Party Princess

MEG CABOT

PARTY

Princess

THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VII

For my niece,

Riley Sueham Cabot,

another princess in training

“The spirit and will of any child would have been entirely humbled and broken by the changes she has had to submit to. But, upon my word, she seems as little subdued as if—as if she were a princess.”

A LITTLE PRINCESS

Frances Hodgson Burnett

CONTENTS

EPIGRAPH

BEGIN READING

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY MEG CABOT

CREDITS

COPYRIGHT

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

From the desk of

Her Royal Highness

Princess Amelia Mignonette

Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo

Dear Dr. Carl Jung,

I realize that you will never read this letter, primarily because you are dead.

But I feel compelled to write it anyway, because a few months ago during a particularly trying period in my life, a nurse told me I needed to be more verbal about my feelings.

I know writing a letter to a dead person isn’t exactly being verbal, but my situation is such that there are very few people I can actually talk to about my problems. Mostly because those people are the ones causing my problems.

The truth is, Dr. Jung, I have been striving for fifteen and three-quarters years for self-actualization. You remember self-actualization, right? I mean, you should—you invented it.

The thing is, every time I think I have self-actualization on the horizon, something comes along to mess it all up. Like this whole princess thing. I mean, just when I thought I couldn’t possibly become a bigger freak, POW! It turns out that I’m also a princess.

Which I realize does not seem like an actual problem to many people. But I’d be very interested to see how THEY would react if every single spare moment of THEIR lives was taken up by lessons in being a royal from their tattooed-eyelidded grandmother; getting stalked by the paparazzi; or attending boring state functions with people who have never even heard of The OC, let alone know what’s going on with Seth and Summer’s on-again-off-again romance.

But the princess thing isn’t the only thing that’s put a wedge between me and my quest for self-actualization. Being the sole sane caretaker of my baby brother—who appears to have grave developmental problems because at ten months he still cannot walk without holding on to someone’s (usually my) fingers (while it is true that he has shown markedly advanced verbal skills for his age, knowing two words, “tuck”—truck—and “kee”—kitty—he uses them indiscriminately for all objects, not just trucks and cats)—hasn’t helped much, either.

But that isn’t all. How about the fact I have been elected president of the student council of my school…but am nevertheless still one of the most unpopular people in said school?

Or that I’ve finally figured out that I do have an actual talent (writing—in case you can’t tell from this letter), but also that I won’t be able to pursue a career in my field of choice, because I will be too busy ruling a small European principality? Not that—according to my English teacher, Ms. Martinez, who says I have a problem with the overuse of adjectives in my descriptive essays—I’m ever going to get published, or even get a job as an assistant writer on a situation comedy.

Or that I finally won the love of the man of my dreams, only to have him so busy with his History of Dystopic Science Fiction in Film course, I hardly ever get to see him.

Do you see where I’m coming from with all of this? Every time self-actualization seems to be within my reach, it is cruelly snatched away by fate. Or my grandmother.

I’m not complaining. I’m just saying…well, exactly how much does a human being have to endure before she can consider herself self-actualized?

Because I really don’t think I can take anymore.

Do you have any tips on how I might achieve transcendence before my sixteenth birthday? Because I would really appreciate some.

Thanks.

Your friend,

Mia Thermopolis

P. S.: Oh, yeah. I forgot. You’re dead. Sorry. Never mind about the tips thing. I guess I’ll just look some up in the library.

Tuesday, March 2, after school, Gifted and Talented

BIMONTHLY MEETING OF THE AEHS

STUDENT GOVERNMENT OFFICERS

Meeting Called to Order

Attendance—

Present:

Mia Thermopolis, President

Lilly Moscovitz, Vice President

Ling Su Wong, Treasurer

Mrs. Hill, student government advisor

Lars van der Hooten, personal bodyguard of

HRH M. Thermopolis

Absent:

Tina Hakim Baba, Secretary, due to emergency retainer refitting after her little brother flushed her old one down the toilet

(Which, by the way, is why I’m the one writing the minutes. Ling Su can’t, due to having “artist” handwriting, which is very similar to “doctor” handwriting, meaning it is actually indecipherable by the human eye. And Lilly claims she has carpal tunnel syndrome from typing out the short story she sent in to Sixteen magazine’s annual short fiction contest.

Or, I should say, the FIVE short stories she sent into Sixteen magazine’s annual short fiction contest.

I don’t know how she found the time to write FIVE stories. I barely had time to write ONE.

Still, I think my story, “No More Corn!”, is pretty good. I mean, it has everything a short story SHOULD have in it: Romance. Pathos. Suicide. Corn.

Who could ask for more?)

Motion to approve the minutes from February 15th Meeting: APPROVED

PRESIDENT’S REPORT:

My request that the school library remain open on weekends for the use of study groups was met with considerable resistance by school administration. Concerns raised were: cost of overtime for librarian, as well as cost of overtime for school security guard at entrance to check IDs and make sure people entering were, in fact, AEHS students, and not just random homeless people off the streets.

VICE PRESIDENT’S RESPONSE:

The gym is kept open on the weekends for sports practices. Surely the security guard could check IDs of both student athletes and students who actually care about their grades. Also, don’t you think even a moderately intelligent security guard could tell the difference between random homeless people and AEHS students?

PRESIDENT’S RESPONSE TO VICE PRESIDENT:

I know. I mentioned this. Principal Gupta then reminded me that the athletic budget was determined some time ago, and that there is no weekend library budget. And that the security guards were mainly hired for their size, not their intelligence.

VICE PRESIDENT’S RESPONSE TO PRESIDENT’S RESPONSE:

Well, then, maybe Principal Gupta needs to be reminded that the vast majority of students at Albert Einstein High are not involved in sports, need that extra library time, and that the budget needs to be reviewed. And that size isn’t everything.

PRESIDENT’S RESPONSE TO THE RESPONSE OF THE VICE PRESIDENT’S RESPONSE TO MY PREVIOUS STATEMENT:

Duh, Lilly, I did. She said she’d look into it.

(Why does Lilly have to be so adversarial during these meetings? It makes me look like I don’t have any authority whatsoever in front of Mrs. Hill.

I really thought she was over that whole thing about me not stepping down from office so that SHE could be president. I mean, that was MONTHS ago, and she seemed to forgive me once I got my dad to go on her TV show so she could interview him about European immigration policies.

And okay, it didn’t give her the ratings bounce she’d been hoping for.

But Lilly Tells It Like It Is is still the most popular public access program on Manhattan cable television—after that one with the Hell’s Angel who shows you how to cook over an exhaust pipe, I mean—even if those producers who optioned her show still haven’t managed to sell it to any major networks.)

