Party Princess

Which caused Boris to burst out with, “Excuse me, but weren’t you the one who was just complaining about how you have the first issue of the school’s new literary magazine to put to bed this weekend?”

Lilly chose to ignore that. J.P. looked kind of confused.

“Well, I don’t know about putting magazines to bed,” he said. “But I bet if we get together tomorrow morning, and maybe Sunday, too, and do a few more read-throughs, we’ll have most of our lines memorized by Monday.”

“Excellent idea,” Grandmère said, clapping her hands loudly enough to cause Señor Eduardo to open his eyes groggily. “That will give us plenty of time to work with the choreographer and vocal instructor.”

“Choreographer?” Boris looked horrified. “Vocal instructor? Just how much time are we talking about here?”

“As much time,” Grandmère said fiercely, “as it takes. Now, all of you go home and get some rest! I suggest eating a hearty supper to give you strength for tomorrow’s rehearsal. A steak, cooked medium rare, with a small salad and a baked potato with plenty of butter and salt is the ideal repast for a thespian who wants to keep up his or her strength. I will expect to see all of you here tomorrow morning at ten. And eat a big breakfast—eggs and bacon, and plenty of coffee! I don’t want any of my actors fainting from exhaustion on me! And good read-through, people! Excellent! You showed plenty of good, raw emotion. Give yourselves a round of applause!”

Slowly, one by one, we started to clap—only because, if we didn’t, it was clear Grandmère was never going to let us out of there.

Unfortunately, our applause woke the dozing maestro. Or director. Whatever he was.

“Tank you!” Señor Eduardo was now awake enough to think that we were clapping for something he did. “Tank you, all! I could not have done eet eef eet were not for you, however. You are all too kind.”

“Well.” J.P. waved to me. “See you tomorrow morning, Mia. Don’t forget to eat that steak! And that bacon!”

“She’s a vegetarian,” Boris, who still seemed sort of hostile about how much violin practice he was going to miss, reminded him.

J.P. blinked.

“I know,” he said. “That was a joke. I mean, after she freaked out about the meat in the vegetarian lasagna that one time, the whole SCHOOL knows she’s a vegetarian.”

“Oh, yeah?” Boris said. “Well, you’re one to talk, Mr. Guy Who Hates It When They—”

I had to slap my hand over Boris’s mouth before he could finish.

“Good night, J.P.,” I said. “See you tomorrow!” Then, after he’d left the room, I let Boris go, and had to wipe my hand on a napkin.

“God, Boris,” I said. “Drool much?”

“I have a problem with oversecretion of saliva,” he informed me.

“NOW you tell me.”

“Wow, Mia,” Lilly said, as we were on our way out. “Way to overreact. What is wrong with you, anyway? Do you like that J.P. guy or something?”

“No,” I said, offended. Geez, I mean, I’ve only been dating her brother for a year and a half. She should KNOW by now who I like. “But you guys could at least be nice to him.”

“Mia just feels guilty,” Boris observed, “because she killed him off in her short story.”

“No, I don’t,” I snapped.

But as usual, I was fully lying. I do feel guilty about killing J.P. in my story.

And I hereby swear I will never kill another character based on a real person in my fiction again.

Except when I write my book about Grandmère, of course.

Friday, March 5, 10 p.m., the Moscovitzes’ living room

Okay, these movies Michael is making me watch? They are so depressing! Dystopic science fiction just isn’t my thing. I mean, even the WORD “dystopic” bums me out. Because dystopia is the OPPOSITE of utopia, which means an idyllic or totally peaceful society. Like the utopian society they tried to build in New Harmony, Indiana, where my mom made me go one time when we were trying to get away from Mamaw and Papaw during a visit to Versailles (the one in Indiana).

In New Harmony, everyone got together and planned this, like, perfect city with all these pretty buildings and pretty streets and pretty schools and stuff. I know it sounds repulsive. But it’s not. New Harmony is actually cool.

A dystopic society, on the other hand, is NOT cool. There are no pretty buildings or streets or schools. It’s a lot like the Lower East Side used to be before all the rich dot-com geniuses moved down there and they opened all those tapas bars and three-thousand-dollar-a-month-maintenance-fee condos, actually. You know, one of those places where everything is pretty much gas stations and strip clubs, with the occasional crack dealer on the corner thrown in for good measure.

Which is the kind of society heroes in pretty much all the dystopic sci-fi movies we’ve seen tonight have lived.

Omega Man? Dystopic society brought on by mass plague that killed most of the population and left everybody (except Charlton Heston) a zombie.

Logan’s Run? Utopian society that turns out to be dystopic when it is revealed that in order to feed the population with the limited resources left to them after a nuclear holocaust, the government is forced to disintegrate its citizens on their thirtieth birthdays.

2001: A Space Odyssey is up next, but I seriously don’t think I can take it anymore.

The only thing making any of this bearable is that I get to snuggle up next to Michael on the couch.

And that we get to make out during the slow parts.

And that during the scary parts, I get to bury my head against his chest and he wraps his arms around me all tight and I get to smell his neck.

And while this would be more than satisfying under normal circumstances, there is the small fact that whenever things start getting REALLY passionate between Michael and me—like, heated enough for him to actually press pause on the remote—we can hear Lilly down the hall screaming, “A curse upon you, Alboin, for being the scurrilous dog I always knew you to be!”

Can I just say it’s very hard to get swept away in the arms of your one true love when you can hear someone yelling, “You would take this common Genovian wench to wed when you could have me, Alboin? Fie!”

Which may be why Michael just went to the kitchen to get us some more popcorn. It looks like 2001: A Space Odyssey may be our only hope for drowning out Lilly’s not-so-dulcet tones as she and Lars rehearse her lines.

Although—seeing as how I’m making this new effort to stop lying so much—I should probably admit that it’s not just Lilly’s strident rehearsing that’s keeping me from being able to give Michael my full attention, make out–wise. The truth is, this party thing is weighing down on me like that banana snake Britney wore at the VMAs that one time.

It’s killing me inside. It really is. I mean, I made the dip—French onion, you know, from the Knorr’s packet—and everything, to make him think I’m looking forward to tomorrow night and everything.

But I’m so not.

At least I have a plan, though. Thanks to Lana. About what I’m going to do during the party. I mean, the dancing thing. And I have an outfit. Well, sort of. I think I might have cut my skirt a little TOO short.

Although to Lana, there’s probably no such thing.

Oooooh, Michael’s back, with more popcorn. Kissing time!

Saturday, March 6, midnight

Close call: When I got home from the Moscovitzes’ this evening, my mom was waiting up for me (well, not exactly waiting up for ME. She was watching that three-part Extreme Surgery on Discovery Health about the guy with the enormous facial birthmark that even eight surgeries couldn’t totally get rid of. And he couldn’t even put a mask on that side of his face like the Phantom of the Opera guy, because his birthmark was all bumpy and stuck out too far for any mask to fit over. And Christine would just be all, Um, I can totally see your scars even with your mask, dude. Plus he probably didn’t have an underground grotto to take her to anyway. But whatever).

Even though I tried to sneak in all quietly, Mom caught me, and we had to have the conversation I’d really been hoping to avoid:

Mom (putting the TV on mute):

Mia, what is this I hear about your grandmother putting on some kind of musical about your ancestress Rosagunde and casting you in the lead?

Me:

Um. Yeah. About that.

Mom:

That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Doesn’t she realize you are barely passing Geometry? You don’t have time to be starring in any play. You have to concentrate on your studies. You have enough extracurricular activities, what with the president thing and princess lessons. And now this? Who does she think she’s kidding?

Me:

Musical.

Mom:

What?

Me:

It’s a musical, not a play.

Mom:

I don’t care what it is. I’m calling your father tomorrow and telling him to make her cut it out.

Me (stricken, because if she does that, Grandmère will totally spill the beans to Amber Cheeseman about the money, and I will be elbowed in the throat. But I can’t tell Mom that, either, so I have to lie. Again):

No! Don’t! Please, Mom? I really… um… I really love it.

Mom:

Love what?

Me:

The play. I mean, musical. I really want to do it. Theater is my life. Please don’t make me stop.

Mom:

Mia. Are you feeling all right?

Me:

Fine! Just don’t call Dad, okay? He’s really busy with Parliament and everything right now. Let’s not bother him. I really like Grandmère’s play. It’s fun and a good chance for me to, um, broaden my horizons.

