Party Princess

by Meg Cabot

  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.”