VICE PRESIDENT’S REPORT:

The recycling bins have arrived and have been placed beside every regular trash can throughout the school. These are specialized bins that are divided into three sections: paper, bottles, and cans, with a built-in mechanized crusher on the can side. Student use has been frequent. There is, however, a small problem with the stickers.

PRESIDENT’S RESPONSE:

What stickers?

VICE PRESIDENT’S R TO PRESIDENT’S R:

The ones across the lids of the recycling bins that say “Paper, Cans, and Battles.”

PRESIDENT’S R TO VP’S R:

They say “Paper, Cans, and BOTTLES,” not “Battles.”

VICE PRESIDENT:

No, they don’t. See?

PRESIDENT:

Okay. Who proofed the stickers?

VICE PRESIDENT:

That would have been the secretary. Who isn’t here.

TREASURER:

But it isn’t Tina’s fault, she’s been super-stressed about midterms.

PRESIDENT:

We need to order new stickers. “Paper, Cans, and Battles” is unacceptable.

TREASURER:

We don’t have the money to order new stickers.

PRESIDENT:

Contact the vendor who supplied the stickers and inform them that they made a mistake that needs to be rectified immediately and that, because it was THEIR mistake, there should be no charge.

VICE PRESIDENT:

Excuse me, Mia, but are you writing the minutes of this meeting in your JOURNAL?

PRESIDENT:

Yes. So what?

VICE PRESIDENT:

So don’t you have a special student government notebook?

PRESIDENT:

Yes. But I sort of lost it. Don’t worry, I’m going to transcribe the minutes into my computer once I get home. I’ll give you all printouts tomorrow.

VICE PRESIDENT:

You LOST your student government notebook?

PRESIDENT:

Well, not exactly. I mean, I have a pretty good idea where it is. It’s just not accessible at this time.

VICE PRESIDENT:

And why would that be?

PRESIDENT:

Because I left it in your brother’s dorm room.

VICE PRESIDENT:

What were you doing with the student government notebook in my brother’s dorm room?

PRESIDENT:

I was just visiting him, okay?

VICE PRESIDENT:

Was that ALL you were doing? Just VISITING him?

PRESIDENT:

Yes. Madam Treasurer, we are ready for your report now.

(Okay, seriously. What’s with the Was that ALL you were doing? You so know she was talking about S-E-X. And in front of Mrs. Hill, too! As if Lilly doesn’t know perfectly well where Michael and I stand on that subject!

Could it be that maybe she’s nervous about “No More Corn!” being better than any of her stories? No, that’s not possible. I mean, “No More Corn!” IS about a sensitive young loner who becomes so distressed over the alienation he feels at the expensive Upper East Side prep school his parents send him to, as well as that school cafeteria’s insistence on putting corn in the chili, ignoring his frequent requests to them to not do so, that he eventually jumps in front of an F train.

But is this really a better plot than any of the ones in Lilly’s stories, which are all about young men and women coming to terms with their sexuality? I don’t know.

I do know that Sixteen magazine doesn’t tend to publish stories with explicit sex scenes in them. I mean, it has articles about birth control and testimonials from girls who got STDs or had unwanted pregnancies or got sold into white slavery or whatever.

But it never picks stories with stuff like that in them for its fiction contest.

When I mentioned this to Lilly, though, she said they would probably make an exception if the story were good enough, which hers definitely are—according to her, anyway.

I just hope Lilly’s expectations aren’t TOO unrealistic. Because, okay, one of the first rules of fiction is to write what you know, and I have never been a boy, hated corn, or felt alienated enough to jump in front of an F train.

But Lilly’s never had sex, and all FIVE of her stories have sex in them. In one of them, the heroine has sex with a TEACHER. You KNOW that’s not written from personal experience. I mean, except for Coach Wheeton, who is now engaged to Mademoiselle Klein and wouldn’t even LOOK at a student, there isn’t a single male teacher in this school anyone could remotely consider hot.

Well, anyone except my mom, of course, who apparently found Mr. G’s alleged hotness—EW—irresistible.)

TREASURER’S REPORT: We have no money left.

(Wait. WHAT DID LING SU SAY???????)

Tuesday, March 2, the Plaza, princess lessons

Well, that’s it, then. The student government of Albert Einstein High is broke.

Busted.

Bankrupt.

Tapped out.

We’re the first government in the history of Albert Einstein High School to have run through their entire budget in only seven months, with three more still to go.

The first government ever not to have enough money to rent Alice Tully Hall at Lincoln Center for the senior class’s commencement ceremony.

And it’s apparently all my fault for appointing an artist as treasurer.

“I told you I’m no good with money!” was all Ling Su kept repeating, over and over again. “I told you not to make me be treasurer! I told you to make Boris treasurer! But you wanted it to be all about Girl Power. Well, this girl is also an artist. And artists don’t know anything about balance sheets and fund revenues! We have more important things on our mind. Like making art to stimulate the mind and senses.”

“I knew we should have made Shameeka treasurer,” Lilly groaned. Several times. Even though I reminded her, repeatedly, that Shameeka’s dad told her she is only allowed one extracurricular activity per semester, and she’d already chosen cheerleading over student governing, in a decision sure to haunt her in her quest to be the first African-American woman to be appointed to the Supreme Court.

The thing is, it really isn’t Ling Su’s fault. I mean, I’m the president. If there is one thing I’ve learned from this princess business, it’s that with sovereignty comes responsibility: You can delegate all you want, but, ultimately, YOU’RE the one who is going to pay the price if something goes awry.

I should have been paying attention. I should have been more on top of things.

I should have put the kibosh on the uber-expensive bins. I should have just made them get the regular blue ones. It was my idea to go for the ones with the built-in crusher.

WHAT WAS I THINKING??? Why didn’t anyone try to stop me????

Oh my God. I know what this is!

It is my own personal presidential Bay of Pigs.

Seriously. We learned all about the Bay of Pigs in World Civ—where a group of military strategists back in the sixties came up with this plan to invade Cuba and overthrow Castro, and talked President Kennedy into agreeing to it, only to get to Cuba and find out they were outnumbered and also that no one had checked to make sure the mountains they were supposed to flee into for safety were actually on that side of the island (they weren’t).

Many historians and sociologists have blamed the Bay of Pigs on an incidence of “groupthink,” a phenomenon that occurs when a group’s desire for unanimity makes them reluctant to actually check their facts—like when NASA refused to listen to the engineers’ warnings about the space shuttle Challenger because they were so adamant about launching it by a certain date.

This is clearly EXACTLY what went on with the recycling bins.