Mom:

Well… I don’t know….

Me:

Please, Mom. I swear my grades won’t slip.

Mom:

Well. All right. But if you bring home so much as a single C on a quiz, I’m calling Genovia.

Me:

Oh, thanks, Mom! Don’t worry, I won’t.

Then I had to go into my room and breathe into a paper bag because I thought I might be hyperventilating.

Saturday, March 6, 2 p.m., the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza

Okay, so acting may be a little harder than I thought it was. I mean, that thing I wrote a while back, about how the reason so many people want to be actors is because it’s really easy and you get paid a lot—

That might be true. But it turns out it’s not that easy. There’s a whole lot of stuff you have to remember.

Like blocking. That’s, like, where you move on the stage as you’re saying your lines. I always thought actors just got to make this up as they went along.

But it turns out the director tells them exactly where to move, and even on which word in which line to do it. And how fast. And in which direction.

At least, if that director is Grandmère.

Not that she’s the director, of course. Or so she keeps assuring us. Señor Eduardo, propped up in a corner with a blanket covering him to his chin, is REALLY directing this play. I mean, musical.

But since he can barely stay awake long enough to say, “And… scene!” Grandmère has generously come forward to take over.

I’m not saying this wasn’t her plan all along. But she sure isn’t admitting it if it was.

Anyway, in addition to all of our lines, we also have to remember our blocking.

Blocking isn’t choreography, though. Choreography is the dancing you do while you’re singing the songs.

For this, Grandmère hired a professional choreographer. Her name is Feather. Feather is apparently very famous for choreographing several hit Broadway shows. She also must be pretty hard up for cash if she’d agree to choreograph a snoozer like Braid! But whatever.

Feather is nothing like the choreographers I’ve seen in dancing movies like Honey or Center Stage. She doesn’t wear any makeup, says her leotard was made from hemp, and she keeps asking us to find our centers and focus on our chi.

When Feather says things like this, Grandmère looks annoyed. But I know she doesn’t want to yell at Feather since she’d be hard-pressed to find a new choreographer at such short notice if Feather quits in a fit of pique, as dancers are apparently prone to do.

But Feather isn’t as bad as the vocal coach, Madame Puissant, who normally works with opera singers at the Met and who made us all stand there and do vocal exercises, or vocalastics, as she called it, which involved singing the words Me, May, Ma, Mo, Moooo-oooo-oooo-ooo over and over again in ever-ascending pitches until we could “feel the tingle in the bridge of our nose.”

Madame Puissant clearly doesn’t care about the state of our chis because she noticed Lilly wasn’t wearing any fingernail polish and almost sent her home because “a diva never goes anywhere with bare nails.”

I noticed Grandmère seems to approve VERY highly of Madame Puissant. At least, she doesn’t interrupt her at all, the way she does Feather.

As if all of this were not enough, there was also costume measurements to endure and, in my case anyway, wig fittings as well. Because, of course, the character of Rosagunde has to have this enormously long braid, since that is, after all, the title of the play.

I mean, musical.

I’m just saying, everyone was worried about getting their LINES memorized in time, but it turns out there is WAY more involved in putting on a play—I mean, musical—than just memorizing your lines. You have to know your blocking and choreography as well, not to mention all the songs and how not to trip over your braid, which, since we don’t have a braid yet, in my case means not tripping over one of those velvet ropes they used to drape outside the Palm Court to keep people from storming it before it opened for afternoon tea, and which Grandmère has wrapped around my head.

I guess it isn’t any wonder I have a little headache. Although it’s not any worse than the ones I get every time they cram me into a tiara.

Right now J.P. and I have a little break because Feather is going over the choreography for the chorus of the song Genovia!, which everyone but he and I sing. It turns out that Kenny, in addition to not being able to sing or act, can’t dance either, so it is taking a really long time.

That’s okay, though, because I’m using the time to plot tonight’s Party Strategy and talk to J.P., who really turns out to know a LOT about the theater. That’s on account of his father being a famous producer. J.P. has been hanging around the stage since he was a little kid, and he’s met tons of celebrities because of it.

“John Travolta, Antonio Banderas, Bruce Willis, Renée Zellweger, Julia Roberts… pretty much everybody there is to meet,” is how J.P. replied, when I asked him who all he meant by celebrities.

Wow. I bet Tina would change places with J.P. in a New York minute, even if it meant, you know. Becoming a boy.

I asked J.P. if there was any celebrity he HADN’T met, that he wanted to, and he said just one: David Mamet, the famous playwright.

“You know,” he said, “Glengarry Glen Ross. Sexual Perversity in Chicago. Oleanna.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, like I knew what he was talking about.

I told him that was still pretty impressive—I mean, that he’d met almost everybody else in Hollywood.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you know, when it comes down to it, celebrities are just people, like you and me. Well, I mean, like me, anyway. You—well, you’re a celebrity. You must get that a lot. You know, people thinking you’re—I don’t know. This one thing. When really, you’re not. That’s just the public’s perception of you. That must be really hard.”

Were truer words ever spoken? I mean, look at what I’m dealing with right now: this perception that I’m not a party girl. When I most certainly AM. I mean, I’m going to a party tonight, right?

And okay, I’m totally dreading it and had to ask advice about it from the meanest girl in my whole school.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not a party girl.

Anyway, in addition to having met every single celebrity in the world except David Mamet, J.P. has been to every single play ever put on, including—and I couldn’t believe this—Beauty and the Beast.

And get this: It’s one of his all-time favorites, too.

I can’t believe that for all this time, I’ve been seeing him as the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili—you know, just this freak in the cafeteria—when underneath he’s, like, this really cool, funny guy who writes poems about Principal Gupta and likes Beauty and the Beast and would like to meet David Mamet (whoever that is).

But I guess that’s just a reflection of how the educational system today, being so overcrowded and impersonal, makes it so hard for adolescents to break through our preconceived notions of one another, and get to know the real person underneath the label they’re given, be it Princess, Brainiac, Drama Geek, Jock, Cheerleader, or Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili.

Oops. Chorus rehearsal is over. Grandmère’s calling for the principal characters now.

Which means J.P and me. We sure have a lot of scenes together. Especially seeing as how up until I read Braid!, I never even knew my ancestress Rosagunde HAD a boyfriend.

Saturday, March 6, 6 p.m., limo on the way home from the Plaza

Oh my God, I’m soooo tired, I can barely keep my eyes open. Acting is SO HARD. Who knew? I mean, those kids on Degrassi make it look so easy. But they’re going to school and everything the whole time they’re filming that show. How do they DO it?

Of course, they don’t have to sing, except for those episodes where there’s like a band audition or whatever. Singing is even harder than ACTING, it turns out. And I thought that was the thing I’d have the least trouble with, because of my intensive self-training in the event I have to perform karaoke on a road trip to make food money like Britney in Crossroads.

Well, let me just say that I have a newfound respect for Kelis because to get that one perfect version of “Milkshake” on her album, she had to have rehearsed it five thousand times. Madame Puissant made me rehearse “Rosagunde’s Song” at LEAST that many times.

And when my voice started to get scratchy and I couldn’t hit the high notes, she made me grab the bottom of the baby grand piano Phil was accompanying me on, and LIFT!

“Sing from the diaphragm, Princess,” was what Madame Puissant kept yelling. “No breathing from the chest. From the DIAPHRAGM! No chest voice! SING FROM THE DIAPHRAGM! LIFT!!! LIFT!!!!”

I was just glad I’d put clear polish on all my nails the other day (so I’d be less tempted to bite them). At least she couldn’t yell at me about THAT.

And choreography? Forget about it. Some people look down on cheerleaders (okay, me included, except for Shameeka—up until now), but that stuff is HARD!!! Remembering all those steps??? Oh my God! It’s like, “Take my chi already, Feather! I can’t step-ball-change anymore!”

But Feather didn’t have the least bit of sympathy for me—and she had even LESS for Kenny, who can’t step-ball-change to save his life.

And guess what? We’re all expected to show up at ten tomorrow morning for more of the same.

Boris said tonight, as we were all leaving, “This is the hardest I have ever had to work for a hundred extra credit points.”

Which is a totally good point. But, as Ling Su mentioned to him, it beats selling candles door-to-door.

