Party Princess

by Meg Cabot

  So I went up to her and was like, “One copy, please.”

  And Lilly went, all businesslike, “That will be five dollars.”

  I totally couldn’t help myself. I was like, “FIVE DOLLARS??? ARE YOU KIDDING????”

  And Lilly went, “Well, it’s not cheap putting out a magazine, you know. And you were the one harping about how we have to make back the money we blew on the recycling bins.”

  I coughed up the five bucks. But I had my doubts it would be worth it.

  It wasn’t. Besides my story, and Kenny’s dwarf thesis, there were a couple of mangas, one of J.P.’s poems, and…

  …all five of the short stories Lilly wrote for the Sixteen magazine contest. Five. She put FIVE of her own short stories in her magazine!

  I could hardly believe it. I mean, I know Lilly thinks pretty highly of herself, but—

  It was right then that Principal Gupta walked in. She NEVER comes into the cafeteria. Rumor has it once she stepped on a Tater Tot someone dropped and it grossed her out so much, she would never set foot in the caf again.

  But today she crossed the caf, and, heedless of any Tater Tots that might have been underfoot, went right up to Lilly’s booth!

  “Uh-oh,” Ling Su, next to me, said. “Looks like someone’s busted.”

  “Maybe Gupta objects to the cover illustration,” Boris suggested.

  “Um, I think it’s more likely she’s objecting to this story Lilly wrote,” Tina said, holding up her copy. “Did you guys READ this? It’s totally NC-17!”

  I hadn’t actually read any of Lilly’s stories. She’d just told me about them. But even a rudimentary scan through them showed me that—

  Oh, yes. Lilly was very, very busted.

  And all copies of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole were being confiscated by Coach Wheeton, who had brought a large black trash bag for that purpose.

  “This is a violation of our right to free speech!” Lilly was shouting, as Principal Gupta escorted her from the caf. “People, don’t just sit there! Get up and protest! Don’t let the man keep you down!”

  But everyone just sat where they were, chewing. Students at AEHS are totally used to letting the man keep us down.

  When Coach Wheeton, spying the copy of Lilly’s magazine in my hands, came up to me with his trash bag and went, “Sorry, Mia. We’ll see that you get your money back,” I dropped it in.

  Because what else could I do?

  J.P. and I just looked at each other.

  I wasn’t sure whether or not it was my imagination, but he seemed to be LAUGHING.

  I’m glad SOMEONE can see something funny in all this.

  Then Tina took me aside….

  “Listen, Mia,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but I think I just figured something out. I read this romance novel once where the heroine and her evil twin were both in love with the same guy, the hero. And the evil twin kept doing all this stuff to make the heroine look bad in front of him. The hero, I mean.”

  “Yeah?” What did this have to do with me? I wondered. I don’t have a twin.

  “Well, you know how you kept asking Lilly to pull ‘No More Corn!’, and she wouldn’t do it, even though she knew it would hurt J.P.’s feelings, and all, if he read it?”

  What was she getting at? “Yeah?”

  “Well, what if the reason Lilly refused to pull your story was because she WANTED J.P. to read it. Because she knew if he read it, he’d get mad at you for writing it, and then he wouldn’t like you anymore. And then he’d be free to like HER, instead.”

  At first I was like, “No way. Lilly would never do something like that to me.”

  But then I remembered the last thing she said to me during last night’s limo ride home from the Plaza:

  I won’t be the person hurting him. You will. I didn’t write that story.

  Oh my God! Could Tina be right? Does Lilly like J.P., but thinks he likes me? Could that really be why she was being so stubborn about pulling “No More Corn!”?

  No. No, that can’t be right. Because Lilly doesn’t GET all weird and possessive about boys. She just doesn’t.

  “I’m not saying she was doing it CONSCIOUSLY,” Tina said, when I mentioned this. “She probably hasn’t even admitted to HERSELF that she likes J.P. But SUBCONSCIOUSLY, this could be the reason why she refused to pull your story.”

  “No,” I said. “Come on, Tina. That’s crazy.”