Mrs. Hill—if you really think about it—could be called a groupthink enabler…. I mean, she didn’t exactly do a whole lot to try to stop us. The same could be said for Lars, for that matter, although ever since he got his new Sidekick he hardly ever pays attention in class anyway. Mrs. Hill refused to offer any workable solutions to the situation, such as a loan of the five grand we’re missing.

Which, if you ask me, is a cop-out, given that, as our advisor, Mrs. Hill is at least partly responsible for this debacle. I mean, yes, I am president, and ultimately, the responsibility lies with me.

Still, there is a reason we have an advisor. I am only fifteen years and ten months old. I should not have to shoulder the burden for ALL of this. I mean, Mrs. Hill should take SOME of the responsibility. Where was she when we blew our entire annual budget on top-of-the-line recycling bins with built-in crushers?

I’ll tell you where: fueling her American flag–embroidered sweater addiction by watching the Home Shopping Network in the teachers’ lounge and paying absolutely no attention!

Oh, great. Grandmère just yelled at me.

“Amelia, are you listening to a word I’m saying, or am I just speaking to myself?”

“Of course, I’m listening, Grandmère.”

What I really need to do is start paying attention more in my economics class. Then maybe I might learn how to hang on to my money a little better.

“I see,” Grandmère said. “What was I saying, then?”

“Um. I forgot.”

“John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth. Have you ever heard of him?”

Oh, God. Not this again. Because Grandmère’s latest thing? She’s buying waterfront property.

Only of course Grandmère couldn’t be happy just to own ordinary waterfront property. So she’s buying an island.

That’s right. Her own island.

The island of Genovia, to be exact.

The real Genovia isn’t an island, but the one Grandmère is buying is. An island, I mean. It’s off the coast of Dubai, where this construction company has made a bunch of islands clustered together into shapes you can see all the way up in the space shuttle. Like they made a couple of island clusters shaped like palm trees, called The Palm.

Now they’re making one called The World. There are islands shaped like France and South Africa and India and even like New Jersey, which, when viewed from the sky, end up looking just like a map of the world, like this:

Obviously, the islands are not built to scale. Because then the island of Genovia would be the size of my bathroom. And India would be the size of Pennsylvania. All the islands are basically the same size—big enough on which to put a humongous estate with a couple of guesthouses and a pool—so people like Grandmère can buy an island shaped like the state or country of their choice, and then live on it, just like Tom Hanks did in the movie Castaway.

Except that he didn’t do it by choice.

Plus his island didn’t have a fifty-thousand-square-foot villa on it with a state-of-the-art security system and central air and a pool with a waterfall in it, like Grandmère’s will.

There’s just one problem with Grandmère’s island: She’s not the only bidder.

“John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth,” she said again, all urgently. “Don’t tell me you don’t know him. He goes to your school!”

“A guy who goes to my school is bidding on the faux island of Genovia?” That seemed kind of hard to believe. I mean, I know I have the smallest allowance of anyone at AEHS, since my dad is worried about me morphing into someone like Lana Weinberger, who spends all her money bribing bouncers into letting her into clubs she’s not old enough to get into legally yet (her rationale is that Lindsay Lohan does it, so why can’t she?). Plus, Lana also has her own American Express card that she uses for everything—from lattes at Ho’s Deli to G-strings at Agent Provocateur—and her dad just pays the bill every month. Lana is so LUCKY.

But still. Someone getting enough allowance to buy his own ISLAND?

“Not the boy who goes to your school. His FATHER.” Grandmère’s eyelids, with their tattooed black liner, were squinted together, always a bad sign. “John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the THIRD is bidding against me. His SON goes to your school. He is a grade ahead of you. Surely you know him. Apparently, he has theatrical ambitions—not unlike his father, who is a cigar-chomping, foul-mouthed producer.”

“Sorry, Grandmère. I don’t know any John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth. And I actually have something a little more important to worry about than whether or not you get your island,” I informed her. “The fact is, I’m broke.”

Grandmère brightened. She loves talking about money. Because that often leads to talking about shopping, which is her favorite hobby, besides drinking Sidecars and smoking. Grandmère is happiest when she can do all three at the same time. Sadly for her, with what she considers fascist new smoking regulations in New York City, the only place she can smoke, drink, and shop at the same time is at home, on the Net.

“Is there something you want to buy, Amelia? Something a little more fashionable than those hideous combat boots you continue to wear, despite my assurances that they do not flatter the shape of your calf? Those lovely snakeskin Ferragamo loafers I showed you the other day, perhaps?”

“I’m not PERSONALLY broke, Grandmère,” I said. Although actually I am, since I only get twenty dollars a week allowance and out of that I have to pay for all of my entertainment needs, and so my entire allowance can be wiped out by a single trip to the movies, if I splurge on gingko biloba rings AND a soda. God forbid my dad should offer ME an American Express card.

Except that, judging by what happened with the recycling bins, I guess he’s probably right not to trust me with an unlimited line of credit.

“I mean the student government of Albert Einstein High School is broke,” I explained. “We went through our entire budget in seven months instead of ten. Now we’re in big trouble because we’re supposed to pay for the rental of Alice Tully Hall for the seniors’ commencement ceremony in June. Only we can’t, because we have no money whatsoever. Which means Amber Cheeseman, this year’s valedictorian, is going to kill me, most likely in a lengthy and extremely painful manner.”

In confiding this to Grandmère, I knew I was taking a certain amount of risk. Because the fact that we’re broke is this huge secret. Seriously. Lilly, Ling Su, Mrs. Hill, Lars, and I all swore on pain of death we wouldn’t tell anybody the truth about the student government’s empty coffers until we absolutely couldn’t avoid it anymore. The last thing I need right now is an impeachment trial.

And we all know Lana Weinberger would leap at any chance to get rid of me as student government president. LANA’s dad would fork over five grand without batting an eye if he thought it would help his precious baby daughter.

MY relatives? Not so much.

But there’s always the chance—remote, I know—that Grandmère might come through for me somehow. She’s done it before. I mean, for all I know, maybe she and Alice Tully were best friends back in college. Maybe all Grandmère has to do is make a phone call, and I can rent Alice Tully Hall for FREE!!!!

Only Grandmère didn’t look as if she were about to make any phone calls on my behalf anytime soon. Especially when she started making tsk-tsking noises with her tongue.

“I suppose you spent all the money on folderols and gewgaws,” she said, not entirely disapprovingly.

“If by folderols and gewgaws,” I replied—I wondered if these were real words or if she’d suddenly begun speaking in tongues and, if so, should I call for her maid?—“you mean twenty-five high-tech recycling bins with individual compartments for paper, cans, and bottles, with a built-in crushing device for the can part, not to mention three hundred electrophoresis kits for the bio lab, none of which I can return, because believe me, I already asked, then the answer is yes.”