After which I had to shush her, because Amber Cheeseman had been standing nearby!

Except of course J.P. overheard me shushing Ling Su, and was like, “What? What’s the big secret? What are you guys talking about? You can tell me, I swear I’ll take it to the grave.”

The thing is, when you are thrown together for so many hours, the way we’ve all been since rehearsals started, you sort of… bond. I mean, you can’t help it. You’re just in each other’s company SO MUCH. Even Lilly, who has markedly antisocial tendencies, yelled, as we were all putting on our coats, “Hey, you guys, I almost forgot! Party tonight at my place! You should totally come, my parents are out of town!”

Which I thought was kind of bold of her—it’s Michael’s party, really, not hers, and I don’t know how thrilled he’ll be if a bunch of high school kids show up (besides me, of course).

But, you know. It’s an example of how close we all feel to one another.

And also why I felt forced to tell J.P. the truth—that the student government had run a little short on cash to pay for the seniors’ commencement ceremony, and that was why we were putting on Braid! in the first place.

J.P. seemed surprised to hear this—but not, as I first thought, because he was shocked to learn I’d messed up the budget.

“Really?” he said. “And here I was thinking that this whole thing was just an elaborate ruse by your grandmother to sucker my dad into giving up his bid on the faux island of Genovia.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I just stared at him with my mouth hanging open until he laughed and said, “Mia, don’t worry. I won’t tell. About the money for commencement OR your grandmother’s scheme.”

But then I got all curious, and was like, “Why does your dad want to buy the faux island of Genovia, anyway, J.P.?”

“Because he can,” J.P. said, not looking jokey at all—which, for him, was a first. He almost never seems to look upset or worried about anything—except corn, of course.

I could see right away that John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third was a sore subject to John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth. So I dropped it. That’s the kind of thing you learn when you’re training to be a princess. How to drop subjects that suddenly seem to turn uncomfortable.

“Well, see you tomorrow,” I said to J.P..

“Are you going to Lilly’s party?” he wanted to know.

“Oh,” I said. “Yes.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there, then,” J.P. said.

Which is sweet. You know, that J.P. feels comfortable enough with us to want to come to Lilly’s party. Even if he doesn’t know it’s Michael’s party and not Lilly’s.

Anyway, I’ve got more important things to worry about right now than J.P. and Lilly and Grandmère and her diabolical schemes for faux island domination.

Because I’ve got a scheme of my own to put into action….

Sunday, March 7, 1 a.m., the loft

I’m so embarrassed. Seriously. I’m MORTIFIED. This is probably the most embarrassed I have ever been in my entire life.

And I know I’ve said that before, but this time, I really mean it.

I really thought, for a while there, that it might have been working. My plan to prove to Michael that I really am a party girl, I mean.

I don’t understand exactly what went wrong. I had it ALL planned out. I did EXACTLY what Lana said. As soon as I got to Lilly and Michael’s apartment, I changed out of my rehearsal clothes into my party clothes:

—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 Michael 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.

J.P.:

I know. They screw EVERYTHING up in that cafeteria. Have you seen what they do to the chili?

Me:

You mean how they put corn in it sometimes?

J.P.:

Yeah, exactly. That is just wrong. There shouldn’t be corn in chili. It’s unnatural. Don’t you think?

Me:

Well, I never really thought about it before. I mean, I like corn.

J.P.:

Well, I don’t. I never have. Not since—whatever. Never mind.

Me:

Not since what?

J.P.:

No, it’s nothing. Really. Never mind.

But, of course, now I HAD to know.

Me:

No, really. It’s okay. You can tell me. I won’t say a word to anyone. I swear.

J.P.:

Well, it’s just…you know how I told you the only celebrity I’d most like to meet is David Mamet?

Me:

Yeah…

J.P.:

Well, my parents have actually met him. They went to his house for a dinner party once about four years ago. And I was so excited when I found out, I was like—in that way you do, when you’re twelve, you know, and you think the world revolves around you—“Did you tell him about me, Dad? Did you tell him I’m his biggest fan?”

Me:

Yeah. And what did your dad say?

J.P.:

He said, “Yes, son, as a matter of fact, your name did come up.” Turns out Dad had told him about me, all right. He told him about the first time they ever fed me corn as a baby.

Me:

Yeah?

J.P.:

And how amazed they were the next morning when they found it in whole pieces in my diaper. The corn, I mean.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Actually, this happened the first—and only time—we fed corn to Rocky. So I know PRECISELY how gross it really is.

Me:

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! Oops, I mean. Sorry. That must have been very embarrassing. I mean, for you. That they told your idol something like that about you. Even if you WERE just a baby at the time that it happened.

J.P.:

Embarrassing? I was mortified! I haven’t been able to stand the sight of corn since!

Me:

Well. That explains it, then.

J.P.:

Explains what?

Me:

Nothing. Your aversion to corn, I mean.

J.P.:

Yeah. Parents. They mess you up, you know?

Me:

Tell me about it.

J.P.:

Can’t live with them. Can’t afford to live without them. Speaking of which, what do you think of this poem:

They pay for your food,

And lodging and school.

All they ask in return

Is that you follow their rules.

You have no control

Your destiny’s not your own

At least till you’re eighteen

And you can finally leave home.

Me:

Whoa. That is good! You should submit it to Lilly’s magazine!

J.P.:

Thanks. I might submit it—along with the Principal Gupta poem. Are you going to have anything in it? Lilly’s ’zine, I mean?

Me:

No.

Because of course the only thing I’ve written lately (besides journal entries) is “No More Corn!” And I already told Lilly she can’t publish it. Something I’m especially glad of now, because I really don’t think, considering the story J.P. just told me about WHY he hates corn, that he would think it’s funny. My short story about him, I mean.

Oh, God. Grandmère wants me for the strangulation scene.

I wish someone would strangle ME. Because then Michael and I wouldn’t NEED 2 TALK. Because I’d just be dead.

Sunday, March 7, 9 p.m., the loft

I can’t believe this. Why does everything have to go from bad to worse? First of all, I still haven’t been able to reach Michael. He’s not answering his cell and he’s not online, and Doo Pak says he’s not in their room and that he has no idea where “Mike” might be.

Except that I have a pretty good idea: as far away from me as he can possibly get.

Just my luck, too, that out of the two Moscovitz siblings, the one I least want to hear from is the one who won’t stop IMing me. I just got this from Lilly in response to my reminder that I don’t want her putting “No More Corn!” in her magazine.

WOMYNRULE: Um, sorry, it’s staying in. It’s my best piece. By the way, are you wearing your beret to the party?

FTLOUIE: Would you shut up already about that stupid beret? And what party? What are you talking about? And Lilly, you can’t publish my story without my permission. And I’m retracting my permission for you to publish it.

WOMYNRULE: THE AIDE DE FERME PARTY YOUR GRANDMOTHER IS HAVING. And you can’t. Because once a piece is submitted to the editorial offices of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole, it becomes the property of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.

FTLOUIE: Okay, a) stop calling it that, and b) THERE ARE NO EDITORIAL OFFICES FOR YOUR MAGAZINE. THE EDITORIAL OFFICES ARE YOUR BEDROOM. And Aide de Ferme is a benefit, not a party.

WOMYNRULE: I meant offices in the figurative sense. Now, seriously. If you aren’t wearing your beret, can I?

This is horrible. Poor J.P.!

What is UP with the Moscovitz siblings? I mean, I can understand Michael hating me, but why is Lilly being such a freak about this story thing?

If I weren’t so exhausted I’d order the limo to come back and take me over to Lilly’s first, so I could beat some sense into her, and then up to Michael’s, so I could apologize in person.

But I’m too tired to do anything but take a bath and go to bed.

I seriously don’t know how Paris Hilton does it—TV appearances, managing her own jewelry and makeup line, AND partying every night to all hours? No wonder she lost her dog that one time and thought it had been kidnapped….

Though the chances of me ever losing Fat Louie are slim to none, since he’s way too heavy to carry around on a little pillow the way Paris carries Tinkerbell. Besides which, if I even tried something like that, he’d claw my face off.

Monday, March 8, Homeroom

So this morning I “borrowed” my mom’s credit card again and had one of those giant cookies sent to Michael. Only this time I made sure to send it to his dorm address. I am having the cookie makers write the word, “Sorry” in frosting on a 12-inch chocolate-chocolate chip.