  “Is it?” Tina wanted to know. “Think about it, Mia. What HASN’T Lilly lost to you lately? First the school presidency. Then the part of Rosagunde. Now this. I’m just saying. It would explain a lot.”

  Well, it would explain a lot. If it were true. But it’s not. J.P. doesn’t like me that way, and Lilly doesn’t like HIM that way.

  And even if she did, she would never do something like that to me. I mean, she’s the person I love seventh best in the whole world. And I’m sure she loves me third. Or maybe fourth. On account of her not having a boyfriend, a younger sibling, a stepparent, or any pets of her own.

  Wednesday, March 10, G & T

  Lilly’s back. She’s looking really pale. Apparently, Principal Gupta called her parents.

  Who came in to school. For a conference.

  I don’t know what they talked about. At the conference, I mean. But apparently, Lilly has to run the content of the next issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole past Ms. Martinez before she’s allowed to sell it. Because Lilly never showed Ms. Martinez her short stories.

  Or mine.

  Or the name of the magazine. Which is being changed to The Zine.

  Just The Zine.

  Which is, as I told Lilly, in an effort to be kind, kinda catchy.

  Lilly didn’t say anything back to me, like, “Thanks” or “I’m sorry.”

  And I’m not saying anything to her, like, “Want to talk?” or “I’m sorry.”

  But I wish I could.

  I’m just afraid of what she’ll say back.

  Wednesday, March 10, third-floor stairwell

  Today must be some kind of record for me breaking school rules. Because Kenny and I just totally skipped Earth Science, and we’re up here with Tina, going over the choreography one last time before tonight’s performance.

  Kenny says he’s so nervous, he wants to throw up. Tina, too.

  Me? To tell the truth—and it’s my personal mission in life to ONLY tell the truth anymore—I could vomit up my intestines, I’m so freaked out.

  Because tonight I am going to have to do something I have never done before in my life. And that’s kiss a boy.

  A boy other than Michael, I mean.

  Well, okay, except for Josh Richter, but he doesn’t count, because that was before Michael and I started going out.

  But basically, tonight I am going to cheat on my boyfriend.

  And okay, I know it’s not really cheating, since it’s just a play—I mean, musical—and we are only acting a part and don’t really like each other or anything.

  But still. I’ll be kissing ANOTHER MAN. A man I, only last Saturday, sexy danced with. In front of my boyfriend.

  Who didn’t like it very much. So much so, in fact, that he’s apparently not speaking to me now. So if he finds out about this kissing thing, I’m REALLY going to be dead.

  And even if he doesn’t find out, I WILL KNOW.

  How can I help but feel like I am betraying him somehow?

  Especially if—and this is what worries me most—I end up LIKING it. Kissing J.P., I mean.

  Oh, God. I can’t believe I even WROTE that.

  Of COURSE I won’t like it. I only love one boy, and that’s Michael. Even if he doesn’t necessarily love me back right now. I could NEVER enjoy kissing someone else. NEVER.

  Oh, God. WHY WON’T HE CALL?????

  Wednesday, March 10, the big performance

  He still hasn’t called.

  And there are so many people here.

  I’m serious.

  I ca
n’t actually see who any of them are because Grandmère won’t let us peek out from behind the curtains, because she says, “If you can see the audience, they can see you.” She says it’s unprofessional to be seen in costume until after the show has started.

  Considering this is an amateur production, Grandmère sure is a stickler about us all acting professional.

  Still, I can see there are like twenty-five rows of chairs, with like twenty-five seats across out there, and every seat is filled. That’s like…five thousand people!

  Oh no, wait. Boris says it’s only six hundred and twenty-five.

  Still. That is a LOT of people. Not ALL of them can be related to us, you know? I mean, obviously, there are CELEBRITIES out there. According to Netscape, which I checked just before I left for the Plaza, Grandmère’s Aide de Ferme benefit is sold out—donations for the Genovian olive growers have been pouring in all week from movie stars and rock musicians alike. Apparently, Grandmère’s benefit—with its musical tribute to Genovian history—is THE place to be tonight.