Grandmère looked very disappointed in me. You could tell she considered recycling bins a big waste of money.

And I didn’t even MENTION the whole “Cans and Battles” sticker thing.

“How much do you need?” she asked in a deceptively casual voice.

Wait. Was Grandmère about to do the unthinkable—float me a loan?

No. Not possible.

“Not much,” I said, thinking this was WAY too good to be true. “Just five grand.” Actually, five thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight dollars, which is how much Lincoln Center charges campuses for the use of Alice Tully Hall, which seats a thousand. But I wasn’t about to quibble. I could raise the seven hundred and twenty-eight dollars somehow, if Grandmère were willing to fork over the five thousand.

But alas. It was too good to be true.

“Well, what do schools in your situation do when they need to raise money fast?” Grandmère wanted to know.

“I don’t know,” I said. I couldn’t help feeling defeated. Also, I was lying (so what else is new?) because I knew perfectly well what schools in our situation did when they needed to raise money fast. We’d already discussed it, at length, during the student government meeting, after Ling Su’s shocking revelation about the state of our bank account. Mrs. Hill hadn’t been willing to give us a loan (it’s doubtful she even has five grand socked away somewhere. I swear I’ve never seen her wear the same outfit twice. That’s a lot of Quacker Factory tunic sweaters on a teacher’s salary), but she’d been more than willing to show us some candle catalogs she had lying around.

Seriously. That was her big suggestion. That we sell some candles.

Lilly just looked at her and went, “Are you suggesting we open ourselves up to a nihilistic battle between the haves and the have-mores, à la Robert Cormier’s Chocolate War, Mrs. Hill? Because we all read that in English class, and we know perfectly well what happens when you dare to disturb the universe.”

But Mrs. Hill, looking insulted, said that we could have a contest to see who could sell the most candles without experiencing a complete breakdown in social mores or any particular nihilism.

But when I looked through the candle catalog and saw all the different scents—Strawberries ’n’ Cream! Cotton Candy! Sugar Cookie!—and colors you could buy, I experienced a secret nihilism all my own.

Because frankly, I’d rather have the senior class do to me what Obi Wan Kenobi did to Anakin Skywalker in The Revenge of the Sith (i.e. cut off my legs with a lightsaber and leave me to burn on the shores of a lava pit) than knock on my neighbor Ronnie’s door and ask her if she’d be interested in buying a Strawberries ’n’ Cream candle, molded in the actual shape of a strawberry, for $9.95.

And trust me, the senior class is CAPABLE of doing to me what Obi Wan did to Anakin. Especially Amber Cheeseman, who is this year’s senior class valedictorian, and who, even though she is much shorter than me, is a hapkido brown belt, and could easily pound my face in.

If she stood on a chair, that is, or had someone hold her up so she could reach me.

It was at that point in the student government meeting that I was forced to say queasily, “Motion to adjourn,” a motion that was fortunately unanimously passed by all in attendance.

“Our advisor suggested we sell candles door-to-door,” I told Grandmère, hoping she’d find the idea of her granddaughter peddling wax fruit replicas so repellent, she’d throw open her checkbook and hand over five thousand smackers then and there.

“Candles?” Grandmère DID look a bit disturbed.

But for the wrong reason.

“I would think candy would be much easier to unload on the unsuspecting hordes in the office of a parent of the typical Albert Einstein high school student,” she said.

She was right, of course—although the operative word would be TYPICAL. Because I can’t really see my dad, who’s in Genovia at the moment, since Parliament’s in session, passing around a candle sales form and going, Now, everyone, this is to raise money for my daughter’s school. Whoever buys the most candles will get an automatic knighthood.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Thanks, Grandmère.”

Then she went off on John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third again, and how she’s planning on hosting this huge charity event a week from Wednesday to raise money in support of Genovian olive farmers (who are striking to protest new EU regulations that allow supermarkets to wield too much influence over prices), to impress the designers of The World, as well as all the other bidders, with her incredible generosity (who does she think she is, anyway? The Genovian Angelina Jolie?).

Grandmère claims this will have everyone BEGGING her to live on the faux island of Genovia, leaving poor John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third out in the cold, yada yada yada.

Which is all very well for Grandmère. I mean, she’ll soon have her own island to run away to. But where am I going to hide from the wrath of Amber Cheeseman when she finds out she’ll be giving her commencement address not from a podium on the stage of Alice Tully Hall, but in front of the salad bar at the Outback Steakhouse on West 23rd Street?

Tuesday, March 2, the loft

Just when I thought my day couldn’t possibly get any worse, Mom handed me the mail as I walked in the door.

Normally, I like getting mail. Because normally, I receive fun stuff in the mail, like the latest edition of Psychology Today, so I can see what new psychiatric disorder I might have. Then I have something besides whatever book we’re doing in English class (this month: O Pioneers by Willa Cather. Yawn.) to read in the bathtub before I go to sleep.

But what my mom gave me when I walked through the door tonight wasn’t fun OR something I could read in the bathtub. Because it was way too short.

“You got a letter from Sixteen magazine, Mia!” Mom said, all excitedly. “It must be about the contest!”

Except that I could tell right away there was nothing to get excited about. I mean, that envelope clearly contained bad news. There was so obviously only one sheet of paper inside the envelope. If I had won, surely they’d have enclosed a contract, not to mention my prize money, right? When T. J. Burke’s story about his friend Dex’s death-by-avalanche got published in Powder magazine in Aspen Extreme, they sent him the ACTUAL magazine with his name emblazoned on the front cover. That’s how he found out he’d gotten published.

The envelope my mom handed me clearly did not contain a copy of Sixteen magazine with my name emblazoned on the front cover, because it was much too thin.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the envelope from my mom and hoping she wouldn’t notice that I was about to cry.

“What does it say?” Mr. Gianini wanted to know. He was at the dining table, feeding his son bits of hamburger, even though Rocky only has two teeth, one on top and one on the bottom, neither of which happen to be molars.

It doesn’t seem to make any difference to anyone in my family, however, that Rocky doesn’t actually have the ability to chew solid food yet. He refuses to eat baby food—he wants to eat either what we or Fat Louie are eating—and so he eats whatever my mom and Mr. G are having for dinner, which is generally some meat product, and probably explains why Rocky is in the ninety-ninth percentile in weight for his age. Despite my urgings, Mom and Mr. G insist on feeding Rocky an unmitigated diet of things like General Tso’s chicken and beef lasagna, simply because he LIKES them.

As if it is not bad enough that Fat Louie will only eat Chicken- or Tuna Flaked Fancy Feast. My little brother is turning out to be a carnivore as well.

And one day will doubtless grow up to be as tall as Shaquille O’Neal due to all the harmful antibiotics with which the meat industry pumps their products before they slaughter them.

