Party Princess pd-7

by Meg Cabot

  Oh. My. God.

  Grandmère’s written a MUSICAL based on the story of my ancestress, Rosagunde.

  The thing is, I love musicals. Beauty and the Beast is, like, my favorite Broadway show of all time, and it’s a musical.

  But it is a musical about a prince who is under a curse and the bookish beauty who grows to love him anyway.

  It is NOT about a feudal warmonger and the girl who strangles him to death.

  Apparently, I was not the only one to realize this, since Lilly’s hand shot up and she called, “Excuse me.”

  Grandmère looked startled. She isn’t used to being interrupted once she gets going on one of her speeches.

  “Please hold all questions until the end,” Grandmère said confusedly.

  “Your Royal Highness,” Lilly said, ignoring her request. “Is what you’re telling us that this show, Braid!, is actually the story of Mia’s great-great-great and so on grandmother Rosagunde, who, in the year AD 568, was forced to wed the Visigothic warlord Alboin, who conquered Italy and claimed it as his own?”

  Grandmère bristled, the way Fat Louie does whenever I run out of Flaked Chicken or Tuna and have to give him some other flavor of food, like Turkey Giblets, instead.

  “That is exactly what I am trying to tell you,” Grandmère said stiffly. “If you will allow me to continue.”

  “Yeah,” Lilly said. “But a MUSICAL? About a woman who is forced to marry a man who not only murders her father, but on their wedding night makes her drink from her dad’s skull, and so consequently, she murders him in his sleep? I mean, isn’t that kind of material a little bit HEAVY for a musical?”

  “And a musical set in a military base during World War Two isn’t a bit HEAVY? I believe they chose to call that one South Pacific,” Grandmère said, with an arched brow. “Or a musical about urban gang warfare in New York City during the fifties? West Side Story, I believe that one was called….”

  Everyone in the room started murmuring—everyone except Señor Eduardo, who appeared to have dozed off. I had never thought about it before, but Grandmère was kind of right. A lot of musicals have kind of serious undertones, if you take the time to examine them. I mean, if you wanted to, you could say that Beauty and the Beast is about a hideously warped Chimera who kidnaps and holds hostage a young peasant girl.

  Trust Grandmère to destroy the one story I have ever wholeheartedly loved.

  “Or even,” Grandmère went on, above everyone’s whispers, “perhaps, a musical about the crucifixion of a man from Galilee…a little something called Jesus Christ Superstar?”

  Gasps could be heard throughout the ballroom. Grandmère had scored a coup de grâce, and knew it. She had them eating out of the palm of her hand.

  All but Lilly.

  “Excuse me,” Lilly said again. “But exactly when is this, erm, musical going to be performed?”

  It was only then that Grandmère looked slightly—just slightly—uncomfortable.

  “A week from today,” she said, with what I could tell was completely feigned self-assurance.

  “But, Dowager Princess,” Lilly cried, above the gasps and murmurs of all present—except Señor Eduardo, of course, who was still snoozing. “You can’t possibly expect the cast to memorize an entire show by next week. I mean, we’re students—we have homework. I, personally, am the editor of the school literary magazine, of which I intend to print Volume One, Issue One, next week. I can’t do all that AND memorize an entire play.”

  “Musical,” whispered Tina.

  “Musical,” Lilly corrected herself. “I mean, if I get in. That’s—that’s IMPOSSIBLE!”

  “Nothing is impossible,” Grandmère assured us. “Can you imagine what would have happened if the late John F. Kennedy had said it was impossible for man to walk on the moon? Or if Gorbachev had said it was impossible to take down the Berlin Wall? Or if, when my late husband invited the king of Spain and ten of his golfing partners to a state dinner at the last minute, I had said ‘Impossible’? It would have been an international incident! But the word ‘impossible’ is not in my vocabulary. I had the majordomo set eleven more places, the cook add water to the soup, and the pastry chef whip up eleven more soufflés. And the party was such a huge success that the king and his friends stayed on for three more nights, and lost hundreds of thousands of dollars at the baccarat tables—all of which went to help poor, starving orphans all over Genovia.”