  I could be totally wrong, but I think I saw Prince—the artist formerly known as Prince, I mean—demanding an aisle seat just now.

  And what about the REPORTERS? There are a ton of them, crouched down behind the orchestra, their cameras poised to photograph us the minute the curtains go up. I can just see tomorrow’s headline emblazoned across the Post: PRINCESS PLAYS A PRINCESS. Or worse, PRINCESS TAKES A BOW.

  Shudder.

  With my luck, they’ll get a picture of J.P. and me kissing, and THAT will be the photo they pick for the front page.

  And Michael will see it.

  And then he’ll TOTALLY break up with me.

  Okay, I am such a shallow person, worrying about my boyfriend breaking up with me, when he is currently going through what is probably the most painful personal crisis of his life and so clearly has way bigger things to be concerned about than his dumb high school girlfriend.

  And why am I even worrying about this when I am supposed to be focusing on my performance? According to Grandmère, anyway.

  Everyone backstage is REALLY nervous. Amber Cheeseman is in the corner, doing some hapkido warm-up moves to calm down. Ling Su is doing breathing exercises she learned in her yoga class at the Y. Kenny is pacing around, muttering, “Step-ball-change. Step-ball-change. Jazz-hands, jazz-hands, jazz-hands. Step-ball-change.” Tina is helping Boris run through his lines. Lilly is just sitting quietly by herself, trying not to mess up her costume’s long white train.

  Even Grandmère has broken her own rules again and is smoking, despite the fact that her last meal was hours ago.

  Only Señor Eduardo seems calm. That’s because he’s asleep in a chair in the front row, with his equally ancient wife dozing beside him. They were the only two people I recognized before Grandmère caught me peeking.

  Two minutes until the curtain goes up.

  Grandmère has just called us over to her. She puts out her cigarette and says, “Well, children. This is it. The moment of truth. Everything you’ve worked so hard for this week has all been leading up to this. Will you succeed? Or will you fall on your faces and make fools of yourselves in front of your parents and friends, not to mention any number of celebrities? Only you can decide. It’s entirely up to you. But I’ve done all I can for you. I’ve written what is, perhaps, one of the finest musicals of all time. You can’t blame the material. Only yourselves, from this point on. Now it’s your turn, children. Your turn to spread your wings, as I have—and fly! Fly, children! FLY!”

  Then she says, into the walkie-talkie none of us has noticed she’s carrying until that very moment, “For God’s sake, it’s seven o’clock, start the overture already.”

  And the music begins…

  Wednesday, March 10, the big performance

  Oh my God, they LOVE it! Seriously! They’re eating it up! I’ve never heard a crowd applaud so hard! They are going NUTS! And we haven’t even gotten to the finale yet!

  Everybody is doing SO well! Boris hasn’t forgotten any of his lines—he sang the Warlord song perfectly—

  Going out to kill and slay

  Is what I do every single day

  No other job would I request

  Marauding is what I do best!

  Chorus:

  Riding through forests in the night

  When I emerge it’s quite a sight

  In villagers’ eyes, it’s fear I see

  Oh, what a blast it is to be me!

  And Kenny hasn’t messed up any of the choreography. Well, okay, he has, but not enough so as anyone would really notice.

  And you could have heard a pin drop when Lilly sang the mistress’s song!

  How was I to know

  When to him my mother sold

  Me, that one day I would grow

  To love him so?

  Though all he does is rape and plunder

  To me it’s always been a wonder

  That when he’s done with pillaging

  It’s me he turns to for his loving.

  She held that crowd in the palm of her hand! Her voice THROBBED with poignancy, just like Madame Puissant taught her! And she remembered to use only one hand while lifting up her train to climb the stairs.

  And J.P. practically got a standing ovation for his smith song.

  How could someone like she

  Ever love a poor man like me?

  When clearly she could have anyone

  Why would she settle for this someone?

  How could she

  Ever love me?