I realize sending a cookie—even a 12-inch one with the word “Sorry” written on it in frosting—is a woefully inadequate way of expressing one’s remorse for sexy dancing with another guy in front of one’s boyfriend.

But I can’t afford to get Michael what he really wants, which is a ride on the space shuttle.

After I ordered the cookie, I walked out of my room and found Rocky hanging on to fistfuls of Fat Louie’s fur and shrieking, “Kee! Kee! Kee!”

Poor Fat Louie looked as if he had just swallowed a sock.

But really what he had swallowed was his impulse to slash my baby brother to ribbons. Fat Louie is such a good cat, he was just LETTING Rocky hang on to him.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t have a look of naked panic on his big orange face. I could tell that in ten more seconds, he’d have cracked like an eggshell.

I came to the rescue, of course, and was like, “Mom! Can’t you watch your child for ONE SINGLE SOLITARY MINUTE?”

But, of course, Mom hadn’t even had her coffee yet and so was incapable of controlling her kid, much less actually seeing anything that wasn’t happening unless it involved Diane Sawyer on the TV screen in front of her.

She has no idea how lucky she is that I came along when I did. If Fat Louie HAD lost control of himself and let loose on Rocky, he could have sustained cat scratch fever and died. Rocky could have, I mean. Cat scratch fever is a super-serious and totally underreported disease. It can cause anorexia, if you aren’t careful.

Not, in Rocky’s case, that anyone would notice, since he is roughly the size of your average four-year-old, even though he’s not even a year old yet.

In fact, if Rocky, like Fat Louie, were orange, he’d look exactly like an Oompa Loompa.

I seriously don’t see how between my baby brother, my friends, my parents, this princess thing, my grandmother, and this sexy-dancing business, I am ever going to achieve self-actualization.

Monday, March 8, PE

Lana came up to me as I was in the shower just now, and asked me where her tickets for the Aide de Ferme benefit were. I was so tired—and my forearms are so sore from strangling Boris, let alone smacking that stupid volleyball, even though I only did it once…the rest of the time, I just ducked when I saw it coming at me—I went, “Don’t get your panties in a wad, I submitted everyone’s name to my grandmother’s party organizer, okay? You and Trish will get in. You just have to show up.”

She looked kind of startled. I guess I WAS kind of sharp.

You know, it’s becoming clearer and clearer to me that actresses get a really bum rap. You know, the ones with the rumored “temperaments.” I mean, like Cameron Diaz and stuff. If she has HALF as much stress as I do, it’s no wonder she freaks out and kicks photographers and breaks their cameras and all.

It just goes to show that what one person considers a “bad attitude” might actually just be total frustration over being pushed beyond the brink of one’s mental and physical endurance.

That’s all I’m saying.

Monday, March 8, U.S. Economics

Elasticity

Elasticity is the degree to which a demand or supply curve reacts to a change in price.

Elasticity varies among products based on how essential that product is to the consumer.

I am thinking I lost a lot of elasticity in Michael’s eyes after that whole sexy-dancing thing.

Or maybe it was the beret.

Monday, March 8, English

Everyone is too tired to talk or even pass notes.

Also, apparently none of us read O Pioneers over the weekend.

Ms. Martinez says she is really disappointed in us.

Get in line, Ms. M. Get in line.

Monday, March 8, Lunch

J.P. is sitting with us again. He is the only one at the table (who is in the play—I mean, musical—anyway) who isn’t catatonic with exhaustion. He’s even written a new poem. It goes:

I always wanted

To be in a play

But the thrill of running lines

Grows fainter by the day

Now that I’m here,

I just want a reversal

I’m sick of blocking,

Sick of rehearsal

Someone please help us,

Hear our pleas as they’re made

Get us out of this mess—

I mean, musical—Braid!

Funny. I’d laugh, if my diaphragm didn’t hurt so much from lifting that stupid piano.

Still no word from Michael. I know he’s got his History of Dystopic Sci-Fi in Film midterm right now. So that would explain why he hasn’t called to thank me for the cookie.

It isn’t because he never wants to hear from or see me again, on account of the sexy dance.

Probably.

Monday, March 8, G & T

Okay, she’s gone mental.

Seriously. What’s WRONG with her? She expects us all to help her put her stupid literary magazine together—literally: She just wheeled in 3,700 pages that we are apparently supposed to collate and staple—but she still won’t pull “No More Corn!”

“Lilly,” I said. “PLEASE. We know J.P. now. We’re FRIENDS with him. You can’t run the story. It’s just going to hurt his feelings! I mean, I have him KILL himself at the end.”

“J.P. is a poet,” is all Lilly said back.

“SO? WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?”

“Poets kill themselves all the time. It’s a statistical fact. Amongst writers, poets have the shortest life expectancy. They are more likely to kill themselves than writers of prose or nonfiction. J.P. will probably agree with the way you’ve ended ‘No More Corn!’ since that’s the way he’s going to go someday anyway.”

“Lilly!”

But she won’t be swayed.

I have refused to help collate and staple on ethical grounds, so she’s got Boris doing it.

You can tell he doesn’t want to. He’s just too tired to practice his violin.

You know, I’m starting to wonder if selling candles wouldn’t have been simpler than all this.

Monday, March 8, Earth Science

Kenny wasn’t too tired last night to do our lab worksheet.

But he WAS too tired to not spill marinara sauce all over it.

I recopied it for free. I’ve officially given up on Alfred Marshall. He may work for Grandmère and Lana, but he hasn’t done squat for me.

Still no word from Michael. And his History of Dystopic Sci-Fi in Film midterm should be over by now.

I think it’s official.

He hates me.

HOMEWORK

PE: WASH GYM SHORTS!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE I FORGOT! U.S. Economics: Who knows? Too tired to care English: d/c (don’t care)

French: d/c

G&T: As if

Geometry: d/c

Earth Science: d/c (Kenny will tell me)

Monday, March 8, limo on the way home from the Plaza

I can’t believe it.

Really. It’s too much. After all that—

Okay. I have to get a grip. MUST. GET. A. GRIP.

It started out innocently enough. We were all lying there on the ballroom floor, exhausted from our final run-through.

Then somebody—I think it was Tina—went, “Um, Your Highness? My parents want to know where they can buy tickets to this show, so they can be sure to see it.”

“All of your parents’ names have already been put on the guest list,” Grandmère said, from where she sat, enjoying a post-rehearsal cigarette (apparently, she’s allowing herself to smoke after run-throughs, as well as after meals), “for Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” Tina asked, a funny inflection in her voice.

“That is correct,” Grandmère said, exhaling a plume of blue smoke. Señor Eduardo coughed a little in his sleep as some of it drifted his way.

“But isn’t this Wednesday the night of the Aide de Ferme benefit?” someone else—I think it was Boris—asked.

“That is correct,” Grandmère said, again.

And that’s when it finally sunk in.

Lilly was the first one up.

“WHAT?” she cried. “You’re going to make us do this play in front of all the people coming to your PARTY?”

“It’s a musical,” Grandmère replied darkly. “Not a play.”

“You said, when I asked you last week, that we’d be putting Braid! on a week from that day!” Lilly shouted. “And that was Thursday!”

Grandmère puffed on her cigarette. “Oh, dear,” she said, not sounding in the least concerned. “I was off by one day, wasn’t I?”

“I am not,” Boris said, drawing himself up to his full height, “going to be strangled by some girl’s hair in front of Joshua Bell.”

“And I am not,” Lilly declared, “going to play someone’s mistress in front of Benazir Bhutto—no matter how long she supported the Taliban!”

“I don’t want to play a maid in front of celebrities,” Tina said meekly.

Grandmère very calmly stubbed her cigarette out on an empty plate someone had left on top of the piano. I saw Phil eyeing the smoking butt nervously from where he sat at the keyboard. Obviously, he is as nervous about contracting lung cancer from secondhand smoke as I am.

“So this,” Grandmère said, her Gitane-roughened voice projecting very loudly across the empty ballroom, “is the thanks I get, for taking your dull, average little lives, and injecting them with glamour and art.”

“Um,” Boris said. “My life already has art in it. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Your Royal Highness, but I’m a concert violinist, and I—”

“I tried,” Grandmère’s voice rang out, as she ignored him, “to do something to enrich your humdrum days of scholastic slavery. I tried to give you something meaningful, something you could look forward to. And this is how you repay me. By whining that you don’t want to share what we’ve worked so hard to create together with others. What kind of ACTORS are you????”

