Party Princess pd-7

by Meg Cabot

“Since when do you drink beer?” Michael wanted to know.

  “God, Michael,” I said, laughing. “Whatever.”

  “She said the same thing to me,” Lilly informed her brother, as she took her camera from J.P. and stuck the lens into both our faces.

  “Lilly,” Michael said. “Quit filming. Mia—”

  But before he got to say whatever it was he was going to say, his computer’s Party Shuffle (he’d wired the speakers in his parents’ living room to his hard drive) started to play the first slowish song of the evening—Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound”—so I went, “Oh, I love this song,” and started dancing, the way Lana had said to.

  The truth is, I am not even the biggest Coldplay fan, because I don’t really approve of the lead singer letting his wife, Gwyneth Paltrow, name their kid Apple. What is going to happen to that poor kid when she gets to high school? Everyone is going to make fun of her.

  But I guess that beer, skunky as it had been, did the trick. Because I didn’t feel anywhere near as self-conscious as I had before I’d started sipping it. In fact, I felt sort of good. Even though I was the only person in the whole room who was dancing.

  But I figured that was okay because a lot of times when one person starts dancing, everyone else does. They are just waiting for someone to break the ice.

  Only I couldn’t help noticing that as I danced, no one was joining me. Especially Michael. He was just standing there staring at me. As was Lars. As was Lilly, although she was doing it through a camera lens. Boris and Tina, over on the couch, stopped kissing and started looking at me instead. The college girls were staring at me, too. One of them leaned over to whisper something to one of her friends, and the friend giggled.

  I figured they were just jealous because I had actually made an effort to dress up for the party, what with my beret and all, and kept dancing.

  Which was when J.P. totally came to my rescue. He started dancing, too.

  He wasn’t really dancing with me, since he wasn’t touching me, or anything. But he kind of walked over to where I was and started moving his feet around, you know, the way really big guys dance, like they don’t want to draw a lot of attention to themselves, but they want to join in the fun.

  I was so excited someone else was finally dancing, I sort of shimmied (Feather taught us that term—it’s when you wiggle your shoulders) closer to him, and smiled up at him, to say thanks. And he smiled back.

  The thing is, after that, I guess—technically, speaking—we were sort of dancing together. I guess, technically, what was happening was, I was dancing with another guy. In front of my boyfriend. At a party being given by my boyfriend.

  Which I guess—technically speaking—constitutes really bad girlfriend behavior.

  Although I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time, all I could think about was how stupid I’d felt when no one would dance with me, and how happy I was that J.P.—unlike my other so-called friends—hadn’t left me hanging there, dancing by myself, in front of everyone… particularly Michael.

  Who hadn’t even told me I looked nice. Or that he liked my beret.

  J.P. had said I looked more beautiful than the loveliest Mediterranean sunset. J.P. had come over and started dancing with me.

  While Michael just stood there.

  Who knew how long J.P. and I would have kept dancing—while Michael just stood there—if just then the front door hadn’t opened, and Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz hadn’t come in?

  And okay, Michael had gotten permission to have the party and they weren’t mad about it at all.

  But still! They walked in right as I was dancing! With ANOTHER GUY! It was super-embarrassing!!! I mean, they’re Michael’s PARENTS!!!!

  This was almost as embarrassing as the time they walked in when Michael and I were kissing, you know, on the couch over Winter Break (well, okay, we were doing MORE than kissing. There was some under-the-shirt and over-the-bra action going on. Which I will admit for a girl who doesn’t want to have sex until prom night of her senior year is pretty risky behavior. But whatever. The truth is, I got so involved in the whole kissing thing, I didn’t even notice what Michael’s hands were doing until it was too late. Because by then I was LIKING it. So in a way, I was like, THANK GOD Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz walked in when they did. Or who knows WHERE I’d have let Michael’s hands go next?).

  Still. This was even MORE EMBARRASSING than THAT time, believe it or not. Because, I mean—dancing! With another guy!

  Which I don’t even know if they saw, because they were like, “Sorry, don’t mind us,” and hurried down the hall to their room before any of us could practically even say hello.

  Still. Every time I think of what they MIGHT have seen, I go all hot and cold—the way Alec Guinness said he always felt every time he saw himself in the scene in Star Wars: A New Hope where Obi Wan talks about feeling a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

  Worse, as soon as the Drs. Moscovitz were gone—I totally stopped dancing when I saw them; in fact, I froze—Lilly came up to me and whispered, “Were you supposed to be sexy dancing or something? Because you sort of looked like someone stuck an ice cube down your shirt and you were trying to shake it out.”

  Sexy dancing! Lilly thought I was sexy dancing! With J.P.! In front of Michael!

  After that, of course, it was impossible to keep up my party-girl charade. I fully went and sat down by myself on the couch.

  And Michael didn’t even come over to ask me if I’d lost my mind or challenge J.P. to a duel or anything. Instead, he followed his parents, I guess to see if they’d come back early because something was wrong, or if the conference had just ended early, or what.

  I sat there for like two minutes, listening to everyone around me laughing and having a good time, and feeling my palms break into a cold sweat. I was surrounded by people—surrounded by them!—but I swear I had never felt more alone in my life. Sexy dancing! I’d been sexy dancing! With another boy!