  And the song right before I strangle Boris was so POWERFUL!!!! You could hear people in the audience—the ones who are unfamiliar with Genovian history—gasp when I sang the line, “So with this braid, I make the turn/Around his neck, so he may burn.” Seriously.

  Though twilight brings this day to close

  What comes tomorrow none can know.

  I lie here in this bed of hate,

  And look to night to cast my fate….

  Chorus:

  Father, Genovia, together we will fight!

  Father, Genovia, for the future is tonight!

  Cross my heart and hope to die,

  My father’s death I’ll avenge, swore I

  So with this braid, I make the twist

  That by morning’s light, he’ll not exist!

  And when I sang that second chorus of “Father, Genovia, together we will fight/Father, Genovia, for the future is tonight!” I am almost positive I heard Grandmère—GRANDMÈRE, of all people—sniffle!

  Well, okay, maybe she’s just suffering from a bit of postnasal drip. But still.

  Oh, it’s time for the big finale! This is it. Time for the big kiss.

  I really hope Tina isn’t right and J.P. doesn’t like me that way. Because no matter what happens, my heart belongs to Michael and always will.

  Not that kissing someone else in a play—I mean, musical—is like cheating on him. Because it totally isn’t. What J.P. and I—

  Where IS J.P. anyway? We’re supposed to hold hands and run out onto the stage together, with looks of joy upon our faces, and then he gives me the big kiss.

  But how can I hold his hand and run out onto the stage when he’s MISSING????

  This is crazy. He was here after the last number. Where could he—

  Oh, finally, here he comes.

  Wait—that’s someone in J.P.’s costume. But that’s not J.P….

  Wednesday, March 10, the big party

  Oh my God. I can’t believe ANY of this is happening.

  Seriously. It’s all like a dream. Because when I reached out to grab J.P.’s hand and rush out onto the stage with him, I found myself grabbing MICHAEL’S hand instead.

  “MICHAEL?” I couldn’t help exclaiming. Even though we aren’t supposed to talk backstage, on account of our body mics possibly picking it up. “What are you—?”

  But Michael put his finger to his lips, pointed to my mic, then grabbed my hand and dragged me out on
to the stage—

  Exactly the way J.P. had, in all our rehearsals.

  Then, as everyone sang, “Genovia! Genovia!” Michael, in J.P.’s Gustav costume, swept me into his arms, bent me back, and planted the biggest movie kiss you’ve ever seen on my lips.

  Nobody even noticed it wasn’t J.P. until the curtain call, when we all had to grab hands and bow.

  “Michael!” I cried again. “What are you doing here?”

  We didn’t have to worry about our mics picking anything up at that point, because the audience was clapping so hard, they wouldn’t have heard it anyway.

  “What do you mean, what am I doing here?” Michael asked with a grin. “Did you really think I was going to stand idly by while you kissed another guy?”

  Which was right when J.P. walked past us, and went, “Hey, man. Good one,” and held out his palm, which Michael lightly slapped.

  “Wait,” I said. “What’s going on here?”

  Which was when Lilly stepped up and draped an arm around my neck.

  “Oh, POG,” she said. “Chill out.”

  Then she went on to describe how she and her brother—with J.P.’s help—concocted this plan to have Michael and J.P. switch places during the finale, so Michael, not J.P., could be the one who kissed me.

  And that’s precisely what they did.

  How they managed to do so behind my back, though, I will never know. I mean, seriously.

  “Does this mean you forgive me for the sexy-dance thing?” I asked Michael, after we’d been de-miked and de-braided and we were alone in one of the wings backstage, while offstage, everyone else was getting congratulated by their family—or meeting the celebrities of their dreams.

  But what did I need with celebrities, when the person I looked up to most in the world was standing RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME?

  “Yes, I forgive you for the sexy-dance thing,” Michael said, his arms tight around me. “If you’ll forgive me for having been such an absentee boyfriend lately.”

  “It’s not your fault. You were upset about your parents. I totally understand.”

  To which he replied simply, “Thanks.”