Everyone blinked at her. Because, of course, none of us considered himself an actor of any kind.

“Were you not,” Grandmère demanded, “put on this earth with a God-given obligation to share your talent with others? Would you dare to presume to DEFY God’s plan for you by DENYING the world the right to see you perform your art? Is THAT what you’re trying to tell me? That you want to DEFY God?”

Only Lilly was brave enough to answer.

“Um,” she said. “Your Highness, I don’t believe I am defying God—if She does, in fact, exist—by saying that I don’t care to make an ass out of myself in front of a bunch of world leaders and movie stars.”

“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?”

But breaking the Watergate scandal is COMPLETELY different than “No More Corn!” One thing was going to bring down a presidency. The other is going to hurt someone’s feelings. Which is more important?

Whatever. Lilly was just like, “Your piece is the COVER STORY. It’s right there, under Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. ‘A short story by AEHS’s own princess, Mia Thermopolis.’ I can’t PULL it, not without having to redo the COVER, not to mention the table of contents. I’d have to redesign the cover, then print it, then photocopy a thousand pages ALL OVER AGAIN. I’m NOT doing it. I’m just NOT.”

I told her I’d help her with the photocopying. But she just shook her head.

I can’t believe she’s willing to hurt a friend just because she’s too lazy to stand at the Xerox machine a little longer. And after all the things I’ve done for her, too. Like protecting her fragile mental state from the truth about her parents, and possibly Michael and me.

Sheesh.

Tuesday, March 9, Homeroom

I still can’t believe it. I mean, it’s like Wilma and Fred Flintstone splitting. Or Homer and Marge Simpson. Or Lana Weinberger and Josh Richter.

Well, except I wasn’t bummed when THEY split up.

COUPLES YOU WOULD BE

TOTALLY BUMMED TO FIND OUT

WERE BREAKING UP:

Sarah Michelle Gellar and Freddie Prinze Jr.

Kelly Ripa and Mark Consuelos

Scooby Doo and Shaggy

Melissa Etheridge and Tammy Lynn Michaels

Bruce Springsteen and Patti Scialfa

Russell and Kimora Lee Simmons

Ben Affleck and Matt Damon

Danny DeVito and Rhea Perlman

Will and Jada Pinkett Smith

Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip

Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson

Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick

Gwen Stefani and Gavin Rossdale

Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi

Hermione and Ron

Jay-Z and Beyoncé

Téa Leoni and David Duchovny

Sandy and Kirsten Cohen

Tina Hakim Baba and Boris Pelkowski

My mom and Mr. G

I can’t believe the Moscovitzes are breaking up. I mean, they’re JUNGIAN PSYCHIATRISTS. If they can’t make a relationship work, what hope do the rest of us have?

From the desk of

Her Royal Highness

Princess Amelia Mignonette

Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo

Dear Dr. Carl Jung,

Well, I get it now. I totally get it.

It took me a while. I’ll admit it. But the truth has finally sunk in.

It’s funny how all this time, I thought transcendence would make me happy. You know, that through finally knowing my true self, I’d gain total happiness at last. Boy, did you have me fooled. You must be laughing your butt off up there in heaven or wherever you are. Because you knew, all along, didn’t you? You knew the truth.

And that’s that there is no Jungian tree of self-actualization. There is no transcendence of the ego. The Drs. Moscovitz splitting up just proves this.

The truth is, you’re all alone.

And then you die.

Don’t worry. I get it now.

This is the last letter I’ll be writing to you. Good-bye forever.

Your former friend,

Mia Thermopolis

Tuesday, March 9, U.S. Economics

Marginal utility = the additional satisfaction, or amount of utility, gained from each extra unit of consumption. Marginal utility decreases with each additional increase in the consumption of a good.

In other words, the less you have of something, the more you want it.

A phenomenon with which I am all too familiar.

Tuesday, March 9, English

Mia, are you okay? You look as if you might be coming down with something.

Oh, I’m great, Tina. Just great.

Oh?

Okay, I’m lying. Michael is upset about my sexy dance with J.P. But he’s MORE upset about something that has nothing whatsoever to do with me. Something I can’t tell you. But he’s barely speaking to me. I already sent him a “Sorry” cookie. I don’t know what else to do.

Maybe you shouldn’t do anything else. Boys aren’t like girls, you know, Mia. They don’t like to talk about their feelings. Probably the best thing you can do is just leave Michael alone. Whatever it is, he’ll come around after he’s worked through it. Like Boris and his Bartók.

Do you think so? It’s so hard to just sit here and do nothing! And who doesn’t want to TALK about their feelings????

I know. But that is just how boys are.. They are like freaks of nature.

What are you two talking about?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Oh, right. Nothing, again. Whatever. Look. Lunch. Help me collate?

Of course.

NO!!!! J.P. WILL SEE THE STORY ABOUT HIM!!!! He sits with us at lunch now!

Yeah, what is up with that, anyway? Is this, like, a permanent thing, or just until-the-show-is-over thing?

I think it’s a someone-has-a-crush-on-Mia thing.

WHAT????

You think?

HE DOES NOT!!!!

I don’t know, Mia. The ere is the sexy-dance thing. And I see him staring at you a lot when you’re not looking.

Um, how do you know it’s not ME he’s staring at, Tina?

Um…we ell, it COULD be you he’s staring at, Lilly. But I really thought—

Do you WANT him to be staring at you, Lilly?

I DIDN’T SAY THAT. I just asked how Tina can be so sure it’s NOT me. I mean, you and I sit together a lot. It could be ME, not Mia, he has a crush on.

Oh my God. You like J.P.

I DO NOT!!!!!!

Yes, you do. You totally do.

OH MY GOD, COULD YOU BE MORE IMMATURE??? I AM NOT TAKING PART IN THIS CONVERSATION ANYMORE.

Oh my God. She totally likes him.

I know! Could she be more obvious about it?

It’s so surprising. J.P. doesn’t seem like her type.

Because he’s good-looking, English-speaking, and comes from a wealthy family?

Right. But he IS the creative type. And tall. And a very good dancer.

Wow. So I don’t get it. If she likes him,

why is she running that story of mine, that’s only going to hurt his feelings?

I don’t know. I love Lilly, but I can’t really say I understand her.

Yeah. You could say that about ALL of the Moscovitzes.

Oh, Mia. What are you going to do about Michael?

Do? Nothing. I mean, what CAN I do?

Wow. You’re taking this current estrangement so well. I mean, apart from the fact that you look like you’re about to throw up.

I AM throwing up, Tina. On the inside.

Tuesday, March 9, Lunch

Today at lunch J.P. was like, “Are you all right, Mia?”

And I was like, “Yeah. Why?”

And he was like, “Because your color’s off.”

And I was like, “My COLOR? What are you talking about?”

And he was like, “I don’t know. You just don’t look right.”

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, either.

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

Dear Dr. Carl Jung,

Hi. Sorry about my last letter. I was kind of…you know…cuckoo.

Well, you know all about that. I mean, you devoted your entire career to the study of cuckoos like me.

Anyway, just wanted to say not to worry. Things are better now. I think I finally get it. You know, the whole transcendence thing. It’s not about what’s happening INSIDE you. It’s what you put OUT that matters.

Well, not, you know, put out like sex. But I mean what you put out into the universe. It’s about being kind to others, and telling the truth instead of lying all the time, and using your powers for good and not evil. Like, if your boyfriend is having a party, you should just go and try to have a good time, instead of resorting to elaborate schemes to try to make him think you’re a party girl.

And if your friend is going to run a story in a magazine that could really hurt someone’s feelings, you should stop her.

Right?

Anyway, I’m seriously going to devote the rest of my life to Telling the Truth and Doing Good Works. I really mean that. Because I know now that it’s the only way I’m going to achieve self-actualization, and that people like my grandmother and Lana Weinberger who resort to lies and blackmail and abuse the law of supply and demand will never find spiritual enlightenment.

Anyway, seeing as how I have now pledged to walk the Path of Truth and all of that, do you think there’s a chance that part of my self-actualization, when it comes after I perform all my good works, could be getting my boyfriend to forgive me for being such a freak? Because I seriously miss him.