Although I fear Rocky will also have the intellect of Tweety Bird, because despite all of the Baby Einstein videos I have played for him, and the many, many hours I have spent reading such classics as Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit and Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham aloud to him, Rocky doesn’t show any signs of interest in anything except throwing his pacifier very hard at the wall; stomping around the loft (with a pair of hands—usually mine—to hold him upright by the back of his OshKoshes…a practice which, by the way, is starting to cause me severe lower back pain); and shrieking “Tuck!” and “Kee!” in as loud a voice as possible.

Surely these can only be considered signs of severe social retardation. Or Asperger Syndrome.

Mom, however, assures me Rocky is developing normally for a nearly one-year-old, and that I should calm down and stop being such a baby-licker (my own mother has now adopted the term Lilly coined for me).

In spite of this betrayal, however, I remain hyperalert for signs of hydrocephalus. You can never be too careful.

“Well, what’s it say, Mia?” my mom wanted to know about my letter. “I wanted to open it and call you at your grandmother’s to give you the news, but Frank wouldn’t let me. He said I should respect your personal boundaries and not open your mail.”

I threw Mr. G a grateful look—hard to do while trying not to cry—and said, “Thanks.”

“Oh please,” my mom said, sounding disgusted. “I gave birth to you. I nursed you for six months. I should be able to read your mail. What’s it say?”

So with trembling fingers, I tore open the envelope, knowing as I did so what I’d find inside.

No big surprise, the single sheet of typed paper said:

Sixteen Magazine

1440 Broadway

New York, NY 10018

Dear Writer:

Thank you for your submission to Sixteen magazine. While we have chosen not to publish your story, we appreciate your interest in our publication.

Sincerely,

Shonda Yost

Fiction Editor

Dear Writer! They couldn’t even be bothered to type out my name! There was no proof at all that anyone had even READ “No More Corn!”, let alone given it any kind of meaningful consideration!

I guess my mom and Mr. G could tell I didn’t like what I was seeing, since Mr. G said, “Gee, that’s tough. But you’ll get ’em next time, tiger.”

“Tuck!” was all Rocky had to say about it, as he hurled a piece of hamburger at the wall.

And my mom went, “I’ve always thought Sixteen magazine was demeaning to young women, as it’s filled with images of impossibly thin and pretty models that can only serve to legitimize young girls’ insecurities about their own bodies. And besides, their articles are hardly what I’d call informative. I mean, who CARES about which kind of jeans better fit your body type, low rise or ultra-low rise? How about teaching girls something useful, like that even if you Do It standing up, you can still get pregnant?”

Touched by my parents’—and brother’s—concern, I said, “It’s okay. There’s always next year.”

Except that I doubt I’ll ever write a better story than “No More Corn!” It was this total one-shot deal, inspired by the touching sight of the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili sitting in the AEHS cafeteria picking corn out of his chili, kernel by kernel, with the saddest look I have ever seen on a human being’s face. I will never witness anything that moving ever again. Except for maybe the look on Tina Hakim Baba’s face when she found out they were canceling Joan of Arcadia.

I don’t know who wrote whatever Sixteen considers the winning entry, and I honestly don’t mean to brag, but her story CAN’T be as compelling and gripping as “No More Corn!”

And she CAN’T possibly love writing as much as I do.

Oh, sure, maybe she’s better at it. But is writing as important to her as BREATHING, the way it is to me? I sincerely doubt it. She’s probably home right now, and her mother’s going, “Oh, Lauren, this came in the mail for you today,” and she’s opening her PERSONALIZED letter from Sixteen magazine and going through her contract and being all, “Ho-hum, another story of mine is getting published. As if I care. All I really want is to make the cheerleading squad and for Brian to ask me out.”

See, I care MORE about writing than I do about cheerleading. Or Brian.

Well, okay, not more than I care about Michael. Or Fat Louie. But close.

So now stupid, Brian-loving Lauren is going around, being all, “La, la, la, I just won Sixteen magazine’s fiction contest, I wonder what’s on TV tonight,” and not even caring that her story is about to be read by a million people, not to mention the fact that she’s going to get to spend the day shadowing a real live editor and see what it’s like in the busy, fast-paced world of hard-hitting teen journalism—

Unless Lilly won.

OH MY GOD. WHAT IF LILLY WON ????????????????????????

Oh, dear Lord in Heaven. Please don’t let Lilly have won Sixteen magazine’s fiction contest. I know it’s wrong to pray for things like that, but I am begging you, Lord, if you exist, which I’m not sure you do because you let them cancel Joan of Arcadia and send that mean rejection letter to me, DO NOT LET LILLY HAVE WON SIXTEEN MAGAZINE’S FICTION CONTEST!!!!!!!

Oh my God. Lilly’s online. She’s IMing me!

WOMYNRULE: POG, did you hear from 16 mag 2day?

Oh, God.

FTLOUIE: Um. Yes. Did you?

WOMYNRULE: Yes. I got the lamest rejection letter. FIVE of them, to be exact. You can tell they didn’t even READ my stuff.

Thank you, God. I believe in you now. I believe, I believe, I believe. I will never fall asleep during mass in the Royal Genovian Chapel again, I swear. Even though I definitely don’t agree with you about that whole original sin thing because that was NOT Eve’s fault, that talking snake tricked her and, oh yeah, I think women should be allowed to be priests, and priests should be allowed to get married and have kids because, hello, they’d make way better parents than a lot of people, such as that lady who left her baby in the car outside the convenience mart with the motor running while she played video poker and someone stole her car and then threw the baby out the window (the baby was okay because he was in a protective car seat that bounced, which is why I made Mom and Mr. G buy that brand for Rocky even though he screams like his skin is on fire every time they try to stick him in it).

Still. I believe. I believe. I believe.

FTLOUIE: Same here. Well, I mean, I got one letter. But mine was a rejection, too.

WOMYNRULE: Well, don’t take it too personally, POG. This is probably only the first of many rejections you’ll be receiving over the years. I mean, if you really want to be a writer. Don’t forget, almost every Great Book that exists today was rejected by some editor somewhere. Except maybe, like, the Bible. Anyway, I wonder who won.

FTLOUIE: Probably some stupid girl named Lauren who would rather be on the cheerleading squad or have a guy named Brian ask her out and couldn’t care less that she’s soon to be a published author.

WOMYNRULE: Um…okay. Are you feeling all right, Mia? You’re not taking this rejection thing too seriously, are you? I mean, it’s only Sixteen magazine, not The New Yorker.

FTLOUIE: I’m fine. But I’m probably right. About Lauren. Don’t you think?