  I don’t know what Grandmère is talking about. There are no starving orphans in Genovia. There weren’t any during my grandfather’s reign, either. But whatever.

  “And did I mention,” Grandmère asked, her gaze darting around the ballroom for some sympathetic faces, “that you will be receiving one hundred extra-credit English points for taking part in this show? I have already settled it with your principal.”

  The buzzing, which had been doubtful in tone, suddenly turned excited. Amber Cheeseman, who’d gotten up to leave—apparently due to the short amount of time the cast would have to learn their parts—hesitated, turned around, and came back to her seat.

  “Lovely,” Grandmère said, positively beaming at this. “Now. Shall we begin the audition process?”

  “A musical about a woman who strangles her father’s murderer with her hair,” Lilly muttered to herself, as she jotted in her notebook. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

  She wasn’t the only one who seemed perturbed. Señor Eduardo looked pretty upset as well.

  Oh, no, wait. He was just adjusting his oxygen hose.

  “The roles that need filling most crucially are, of course, the leads, Rosagunde and the foul warlord she dispatches with her hair, Alboin,” Grandmère continued. “But there is also the part of Rosagunde’s father, her maid, the king of Italy, Alboin’s jealous mistress and, of course, Rosagunde’s brave lover, the blacksmith, Gustav.”

  Wait a minute. Rosagunde had a lover? How come no Genovian history book I’ve read before now has ever mentioned this?

  And where was he, anyway, when his girlfriend was killing one of the most brutal sociopaths ever to have lived?

  “So without further ado,” Grandmère exclaimed, “let us begin the auditions!” She reached out and picked up two of the applications, with the Polaroids attached, not even glancing at Señor Eduardo, who was snoring lightly.

  “Will a Kenneth Showalter and an Amber Cheeseman please take the stage?” she asked.

  Only, of course, there was no stage, so there was a moment of confusion as Kenny and Amber tried to figure out where to go. Grandmère directed them to a spot in front of the long table where Señor Eduardo was dozing, and Rommel was licking his private parts.

  “Gustav,” she said, handing Kenny a sheet of paper. Then: “Rosagunde.” She handed a page to Amber.

  “Now,” Grandmère said. “Scene!”

  Lilly, beside me, was shaking, she was trying so hard not to laugh out loud. I don’t know what she thought was so funny about the situation.

  Although when Kenny started going, “Fear not, Rosagunde! For though tonight you might give your body to him, I know your heart belongs to me,” I could sort of see why she was laughing.

  I ESPECIALLY saw why she was laughing when we got to the musical part of the audition, and Kenny was asked to sing a song of his choice—accompanied by a guy playing the grand piano in the corner—and he chose to sing “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-a-lot. There was just something about him singing, “Shake it, shake it, shake that healthy butt,” that made me laugh until tears streamed down my face (though I had to do it super quietly, so no one would notice).

  It got even worse when Grandmère said, “Erm, thank you for that, young man,” and it was Amber’s turn to sing, because the song she chose to sing was Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” from Titanic, a song to which Lilly has designed a dance she does with her fingers, based on the Las Vegas hotel Bellagio’s “water dance” to the same song that is performed almost hourly in the huge fountain in front of the hotel’s dri
veway for the entertainment of tourists strolling down the Strip.

  I was laughing so hard (albeit silently) that I didn’t even hear the name of the girl Grandmère called next to audition for the part of Rosagunde.

  At least not until Lilly poked me with one of her dancing fingers.

  “Amelia Thermopolis Renaldo, please?” Grandmère said.

  “Nice try, Grandmère,” I called from my seat. “But I didn’t turn in a sheet. Remember?”

  Grandmère gave me the evil eye as everyone else sucked in their breath.

  “Why are you here, then?” she inquired acidly, “if you didn’t plan to audition?”

  Um, because I have been meeting with you at the Plaza every day after school for the past year and a half, remember?

  What I said instead was, “I’m just here to support my friends.”