I hope that’s not asking too much. I honestly don’t mean to be selfish. It’s just, you know. I love him, and all.

Hopefully,

Your friend,

Mia Thermopolis

Wednesday, March 10, Homeroom

So Lilly isn’t speaking to me, apparently. She wasn’t waiting outside her building this morning for us to pick her up and take her to school. And when I ran inside to buzz her apartment, no one answered.

But I know she’s not home sick because I saw her just now outside Ho’s Deli, buying a soy latte.

When I waved, she just turned her back.

So now BOTH the Moscovitzes are ignoring me.

This is not a very nice way to start my first day on the Path to Righteousness.

Wednesday, March 10, PE

Okay, so I know skipping gym is probably not the most direct path to achieving transcendence from the ego.

But it’s for a totally good cause!

Even Lars thinks so. Which is convenient since I’m going to need his help carrying the stuff. I mean, I don’t have the upper body strength to lift 3,700 pieces of paper.

At least, not all at once.

Wednesday, March 10, U.S. Economics

Okay. So I guess I still have a ways to go on the path to righteousness. I mean, I really THOUGHT I was doing the right thing.

At first.

I totally remembered Lilly’s locker combination from the time she got the flu and I had to bring her her books.

And when I opened her locker door, the stack of a thousand copies of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole, Volume I, Issue 1, was just sitting right there, waiting to be sold today at lunch.

It was so easy to grab them.

Well, okay, not THAT easy, because they were heavy. But Lars and I split the pile between us, and I was frantically looking around for a place to hide them—someplace Lilly would never find them, because you so know she’s going to look—when I spied the men’s room.

Well, come on! How’s she going to look for them there?

So Lars and I staggered in there, with these giant armfuls of paper, and I barely had time to register the fact that in the men’s rooms at AEHS, there is no mirror over the sinks, and also no doors on the bathroom stalls (which is completely sexist if you ask me, because don’t boys need privacy and to see how their hair looks, too?) before I realized we were not alone in there.

Because John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth was standing at one of the sinks, wiping his hands on a paper towel!!!!!

“Mia?” J.P. looked back and forth from Lars to me. “Um, hey. What’s up?”

Both Lars and I had frozen. I went, “Um. Nothing.”

But J.P. didn’t believe me. Obviously.

“What’s all that?” he asked, nodding at the huge stacks of papers we were each sagging under.

“Um,” I said, desperately trying to think of some kind of excuse I could give him.

Then I remembered I’m supposed to be treading the Path of Truth, and all, and I had pledged to the memory of Dr. Carl Jung not to lie anymore.

So I had no choice but to say, “Well, the truth is, these are copies of my short story for Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole, which I stole out of Lilly’s locker and am trying to hide in the men’s room, because I don’t want anyone to read them.”

J.P. raised his eyebrows. “Why? You don’t think your story’s any good?”

I REALLY wanted to say yes.

But since I swore I’d tell the truth from now on, I was forced to say, “Not exactly. The truth is, I wrote this story, um, about you. But way before I had ever met you! And it’s really stupid and embarrassing, and I don’t want you to read it.”

J.P.’s eyebrows went up even MORE.

But he didn’t look mad. He looked—actually, he sort of looked like he was kind of flattered.

“You wrote a story about me, huh?” He leaned against one of the sinks. “But you don’t want me to read it. Well, I can see your dilemma. Still, I don’t think hiding them, even in the men’s room, is going to work. She’s bound to get someone to look in here, don’t you think? I mean, it’s the first place I’d look, if I were Lilly.”

The thing was, after he said it, I knew he was right. Hiding the copies in the men’s room wasn’t going to keep Lilly from finding them.

“What else can we do with them?” I wailed. “I mean, where can we put all this so she won’t find it?”

J.P. appeared to think about this for a moment. Then he straightened up and said, “Follow me,” and walked past us, back out into the hallway.

I looked at Lars. He shrugged. Then we followed J.P. out into the hall, where we found him pointing…

…at one of the recycling bins. One of the ones I’d ordered, that said PAPER, CANS, AND BATTLES on it.

My shoulders sagged with disappointment.

“She’ll totally look there,” I wailed. “I mean, it even says PAPER on it.”

“Not,” J.P. said, “if we put it all in the crusher.”

Which was when he tossed the paper towel he’d used to dry his hands into the can section of the recycling bin…

…which immediately sprang to life, and began its crushing action, smushing the paper towel to shreds.

“Voilà,” J.P. said. “Your problem is solved. Permanently.”

But as the recycling bin’s internal crushing device finally quieted down, I looked down at the stack of magazines in my arms.

And knew that I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. As much as I hated that horrible cover, and the story I’d written beneath it, I knew I couldn’t destroy something Lilly had worked so hard on.

“Princess?” Lars shifted his armload of magazines and nodded toward the hallway clock. “The bell is about to ring.”

“I—” I looked from the pinkly glowing magazine cover to J.P.’s face, then back again. “I can’t do it. J.P., I’m sorry. But I just can’t. She would be so hurt…and she’s going through a really tough time right now. Even if she doesn’t know it.”

J.P. nodded.

“Hey,” he said. “I understand.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think you do. My story about you is really stupid. I mean, REALLY stupid. And everyone is going to read it. And know that it’s about you. Which I admit makes ME look like the fool, not you. But people might…you know. Laugh. When they read it. And I really don’t want to hurt your feelings any more than I want to hurt Lilly’s.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about me,” J.P. said. “I’m a loner, remember? I don’t care what other people think of me. With the exception of a select few.”

“Then…” I nodded at the pile of magazines in my arms. “If I put these back where I found them, and Lilly sells them at lunchtime, you won’t care?”

“Not a bit,” J.P. said.

And he even helped Lars and me stuff them all back into Lilly’s locker.

Then the bell rang, and everyone started pouring out into the hallway and going to their lockers, and so we had to say good-bye, or we’d have been late to our next class.

The saddest part is, Lilly will never know the sacrifice J.P. is making on her behalf. He TOTALLY likes her. It’s so OBVIOUS.

Wednesday, March 10, English

Hey, are you nervous about tonight? Our big debut? I know I am!

To tell you the truth, I haven’t really had a chance to think about it.

Really? Oh my gosh—you still haven’t heard from Michael?

No.

Probably because he’s going to surprise you with a big bouquet of roses after the performance tonight!

I wish I lived in Tinaland.

Wednesday, March 10, Lunch

I walked into the caf, and there she was. At the booth she set up, underneath all these signs she made, advertising today’s sale of the first issue of the school’s new literary ’zine.

I knew I had to be, you know. Nice about it. On account of Lilly’s home life being unsatisfactory. Or going to become that way, anyway, even if she didn’t quite know it yet.

So I went up to her and was like, “One copy, please.”

And Lilly went, all businesslike, “That will be five dollars.”

I totally couldn’t help myself. I was like, “FIVE DOLLARS??? ARE YOU KIDDING????”

And Lilly went, “Well, it’s not cheap putting out a magazine, you know. And you were the one harping about how we have to make back the money we blew on the recycling bins.”

I coughed up the five bucks. But I had my doubts it would be worth it.

It wasn’t. Besides my story, and Kenny’s dwarf thesis, there were a couple of mangas, one of J.P.’s poems, and…

…all five of the short stories Lilly wrote for the Sixteen magazine contest. Five. She put FIVE of her own short stories in her magazine!

I could hardly believe it. I mean, I know Lilly thinks pretty highly of herself, but—

It was right then that Principal Gupta walked in. She NEVER comes into the cafeteria. Rumor has it once she stepped on a Tater Tot someone dropped and it grossed her out so much, she would never set foot in the caf again.

But today she crossed the caf, and, heedless of any Tater Tots that might have been underfoot, went right up to Lilly’s booth!

“Uh-oh,” Ling Su, next to me, said. “Looks like someone’s busted.”

“Maybe Gupta objects to the cover illustration,” Boris suggested.

“Um, I think it’s more likely she’s objecting to this story Lilly wrote,” Tina said, holding up her copy. “Did you guys READ this? It’s totally NC-17!”

I hadn’t actually read any of Lilly’s stories. She’d just told me about them. But even a rudimentary scan through them showed me that—

Oh, yes. Lilly was very, very busted.

And all copies of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole were being confiscated by Coach Wheeton, who had brought a large black trash bag for that purpose.

