Party Princess

by Meg Cabot

  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, avera
ge 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.”