  To which Grandmère merely replied, “Do not trifle with me, Amelia. I haven’t the time nor the patience. Get up here. Now.”

  She said it in her most dowager-princessy voice—a voice I totally recognized. It was the same voice she uses right before she drags out some excruciatingly embarrassing story from my childhood to mortify me in front of everyone—like the time I accidentally smacked my chest into the sideview mirror of the limo while I was Rollerblading in the driveway of her château, Miragnac, and I noticed afterwards it was all swollen, and I showed my dad and he was like, “Um, Mia, I don’t think that’s swelling. I think you’re getting breasts,” and Grandmère told every single person she met for the rest of my stay that her granddaughter mistook her own breasts for contusions.

  Which, if you think about it, isn’t THAT bad of a mistake to make, since they aren’t much bigger today than they were then.

  I could totally see her, however, trotting out this story in front of everyone if I didn’t do what she told me to.

  “Fine,” I said, from between gritted teeth, and got up to audition just as Grandmère called the name of the next guy she wanted to hear read.

  A guy who just happened to be named John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth.

  Who, when he stood up, turned out to be…

  …The Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili.

  Thursday, March 4, in the limo on the way home

  She denies it, of course. Grandmère, I mean. About just wanting to put on this play—excuse me, MUSICAL—to butter up John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third by casting his kid in the lead.

  But what other explanation is there? Am I REALLY supposed to believe she’s just doing this to help me with my little financial problem, like she says, since people are supposedly going to pay admission to this little nightmare she’s created, and I can use all the money to restore the student government’s diminished coffers?

  Yeah. Right.

  I fully confronted her as soon as the auditions were over.

  “How am I embarrassing you this time, Amelia?” she wanted to know, after everyone had left and it was just her and me and Lars and the rest of her staff—and Rommel and Señor Eduardo, of course. But both of them were asleep. It was hard to tell whose snores were louder.

  “Because you’re going to give”—I almost called him The Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili, but stopped myself just in time—“John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth the lead in your play just so his dad will feel like he owes you one and possibly drop his bid on the faux island of Genovia! I KNOW what you’re up to, Grandmère. I’m taking U.S. Economics this semester, I know all about scarcity and utility. Admit it!”

  “Braid! is a musical, not a play,” is all Grandmère would say about that.

  But she didn’t HAVE to say more. Her very silence is an admission of guilt! John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth is being used!

  Granted, he doesn’t seem to know it. Or, if he does, he doesn’t exactly seem to mind. Strangely, away from the overuse of farinaceous grains in the AEHS cafeteria, the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili seems pretty happy-go-lucky. “J.P.”—as he asked Grandmère to call him—is almost menacingly large (not unlike the bodyguard, played by Adam No-Relation-to-Alec Baldwin, in the low-budget high school bully film, My Bodyguard) at six feet two, at least. His floppy brown hair looks less shaggy and much shinier when it’s not under the harsh glow of the cafeteria’s less-than-flattering lighting.

  And up close, it turns out J.P. has surprisingly bright blue eyes.

  I got to see them—J.P.’s eyes—up close because Grandmère made us do the scene where Rosagunde has just strangled Alboin and is freaking out about it, when Gustav comes bursting into the bedroom to rescue his lady love from a ravishing by her new husband, not realizing she’d:

  a) already drunk the guy under the table so he couldn’t get it up to ravish her in the first place, and

  b) killed him after he passed out from all the Genovian grappa he’d consumed.

  But, oh well. Better late than never.

  I have no idea why Grandmère made me go through that farce of an audition since it’s clear she’s going to cast J.P. as Gustav—just to appease his dad. Although, truthfully, J.P. was really good, both with the acting AND the singing (he did a totally hilarious rendition of “The Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats). And that she’ll cast Lilly as Rosagunde. I mean, Lilly was clearly the best out of all the girls (her version of Garbage’s “Bad Boyfriend” nearly brought the house down) and has the most experience with the whole performance thing, on account of her TV show, and all.