“This is a violation of our right to free speech!” Lilly was shouting, as Principal Gupta escorted her from the caf. “People, don’t just sit there! Get up and protest! Don’t let the man keep you down!”

But everyone just sat where they were, chewing. Students at AEHS are totally used to letting the man keep us down.

When Coach Wheeton, spying the copy of Lilly’s magazine in my hands, came up to me with his trash bag and went, “Sorry, Mia. We’ll see that you get your money back,” I dropped it in.

Because what else could I do?

J.P. and I just looked at each other.

I wasn’t sure whether or not it was my imagination, but he seemed to be LAUGHING.

I’m glad SOMEONE can see something funny in all this.

Then Tina took me aside….

“Listen, Mia,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but I think I just figured something out. I read this romance novel once where the heroine and her evil twin were both in love with the same guy, the hero. And the evil twin kept doing all this stuff to make the heroine look bad in front of him. The hero, I mean.”

“Yeah?” What did this have to do with me? I wondered. I don’t have a twin.

“Well, you know how you kept asking Lilly to pull ‘No More Corn!’, and she wouldn’t do it, even though she knew it would hurt J.P.’s feelings, and all, if he read it?”

What was she getting at? “Yeah?”

“Well, what if the reason Lilly refused to pull your story was because she WANTED J.P. to read it. Because she knew if he read it, he’d get mad at you for writing it, and then he wouldn’t like you anymore. And then he’d be free to like HER, instead.”

At first I was like, “No way. Lilly would never do something like that to me.”

But then I remembered the last thing she said to me during last night’s limo ride home from the Plaza:

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

Oh my God! Could Tina be right? Does Lilly like J.P., but thinks he likes me? Could that really be why she was being so stubborn about pulling “No More Corn!”?

No. No, that can’t be right. Because Lilly doesn’t GET all weird and possessive about boys. She just doesn’t.

“I’m not saying she was doing it CONSCIOUSLY,” Tina said, when I mentioned this. “She probably hasn’t even admitted to HERSELF that she likes J.P. But SUBCONSCIOUSLY, this could be the reason why she refused to pull your story.”

“No,” I said. “Come on, Tina. That’s crazy.”

“Is it?” Tina wanted to know. “Think about it, Mia. What HASN’T Lilly lost to you lately? First the school presidency. Then the part of Rosagunde. Now this. I’m just saying. It would explain a lot.”

Well, it would explain a lot. If it were true. But it’s not. J.P. doesn’t like me that way, and Lilly doesn’t like HIM that way.

And even if she did, she would never do something like that to me. I mean, she’s the person I love seventh best in the whole world. And I’m sure she loves me third. Or maybe fourth. On account of her not having a boyfriend, a younger sibling, a stepparent, or any pets of her own.

Wednesday, March 10, G & T

Lilly’s back. She’s looking really pale. Apparently, Principal Gupta called her parents.

Who came in to school. For a conference.

I don’t know what they talked about. At the conference, I mean. But apparently, Lilly has to run the content of the next issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole past Ms. Martinez before she’s allowed to sell it. Because Lilly never showed Ms. Martinez her short stories.

Or mine.

Or the name of the magazine. Which is being changed to The Zine.

Just The Zine.

Which is, as I told Lilly, in an effort to be kind, kinda catchy.

Lilly didn’t say anything back to me, like, “Thanks” or “I’m sorry.”

And I’m not saying anything to her, like, “Want to talk?” or “I’m sorry.”

But I wish I could.

I’m just afraid of what she’ll say back.

Wednesday, March 10, third-floor stairwell

Today must be some kind of record for me breaking school rules. Because Kenny and I just totally skipped Earth Science, and we’re up here with Tina, going over the choreography one last time before tonight’s performance.

Kenny says he’s so nervous, he wants to throw up. Tina, too.

Me? To tell the truth—and it’s my personal mission in life to ONLY tell the truth anymore—I could vomit up my intestines, I’m so freaked out.

Because tonight I am going to have to do something I have never done before in my life. And that’s kiss a boy.

A boy other than Michael, I mean.

Well, okay, except for Josh Richter, but he doesn’t count, because that was before Michael and I started going out.

But basically, tonight I am going to cheat on my boyfriend.

And okay, I know it’s not really cheating, since it’s just a play—I mean, musical—and we are only acting a part and don’t really like each other or anything.

But still. I’ll be kissing ANOTHER MAN. A man I, only last Saturday, sexy danced with. In front of my boyfriend.

Who didn’t like it very much. So much so, in fact, that he’s apparently not speaking to me now. So if he finds out about this kissing thing, I’m REALLY going to be dead.

And even if he doesn’t find out, I WILL KNOW.

How can I help but feel like I am betraying him somehow?

Especially if—and this is what worries me most—I end up LIKING it. Kissing J.P., I mean.

Oh, God. I can’t believe I even WROTE that.

Of COURSE I won’t like it. I only love one boy, and that’s Michael. Even if he doesn’t necessarily love me back right now. I could NEVER enjoy kissing someone else. NEVER.

Oh, God. WHY WON’T HE CALL?????

Wednesday, March 10, the big performance

He still hasn’t called.

And there are so many people here.

I’m serious.

I can’t actually see who any of them are because Grandmère won’t let us peek out from behind the curtains, because she says, “If you can see the audience, they can see you.” She says it’s unprofessional to be seen in costume until after the show has started.

Considering this is an amateur production, Grandmère sure is a stickler about us all acting professional.

Still, I can see there are like twenty-five rows of chairs, with like twenty-five seats across out there, and every seat is filled. That’s like…five thousand people!

Oh no, wait. Boris says it’s only six hundred and twenty-five.

Still. That is a LOT of people. Not ALL of them can be related to us, you know? I mean, obviously, there are CELEBRITIES out there. According to Netscape, which I checked just before I left for the Plaza, Grandmère’s Aide de Ferme benefit is sold out—donations for the Genovian olive growers have been pouring in all week from movie stars and rock musicians alike. Apparently, Grandmère’s benefit—with its musical tribute to Genovian history—is THE place to be tonight.

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.

“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.”

My head spun. “Grandmère! Are you serious?” I didn’t have to worry anymore about Amber Cheeseman sending my nasal cartilage crashing into my frontal lobe! It was like a dream come true.

“You see, Amelia,” Grandmère said smugly. “You helped me, and I helped you. That is the Renaldo way.”

This actually made me laugh.

“But I got you your island,” I said, feeling a bubble of triumph—yes, triumph—well up inside me. “I asked J.P. to eat lunch with me, and that’s what made his dad drop his bid. I didn’t have to stoop to any elaborate lies or blackmail schemes or strangulation—which appears to be the Renaldo way. But there’s another way, Grandmère. You might want to check it out. It’s called being nice to people.”

Grandmère blinked down at me.

“Where would Rosagunde have gotten, if she’d been nice to Lord Alboin? Niceness, Amelia,” she said, “gets you nowhere in life.”

“Au contraire, Grandmère,” I said. “Niceness got you the faux island of Genovia, and me the money I needed….”

And, I added silently to myself, my boyfriend back.

But Grandmère just rolled her eyes and went, “Does my hair look all right? I’m heading over to the photographers now.”

“You look great,” I told her.

Because what does it hurt to be nice?

As soon as Grandmère had been swallowed up by the press corps that had been waiting for her, J.P. appeared, holding out a glass of sparkling cider for me, which I took from him and gratefully gulped down. All that singing can make you thirsty.

“So,” J.P. said. “That was my dad.”

“He seems to really love you,” I said diplomatically. Because it wouldn’t have been nice to say God, you were right! He IS super embarrassing! “In spite of the corn thing.”

“Yeah,” J.P. said. “I guess. Anyway. Mad at me?”

“Mad at you?” I cried. “Why are you always asking if I’m mad at you? I think you’re the greatest guy I ever met!”

“Except Michael,” J.P. reminded me, glancing over to where Michael stood, having a heart-to-heart with Bob Dylan…not far, actually, from where Lana Weinberger and Trish Hayes were being ignored by Colin Farrell. And pouting because of it.

“Well, of course,” I said to J.P. “Seriously, that was SO SWEET, what you did for me…and for Michael. I honestly can’t thank you enough. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“Oh,” J.P. said with a smile. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“I do have one question, though,” I said, finally getting the guts to ask him something that had been bothering me for a while. “If you hate corn so much, why do you even GET the chili? I mean, in the caf.”

