Meg Cabot - Party Princess

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?