  Plus she was really good at killing Alboin—which is only natural, since if there’s anyone at AEHS who I could see strangling someone with a braid, it’s Lilly. Oh, and maybe Amber Cheeseman.

  But the whole time it was my turn to audition, Grandmère kept yelling, “Enunciate, Amelia!” and “Don’t turn your back to your audience, Amelia! Your behind is not as expressive as your face!” (Which caused no small amount of chortling from the side of the room my friends were sitting on.)

  And she didn’t seem at ALL impressed by my version of “Barbie Girl” by Aqua (especially the chorus, “C’mon Barbie/Let’s go party,” which, if you think about it, is highly ironic considering my inability to do so. Party, I mean).

  Really, what was THAT about? I mean, it’s not as if she’s going to cast me, so why all the yelling? I mean, what do I even know about acting? Apart from a brief stint as the mouse in The Lion and the Mouse in the fourth grade, I am not exactly what you’d call experienced in the dramatic arts.

  It was a total relief when Grandmère finally let me sit down.

  Then, on our way back to our seats, J.P. said, “Hey, that was fun, huh?” to me.

  AND I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING BACK!!!!!!!!!!!

  BECAUSE I WAS SO STUNNED!!!!!!!

  Because to me, J.P. is the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili. He’s not John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth. The Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili doesn’t have a NAME. He’s just… the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili. The guy I wrote a short story about. A short story that was rejected by Sixteen magazine. A short story I hope to expand into a novel someday.

  A short story at the end of which the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili throws himself under the F train.

  How can I talk to a guy I had throw himself under a train—even if it WAS only fiction?

  Worse, on her way out after the auditions were over, Tina (Jessica Simpson’s “With You”) was all, “Hey, you know what? The Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili is kinda cute. I mean, when he’s not freaking out about corn.”

  “Yeah,” Lilly agreed. “Now that you mention it, he kinda is.”

  I waited for Lilly to add something like, “Too bad he’s such a freak,” or “It’s a shame about the corn thing.” But she didn’t. SHE DIDN’T.

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  My friends think the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili is cute!!!! A guy I KILLED in my short story!

  And it�
��s all Grandmère’s fault. If she hadn’t got it into her head to buy a stupid faux island, it would never have occurred to her to write a musical—let alone put it on—for my school, and I never would have met the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili, much less found out that his nickname is J.P. and that, contrary to the character in my short story about him, he is NOT an existential loner, but actually just a nice guy who has a pretty good singing voice, and who my friends think is cute (and they’re right, he is).

  God, I hate her.

  Well, okay, it’s wrong to hate people.

  But I don’t love her, let’s put it that way. In fact, on the list of people I love, Grandmère isn’t even in the top five.

  PEOPLE I LOVE, IN ORDER OF

  HOW MUCH I LOVE THEM:

  1. Fat Louie

  2. Rocky

  3. Michael

  4. My mom

  5. My dad

  6. Lars

  7. Lilly

  8. Tina

  9. Shameeka/Ling Su/Perin

  10. Mr. G

  11. Pavlov, Michael’s dog

  12. The Drs. Moscovitz

  13. Tina Hakim Baba’s little brother and sisters

  14. Mrs. Holland, my government teacher last semester

  15. Buffy the Vampire Slayer

  16. Ronnie, our next-door neighbor

  17. Boris Pelkowski

  18. Principal Gupta

  19. Rommel, Grandmère’s dog

  20. Kevin Bacon

  21,000. Ms. Martinez

  22,000. The doorman at the Plaza who wouldn’t let me in that one time because I wasn’t dressed fancy enough

  23,000. Trisha Hayes

  24,000,000. Lana Weinberger

  25,000,000,000. Grandmère

  And I don’t even feel the least bit bad about it. She brought it on HERSELF.

  Thursday, March 4, the loft

  Guess what Mr. G made for dinner tonight?

  Oh yes. Chili.

  There wasn’t corn in it, but still.

  Maybe I should throw MYSELF under an F train.

  Thursday, March 4, the loft