J.P. blinked at me. “Well, because I hate corn. But I love chili.”

“Oh. Okay. See you tomorrow,” I said, and gave him a little wave good-bye. Even though I didn’t understand at all.

But, you know, I’ve pretty much come to the conclusion that I only understand about 15 percent of what people are saying to me anyway. Like what Amber Cheeseman said to me a little while ago, over by the caviar bar: “You know, Mia, you’re really fun in person. After all the stuff I’ve read about you, I expected you to be sort of a stick in the mud. But you’re a real party girl after all!”

So, I guess the definition of “party girl” sort of varies, depending on who, you know, is doing the talking.

A second later, Lilly sidled up to me. If I hadn’t known the truth—you know, about her parents—I might have been all, “Lilly! What are you doing, sidling up to people? You don’t sidle.”

But it was obvious from the sidle that she knew the truth about them now—so all I said was, “Hey.”

“Hey.” Lilly was gazing across the room at Boris, who was pumping Joshua Bell’s hand so hard, it was clear he might actually break it. Behind him stood two people who could only be Mr. and Mrs. Pelkowski, both beaming shyly at their son’s hero, while behind THEM, my mom and Mr. Gianini, and Lilly’s parents, were listening intently to something Leonard Nimoy was telling them. “How’s it going?”

“All right,” I said. “Did you get to talk to Benazir?”

“She didn’t show,” Lilly said. “I had a nice chat with Colin Farrell, though.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Lilly said. “He agrees with me that the IRA needed to disarm, but has some pretty radical ideas on how they ought to have gone about it. Oh, and then I had a long talk with Paris Hilton.”

“What did you and Paris Hilton talk about?”

“Mostly the peace process in the Middle East. Though she did say she thought my shoes were hot,” Lilly said.

And we both looked down at Lilly’s black Converse high-tops, the ones she’d drawn silver Stars of David all over, in order to celebrate her Jewish heritage, and which she’d donned especially for tonight’s occasion.

“They are nice,” I admitted. “Listen, Lilly. Thanks. For helping to straighten out things between me and Michael, I mean.”

“What are friends for?” Lilly asked with a shrug. “And don’t worry. I didn’t tell Michael about that kiss you gave J.P.”

“It didn’t mean anything!” I cried.

“Whatever,” Lilly said.

“It didn’t,” I insisted. And then, because it seemed like the right thing to do, I added, “Look. I’m really sorry about your parents.”

“I know,” Lilly said. “I should have—I mean, I’ve known for a while things weren’t going so well for them. Morty’s been moving away from the neopsychoanalytical school of psychiatry ever since he left grad school. He and Ruth have been fighting over this for years, but it all came to a head with a recent article in Psychoanalysis Today, blasting the Jungians for essentialism. Ruth feels Morty’s attitude toward the neopsychoanalysis movement is merely a symptom of a midlife crisis, and that next thing you know, Morty’ll be buying a Ferrari and vacationing in the Hamptons. But Morty insists he’s on the verge of an important breakthrough. Neither of them will back off. So Ruth asked Morty to move out until he gets his priorities back in order. Or publishes. Whichever comes first.”

“Oh,” I said. Because I couldn’t figure out how else to respond. I mean, do couples really split up over things like this? I’ve heard about people getting divorced because one person keeps on losing the cap to the toothpaste.

But to break up over methodological differences?

Oh, well. At least that’s one I never have to worry about happening to Michael and me!

“Still, I shouldn’t have kept it all to myself,” Lilly went on. “I should have told you. At least it might have helped you understand—you know. Why I’ve been acting like such a freak lately.”

“At least,” I said gravely, “you have an excuse. For freakish behavior, and all. What’s mine?”

Lilly laughed, the way I’d meant her to.

“I’m sorry I wouldn’t pull your story,” she said. “You were totally right. It would have been mean to J.P. Not to mention completely insulting to your cat.”

“Yeah,” I said, glancing over to where J.P. was standing, not too far from Doo Pak, who was breathlessly telling something to Elton John. “J.P.’s a really nice guy. And you know…” Well, why not? The niceness thing hadn’t let me down yet. “…I think he really likes you.”

“Shut up,” Lilly said. But not in quite as listless a voice as she’d been speaking in before. “I’ve given up guys. You know that. They don’t bring anything but trouble and heartache. It’s like I was telling David Mamet a minute ago that—”

“Wait,” I said. “David Mamet is here?”

“Yeah,” Lilly said. “He’s buying the faux island of Massachusetts or something. Why?”

“Lilly,” I said excitedly. “Go up to J.P. and tell him you want to introduce him to someone. Then bring him over to David Mamet.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask. Just do it. I swear you won’t regret it. In fact, I bet he asks you out afterward.”

“Do you really think he likes me?” Lilly wanted to know, eyeing J.P. uncertainly.

“Totally,” I said.

“Then I’m going to do it,” Lilly said with sudden determination. “Right now.”

“Go for it,” I told her.

And she went.

But I didn’t get to see how J.P. reacted, because at that very moment, Michael came up, and slid an arm around my waist.

“Hi,” I said. “How was Bob?”

“Bob,” Michael said, “is so cool. How are you?”

“You know what? I’m good.”

And I wasn’t even lying, for a change.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Beth Ader, Jennifer Brown, Barbara Cabot, Lexa Hillyer, Michele Jaffe, Laura Langlie, Janey Lee, and Abigail McAden. Special thanks to Benjamin Egnatz, who wrote many of the songs/poems in this book, and also fed me while I was writing it.

About the Author

MEG CABOT is the author of the best-selling, critically acclaimed Princess Diaries books, which were made into the wildly popular Disney movies of the same name. Her other books for teens include the Mediator series, the 1-800-Where-R-You books, All-American Girl, Ready or Not, Teen Idol, and Avalon High, as well as Nicola and the Viscount and Victoria and the Rogue. She also writes books for adults, including The Boy Next Door, Boy Meets Girl, Every Boy’s Got One, and Size 12 Is Not Fat. She is still waiting for her real parents, the king and queen, to restore her to her rightful throne. She lives in Key West and New York City with her husband and a one-eyed cat named Henrietta.

Visit Meg’s website at: www.megcabot.com

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Books by

MEG CABOT

The Princess Diaries

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME II:

Princess in the Spotlight

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME III:

Princess in Love

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME IV:

Princess in Waiting

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME IV AND A HALF:

Project Princess

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME V:

Princess in Pink

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VI:

Princess in Training

The Princess Present:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK (VOLUME VI AND A HALF)

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VII:

Party Princess

Sweet Sixteen Princess:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK (VOLUME VII AND A HALF)

ILLUSTRATED BY CHESLEY MCLAREN:

Princess Lessons:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

Perfect Princess:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

Holiday Princess:

A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

ALL-AMERICAN GIRL

READY OR NOT: AN ALL-AMERICAN GIRL NOVEL

TEEN IDOL

AVALON HIGH

NICOLA AND THE VISCOUNT

VICTORIA AND THE ROGUE

THE MEDIATOR BOOKS:

THE MEDIATOR 1: SHADOWLAND

THE MEDIATOR 2: NINTH KEY

THE MEDIATOR 3: REUNION

THE MEDIATOR 4: DARKEST HOUR

THE MEDIATOR 5: HAUNTED

THE MEDIATOR 6: TWILIGHT

THE BOY NEXT DOOR

BOY MEETS GIRL

EVERY BOY’S GOT ONE

SIZE 12 IS NOT FAT

THE 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU BOOKS:

WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES

CODE NAME CASSANDRA

SAFE HOUSE

SANCTUARY

Credits

Jacket art © 2006 by Howard Huang

Jacket design by Amy Ryan

Copyright

Party Princess

Copyright © 2006 by Meg Cabot, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.

PerfectBound™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Microsoft Reader February 2006 ISBN 0-06-087496-1

For information address HarperCollins Children’s Books, a division of HarperCollins Publishers, 1350 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10019. www.harperteen.com

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006000364

ISBN-10: 0-06-072453-6 (trade bdg.)

ISBN-13: 978-0-06-072453-5 (trade bdg.)

ISBN-10: 0-06-072454-4 (lib. bdg.)

ISBN-13: 978-0-06-072454-2 (lib. bdg.)

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