WOMYNRULE: Uh, yeah, sure. But listen, all of this has given me a totally great idea.

Okay, when Lilly says she’s got a totally great idea, it so never is. A great idea, I mean. Her last great idea was that I run for student council president, and look how that turned out. And don’t even get me started about the time in the first grade when she threw my Strawberry Shortcake doll onto the roof of the Moscovitzes’ country house outside Albany to see if squirrels would be attracted to her Very Berry scent and gnaw on her vinyl face.

WOMYNRULE: Are you still there?

FTLOUIE: I’m here. What’s your idea? And no, you are not throwing Rocky onto any rooftops, no matter how interested you are in what the squirrels might do to him.

WOMYNRULE: What are you talking about? Why would I throw Rocky onto a roof? My idea is that we start our OWN magazine.

FTLOUIE: What?

WOMYNRULE: I’m serious. We start our own magazine. Not a stupid one about French kissing and Hayden Christensen’s abs, like Sixteen magazine, but a literary magazine, like Salon.com. Only not online. And for teens. This will kill two birds with one stone. One, we can get published. And two, we can sell copies and make back the five grand we need to rent Alice Tully Hall and keep Amber Cheeseman from killing us.

FTLOUIE: But, Lilly. To start our own magazine we need money. You know. To pay for printing and stuff. And we don’t have any money. That is the problem. Remember?

God. I may only be getting a C minus in Economics, but even I know that to start a business, you need some capital. I mean, I’ve seen The Apprentice, for God’s sake.

Also, I sort of like seeing Hayden Christensen’s abs in Sixteen every month. I mean, it makes my subscription worth it.

WOMYNRULE: Not if we get Ms. Martinez to be our advisor and she lets us use the school photocopier.

Ms. M! I couldn’t believe Lilly would bring up the M word with me. Ms. Martinez, my Honors English teacher, and I do NOT see eye to eye where my writing career is concerned. I mean, she’s loosened up a little since the whole incident at the beginning of the school year when she gave me a B.

But not by much.

I know, for instance, that Ms. M would NOT see “No More Corn!” for the compelling psychological character study and moving social commentary it is. She would probably say it was melodramatic and filled with clichés.

Which is why I wasn’t planning on showing it to her until Sixteen published it. Except I guess that’s never going to happen now.

FTLOUIE: Lilly, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but I highly doubt we’re going to be able to raise five grand from selling a teen literary magazine. I mean, our peers barely have time to read required stuff like O Pioneers, let alone copies of some student-written collection of short stories and poems. I think we need some more feasible way to generate cash than depending on sales of a magazine we haven’t even written yet.

WOMYNRULE: What do you suggest then? Candle selling?

AAAAAAHHHHHHH! Because you know in addition to the strawberry-shaped candle, there are ones shaped like bananas and pineapples. Also, birds. STATE birds. Like, for Indiana, there is a cardinal candle, the cardinal being the Hoosier state’s bird.

Worse—and I hesitate to write this—there is an actual replica of Noah’s Ark, with two of all the animals (even unicorns). In CANDLE form.

Even I could not make up something that revolting.

FTLOUIE: Of course not. I just think we need to put a little more thought into the matter before we rush into—

SKINNERBX: Hey, Thermopolis. How’s it going?

MICHAEL!!!! MICHAEL IS IMing ME!!!!!!!

FTLOUIE: Sorry, Lilly, gotta go.

WOMYNRULE: Why? Is my brother IMing you?

FTLOUIE: Yeah…

WOMYNRULE: Oh. I know what HE wants.

FTLOUIE: Lilly, I TOLD you, we’re WAITING to have sex—

WOMYNRULE: That’s not what I meant, you tool. I meant—Oh, never mind. Just e me after you’ve talked to him. I’m serious about this magazine thing, POG. It’s the only way you’re going to be able to see your name in print—besides on Us Weekly’s—Celebrities: They’re Just Like Us! pages.

FTLOUIE: Wait—you know why Michael’s IMing me? How do you know? What’s going on? Tell me, Lilly—

WOMYNRULE: terminated

SKINNERBX: Mia? You there?

FTLOUIE: Michael! Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m just having the worst day. My government is out of money and Sixteen rejected “No More Corn!”!!!!!!

SKINNERBX: Wait—the government of Genovia is out of money? I didn’t see anything about that on Netscape. How did THAT happen?

This is why my boyfriend is so wonderful. Even when he doesn’t understand a single thing that is going on in my life, he’s still, you know, way concerned for me.

FTLOUIE: I meant the student government. We’re in the red for five grand. And Sixteen rejected me.

SKINNERBX: Sixteen rejected “No More Corn!”? How could they? That story rocks!

You see? You see why I love him?

FTLOUIE: Thanks. But I guess it didn’t rock enough for them to publish it.

SKINNERBX: Then they’re fools. And what’s this about being five grand in the red?

Briefly, I explained to Michael about the non-returnable recycling bins and the fact that I am going to be drawn and quartered by Amber Cheeseman as soon as she hears about her commencement taking place in Hell’s Kitchen instead of Lincoln Center.

SKINNERBX: Come on. It can’t be that bad. You have plenty of time to raise the cash.

Normally my boyfriend is the most astute of men. That is why he goes to an Ivy League university where he takes a course load that would prove a mental challenge even to Stephen Hawking, that genius in the wheelchair who figured out mini black holes—as well as how to get his nurse to fall in love with him—let alone your average college student.

But sometimes…

Well, sometimes, he just doesn’t GET it.

FTLOUIE: Have you ever seen Amber Cheeseman, Michael? She may have a 4.0 and sound like a chipmunk when she talks, but she can throw a two-hundred-pound man over her shoulder in a split second, and her forearms are as big as Koko the Gorilla’s.

SKINNERBX: Hey, I know. You could try selling candles. We did that to raise money for the Computer Club one year!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!! NOT YOU, TOO, MICHAEL!!!!!!!!!!

SKINNERBX: They have these candles shaped like strawberries. Everybody in my mom and dad’s therapy groups bought one. They smell like real strawberries.

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

FTLOUIE: Great! Thanks for the tip!

Change the subject. NOW.

FTLOUIE: So, how was YOUR day?

SKINNERBX: Not bad. We watched THX 1138 in class and discussed its influence on later dystopic films from the same era, such as Logan’s Run, in which, like THX, a young man attempts to flee the stifling confines of the only world he knows. Which reminds me, what are you doing this weekend?

Oooh, fun! A date! Just what I need to cheer myself up.

FTLOUIE: Going out with you.

SKINNERBX: That’s what I was hoping you’d say. Only how about staying in instead of going out? My mom and dad are going out of town for a conference, and Maya’s got to have her feet scraped, so they asked me if I could come home for the weekend to stay with Lilly—you know, on account of what happened last time they left her alone.

