Meg Cabot - Party Princess

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—”