  Even Lilly had stopped filming me, finding the sight of Doo Pak tasting Cool Ranch Doritos for the first time much more interesting than my intense mortification.

  J.P. was the only one who said a word to me after that—besides Tina, on the couch opposite mine, who leaned over and said, “That was a very nice dance, Mia,” like I’d been doing some kind of performance piece, or something.

  “Hey,” J.P. said, coming over to where I was sitting. “I think you forgot this.”

  I looked at what he was holding. My three-quarters-empty beer! The substance responsible for my having thought it might be a good idea to do a sexy dance with another boy in the first place!

  “Take it away!” I moaned and buried my face in my knees.

  “Oh,” J.P. said. “Sorry. Um… are you all right?”

  “No,” I said to my thighs.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  “Can you create a rift in the space-time continuum so no one will remember what an ass I just made of myself?”

  “Um. I don’t think so. How did you make an ass of yourself?”

  Which was sweet of him—to pretend he hadn’t noticed, and all. But seriously, that just made it worse.

  Which is why I did the only thing I thought I reasonably could: I gathered up my things—and my bodyguard—and left before anybody could see me cry.

  Which I did all the way home.

  And now all I can do is hope that J.P. was lying and that he really does know how to create a rift in the space-time continuum that will make it so that everyone who was at that party forgets I was ever there, too.

  Especially Michael.

  Who by now has to be way more than slightly aware that I am, in the worst sense of the word, a party girl.

  Oh, God.

  I think I need an aspirin.

  Sunday, March 7, 9 a.m., the loft

  No messages from Michael. No e-mail. No calls.

  It’s official: He is disgusted to even know me.<
br />
  And I don’t blame him one bit. I’d go throw myself into the East River in shame if I didn’t have rehearsal.

  I just called Zabar’s and, using my mom’s credit card (um, unbeknownst to her, since she’s still sleeping, and Mr. G has taken Rocky out to go buy orange juice), ordered bagels and lox to be delivered to the Moscovitzes’ apartment, as my way of saying I’m sorry.

  No one can stay mad after an everything bagel from Zabar’s.

  Right?

  Sexy dancing! What was I THINKING?????

  Sunday, March 7, 5 p.m., the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza

  We never should have worried about memorizing our lines by Monday. I know them cold already, we’ve been through this play so many times.

  And my feet are killing me from all the (not sexy) dancing. Feather says we all have to get something called jazz shoes. She’s bringing a bunch for us tomorrow.

  Except that by tomorrow, my feet will have fallen off.

  Also, my throat is starting to hurt from all the singing. Madame Puissant has us sipping hot cups of Emergen-C.

  Phil, the pianist, looks ready to drop. Even Grandmère is starting to droop. Only Señor Eduardo, dozing in his chair, looks rested. Well, Señor Eduardo and Rommel.

  Oh, God. She’s making them run through, “Genovia, My Genovia” one more time. I freaking HATE this song. At least I’m not in this number. Still. Can’t she see she’s driving us past the breaking point? My God, aren’t there rules about how long you can force a child to work?

  Oh, well. At least all of this is keeping my mind off last night’s humiliation. Sort of. I mean, Lilly still brings it up every chance she gets—“Oh, Mia, hey, thanks for the bagels,” and “Hey, Mia, maybe you could work that sexy dance into the scene where you murder Alboin,” and “Where’s your beret?”

  Which of course has everyone who wasn’t there going, “What’s she talking about?” At which Lilly just smiles all knowingly.

  And then there’s the Michael thing. Lilly says he wasn’t even there to GET the bagels I sent over this morning. He went back to his dorm room last night after the party ended because his parents were home and didn’t need him to keep Lilly out of trouble anymore.

  I’ve sent him, like, three text messages apologizing for being such a weirdo.

  All I got back from him was this:

  WE NEED 2 TALK

  Which can only mean one thing, of course. He—

  Oh, wait. J.P. just passed me a note, so we won’t get yelled at for whispering, as happened earlier when he leaned over to let me know my combat boot had come untied.

  J.P.:

  Hey. You aren’t mad at me, are you?

  Me:

  Why would I be mad at you?

  J.P.:

  For dancing with you.

  Me:

  Why would I be mad at you for DANCING with me?

  J.P.:

  Well, if it got you in trouble with your boyfriend, or anything.

  It was looking more and more like it totally had. But that wasn’t anybody’s fault but mine… and certainly not J.P.’s.

  Me:

  No. That was totally NICE of you. It helped me not look like the biggest freak in the universe. I’m so STUPID. I can’t believe I had that beer. I was just so nervous, you know. Of not being enough of a party girl.

  J.P.:

  Well, you looked like you were having a great time, if it’s any consolation. Not like today. Today you look—well, that’s why I thought you might be mad at me. Either because of last night, or maybe because of that thing I said the other day, about knowing you’re a vegetarian because of that fit you had in the caf that one time.

  Me:

  No. Why would that make me mad? It’s true. I DID have a fit when I found out they put meat in the lasagna. I mean, it was supposed to be vegetarian.

  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 “Mi
ke” 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….