Did I ever. Because the last time the Drs. Moscovitz let Lilly out of their sight, when they went to their country house in Albany for the weekend and allowed Lilly to stay in the apartment alone because she had a report due on Alexander Hamilton and needed Internet access, of which there is none at their country house, and Michael had finals, and the Moscovitzes’ housekeeper, Maya, had to go back to the Dominican Republic to bail her nephew out of jail again, so neither of them could stay with her, Lilly invited her foot fetishist stalker, Norman, over to interview him for a segment she was doing on Lilly Tells It Like It Is titled, “Why Are Only Weirdos Attracted to Me?”

Well, Norman took umbrage at being called a weirdo, even though that’s what he is. He insisted that a healthy appreciation for the foot is actually extremely sane. Then when Lilly was busy getting them Cokes in the kitchen, he snuck into her mom’s room and stole her favorite pair of Manolo Blahniks!

But Lilly saw the stiletto heel sticking out of Norman’s anorak pocket and made him give it back. Norman was so mad about the whole thing that now he’s started his own website, IHateLillyMoscovitz.com, that has message boards and stuff that all the people who hate Lilly and her show can come and post things on (and it turns out there are a surprising number of people who hate Lilly and her TV show. Plus, there are some people who don’t even know who Lilly is but they joined just because they hate everything).

I have to say, after all that, I’m kind of surprised the Drs. Moscovitz would leave her without parental supervision, even with Michael there.

FTLOUIE: Fun! I’ll totally come over! What are we going to do? Watch a movie marathon?

Only, please, not a screening of one of the hideous movies he has to watch for that sci-fi film class he’s taking. He’s already forced me to see Brazil, one of the most depressing movies of all time. Can Blade Runner, another giant bummer of a movie, be far behind?

FTLOUIE: Oooh, how about we watch the high school seasons of Buffyon DVD? I just love the prom episode, when she gets the twinkly parasol…

SKINNERBX: Actually, I was kind of thinking of having a party.

Wait. A what? Did he say…PARTY?

FTLOUIE: A party?

SKINNERBX: Yeah. You know. A party. An occasion on which people assemble for social interaction and entertainment? We can’t really have parties here in the dorm because no one’s room is big enough to fit more than, like, eight people. But three times that many can fit in my parents’ apartment. So I figured, why not?

Why not? WHY NOT? Because we are not party people, Michael. We are stay-at-home-and-watch-videos people. Doesn’t he remember what happened last time we had a party? Or, more accurately, the last time I had a party?

And I could tell he wasn’t talking about Cheetos and Seven Minutes in Heaven, either. He was talking about a COLLEGE party. Everyone knows what happens at COLLEGE parties. I mean, I have seen Animal House (because it, along with Caddyshack, is one of Mr. G’s favorite movies of all time, and every time it’s on he HAS to watch it, even if it’s on one of those channels where they cut all the dirty parts out, which leaves it with practically no plot).

FTLOUIE: I am not, under any circumstances, wearing a toga.

SKINNERBX: Not that kind of party, you goof. Just a normal one, you know, with music and food. Next week’s midterms, and everybody needs to blow off a little steam beforehand. And Doo Pak has never been invited to a real American party before, you know.

When I heard this startling fact about Michael’s roommate, my hard, party-hating heart melted a little. Never been invited to a real American party before! That was just shocking! Of COURSE we had to have a party, if only to show Doo Pak what real American hospitality is like. Maybe I could make a vegetarian dip.

SKINNERBX: And remember Paul? Well, he’s back in the city, and so are Felix and Trevor, so they’re going to come over.

My heart stopped melting. It’s not that I don’t like Paul, Felix, and Trevor, all members of Michael’s now-defunct band, Skinner Box. It’s just that I happen to know that, while Paul, the keyboardist, is back from Bennington, where he goes to school, because of spring break, Felix, the drummer, just got out of rehab (not that there’s anything wrong with that, really, I’m glad he got help, but, um, hello, rehab at eighteen? Scary.). And Trevor, the guitar player, is back because he got kicked out of UCLA for something so scandalous he won’t even tell people what it was.

These are just not the kind of friends who, in my opinion, you want to come over when your parents aren’t home. Because they might “accidentally” light the place on fire. That’s all I’m saying.

SKINNERBX: And I thought I’d invite a bunch of other people from the dorm.

A bunch of other people from the dorm?

My heart stopped melting even more. Because I know what that means: Girls.

Because there are girls in Michael’s dorm. I have seen them in the hallways when I’ve gone to visit him there. They wear a lot of black clothing, including berets—BERETS!—and quote lines from The Vagina Monologues and never read Us Weekly, even when they’re in a doctor’s office. I know because I once mentioned seeing Jessica Simpson without her makeup on in this one issue and they all just looked at me blankly. They’re just like those girls from Legally Blonde who were very mean to Elle when she got to law school because they thought that just because she’s blond and likes clothes, she must be stupid.

I myself have encountered this kind of prejudice from these girls, since, being blond and a princess, they just automatically assume I must be stupid. I so know what poor Princess Diana must have dealt with every single day.

I do not think I could handle being at a party with girls like this. Because girls like this know how to act at parties. They know how to smoke and drink beer.

I hate smoking. And beer smells just like that skunk that Papaw hit with the station wagon that time we were coming home from the Indiana state fair.

What is Michael thinking? I mean, a party. This is so not him.

Then again, college is a time for self-exploration and finding out who you really are and what you want to do with your life.

Oh my God! What if he’s into partying now???? Partying is a very large part of the college experience. At least, according to all those movies on the Lifetime Channel in which either Kellie Martin or Tiffani-Amber Thiessen star as coeds campaigning to shut down the fraternity house at which their friend or roommate was date-raped and/or choked to death on her own vomit.

Which isn’t the kind of party Michael’s talking about. Right?

Wait. Michael’s parents wouldn’t LET him have a party like that. Even if he wanted to. Which I’m sure he doesn’t. Because Michael can’t stand fraternities, since he says he can’t help but feel suspicious of any heterosexual male who would pay to belong to a club that females are not permitted to join.

Speaking of the Drs. Moscovitz:

FTLOUIE: Michael, do your parents know about this? This party, I mean?

SKINNERBX: Of course. What do you think, I’d do this without asking them? The doormen would completely rat me out, you know.

Oh. Right. The doormen. The doormen in the Moscovitzes’ building know all and see all. Like Yoda.

And they babble about it like C3PO.

Still. The Drs. Moscovitz are okay with this? Michael having a college party in their apartment when they aren’t home…with Lilly there?

It’s just so unlike them.

