunch with princesses. Well, just wanted to say thanks. Oh, and to let you know I withdrew my bid for that island—what’s it called? Oh, right! Genovia! ‘Together we will fight.’ Love that line, by the way. Anyway, right, it’s all yours, Clarisse, seeing the favor your little granddaughter did for me and my boy here.”

  Grandmère’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. So did Rommel’s, on account of she was squeezing him so hard.

  “Are you quite certain, John Paul?” Grandmère asked.

  “One hundred percent,” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third said. “It was a mistake for me to bid on it in the first place. I never wanted Genovia—though it took me seeing this play tonight to realize it. It’s that other one, the one with the car race—”

  “Monaco,” Grandmère suggested coldly, looking like she smelled something even worse than cigar smoke. But then, she ALWAYS looks like that when she’s reminded of Genovia’s closest neighbor.

  “Yeah, that’s the one.” J.P.’s dad looked grateful. “I gotta remember that. Buyin’ it for J.P.’s mom, you know, for an anniversary present. She loves that movie star, the one who was princess there, what’s her name?”

  “Grace Kelly,” Grandmère said in an even colder voice.

  “That’s the one.” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third grabbed his son by the arm. “C’mon, kid,” he said. “Let’s go put a bid in, before one of these other, er, people”—he was full-on staring at Cher, who did have a pretty skimpy outfit on, but was still human, and all—“snap it up.”

  As soon as they were out of earshot, I turned to Grandmère and said, “Okay, admit it. The reason you put on this play was NOT to entertain the masses who would come to donate money to the Genovian
olive growers, but to ingratiate yourself to J.P.’s dad and get him to drop his bid on the faux island of Genovia, wasn’t it?”

  “Perhaps initially,” Grandmère said. “Later, I will admit, I rather got into the spirit of the thing. Once bitten by the theater bug, it remains in the blood, you know, Amelia. I will never be able to turn my back completely on the dramatic arts. Especially not now that my show”—she glanced in the direction of all the reporters and theater critics who were waiting for her to make a statement—“is such a hit.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “Just answer one question for me. Why was it so important to you that J.P. and I kiss at the end? And tell me the truth for a change, not that bunk about the audience expecting a kiss at the end of a musical, or whatever.”

  Grandmère had shifted Rommel in her arms so that she could examine her reflection in the diamond-encrusted compact she’d pulled from her bag. “Oh, good heavens, Amelia,” she said, checking that her makeup was perfect before she went to be interviewed. “You’re almost sixteen years old, and you’ve only kissed one boy in your entire life.”

  I coughed. “Two, actually,” I said. “Remember Josh—”

  “Pfuit!” Grandmère said, closing her compact with a snap. “In any case, you’re much too young to be so serious about a boy. A princess needs to kiss a lot of frogs before she can say for certain she’s found her prince.”

  “And you were hoping John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth would turn out to be my prince,” I said. “Because, unlike Michael, his dad is rich…and also happened to be bidding against you for the faux island of Genovia.”

  “The thought did cross my mind,” Grandmère said vaguely. “But what are you complaining about? Here’s your money.”

  And just like that, she handed me a check for exactly five thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight dollars.

  “The money you need for your little financial problem,” Grandmère went on. “It’s just a small percentage of what we’ve actually raised so far tonight. The Genovian farmers will never know it’s missing.”