Meg Cabot - Party Princess

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

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

God. That would kind of… suck.

Friday, March 5, G & T

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

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

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

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

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

Grandmère seemed to find this statement totally hilarious.

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

I had to think about this one.

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

“What else?”

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

“Think again.”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wh-what?”

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

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

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

Her reply rocked me to my very core:

“Oh, I would.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she hung up.

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

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

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

My grandmother is EVIL. Seriously.

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

I’ll tell you what kind: an EVIL one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, March 5, Earth Science

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

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

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