Wow. I totally can’t believe this. Having a party with no parents around…that is a really big step. It’s like…grown up.

SKINNERBX: So you’ll come, right? The guys were trying to tell me there was no way you’d want to. On account of the whole princess thing.

!

FTLOUIE: The princess thing? What did they mean by that?

SKINNERBX: Just, you know. I mean, it’s not like you’re much of a party girl.

Not much of a party girl? What does that even mean? Of course I’m not a party girl. I mean, Michael is not exactly a party guy—

At least, he didn’t used to be. Before he went to college.

Oh, God. Maybe it would behoove me to indicate that I am not adverse to partying. Just the date-rape and vomit part.

FTLOUIE: I am TOO a party girl. I mean, given the right circumstances. I mean, I like to party just as much as the next girl.

I do, too. This isn’t even a lie. I’ve partied. Maybe not in recent memory. But I’m sure I’ve partied. Like at my birthday party just last year.

And okay, it ended in disaster when my best friend got caught making out with a busboy in the closet.

But technically, it was still a party. Which makes me a party girl.

And okay, maybe not a party girl like Paris Hilton is a party girl. I mean, I like Red Bull and all. Well, not really, since I drank one can from my dad’s minibar in his suite at the Plaza and it made me stay up until four in the morning dancing to the disco channel on digital cable.

But you know. Who wants to be like Paris, anyway? She can’t even keep track of her dog’s whereabouts half the time. I mean, you have to find a BALANCE with the party thing. You can’t party ALL the time. Or you might forget where you left your chihuahua. Or someone might release an embarrassing video of you, um, partying.

Limit the amount of partying—and Red Bull—and you limit the amount of embarrassing videos.

That’s all I’m saying.

SKINNERBX: That’s exactly what I said. Great! So I’ll talk to you later. Love you. ’Night!

SKINNERBX: terminated

Oh, God. What have I gotten myself into?

From the desk of

Her Royal Highness

Princess Amelia Mignonette

Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo

Dear Dr. Carl Jung,

I realize that you are still dead. However, things have suddenly gotten significantly worse, and I’m now convinced I will NEVER transcend my ego and achieve self-actualization.

First I find out I’ve bankrupted the student government and will shortly be killed by the small but extremely strong senior class valedictorian.

Then my short story gets rejected by Sixteen magazine.

And now my boyfriend thinks I’m going to a party he’s having in his parents’ apartment while they are away.

I can’t really blame him for thinking this, because I sort of said I would go.

But I said I’d go because if I said no, I’ll seem like a killjoy and non-party princess.

Of course, there’s no way I would even be considering going if I didn’t happen to remember that March is not a month in which Michael is allowed to broach the subject of S-E-X to me, since last month was his allotted time to bring it up. So it’s not like there can be any of THAT on his mind. You know, like, during the party.

Still. I will have to socialize with people I don’t know. Which I realize I do all the time in my capacity as princess of Genovia.

But socializing with college students is quite different from socializing with other royals and dignitaries. I mean, other royals and dignitaries don’t tell you all accusingly that your limo is a significant contributor to the destruction of the ozone layer, as oversize cars, such as SUVs and, yes, royal limos, cause 43 percent more global-warming pollution and 47 percent more air pollution than an average car, the way a girl in front of Michael’s dorm pointed out to me last week when I pulled up to visit him.

Could things possibly GET any worse?

I REALLY need to self-actualize. Like, right NOW. PLEASE SEND HELP.

Your friend,

Mia Thermopolis

Wednesday, March 3, Homeroom

In the limo on the way to school this morning, I asked Lilly what her parents could be thinking, letting Michael have a big party in their apartment while they’re away. She was like, “Whatever. Do I look like Ruth and Morty’s keeper?”

Ruth and Morty are Lilly’s parents’ first names. I think it is very disrespectful of her to call her own parents by their given names. I don’t even call them by their given names, and they’ve asked me to about a million times.

Still, even considering how long I’ve known them—almost as long as Lilly has—I can only call them Dr. Moscovitz. Sometimes I call them Mr. Dr. Moscovitz and Mrs. Dr. Moscovitz (but only behind their backs) when I need to specify one over the other.

But I’ll never call them Ruth and Morty. Not even when Michael and I are married, and they are my in-laws. They will always be the Drs. Moscovitz to me.

“They do realize YOU’RE going to be there, don’t they?” I asked Lilly. “I mean, at the party?”

“Duh,” Lilly said. “Of course. What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I just—I’m kind of surprised that your parents are letting Michael have a party when they aren’t home. It’s not like them. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well,” Lilly said, “I think Ruth and Morty have bigger things to worry about.”

“Like what?”

Only I never did find out. Because right then the limo hit one of those huge potholes in front of the entrance to the FDR, and Lilly and I both went sailing into the air and hit our heads on the sunroof.

So then Lilly made me go to the nurse’s office with her when we got to school, to see if we could get notes to get out of PE, on account of having possible concussions.

But the nurse just laughed at us.

I bet she would have given us notes if she knew they were making us play volleyball. AGAIN. Why can’t we ever do cool sports like Pilates and yoga, like they get to in suburban high school?

It’s so not fair.

Wednesday, March 3, U.S. Economics

Okay, so after what happened yesterday with the government money, I am fully going to start paying attention in this class now:

Scarcity—refers to the tension between our limited resources and our unlimited wants and needs

Some examples of resources we want and need, but which are limited (scarce), include:

Goods

Services

Natural resources

Funds for the rental of gathering halls in which to conduct senior graduation

Because all resources are limited in comparison to our wants and needs, individuals as well as governments have to make decisions regarding what goods and services they can buy and which ones they must forgo.

(For instance, a government might decide that what its population really needs are recycling bins with built-in can crushers inside and the words “Paper, Cans, and Battles” emblazoned across the lids.)

All individuals and governments, each having different levels of (scarce) resources, form some of their values only because they must deal with the problem of resource scarcity.

(If only Amber Cheeseman would learn to value recycling over giving the valedictory address at Alice Tully Hall.)

So, because of scarcity, people and governments must make decisions over how to allocate their resources.

(But that’s what I DID!!! I made a decision about how to allocate AEHS resources—in the form of buying recycling bins—and it turned around and bit me on the butt!!!! Because I allocated incorrectly!!! WHERE IS THE PART ABOUT THIS IN THE TEXTBOOK????)

Wednesday, March 3, English

OMG, Mia! I heard about what happened at the meeting yesterday! The whole running-out-of-money thingg! I can’t believe those recycling bins ended up being so expensive! And those “Cans and Battles” stiickers! I can’t figure out how that happened! I am so sorry!—Tina

It’s okay. They’re replacing the “Cans and Battles” stickers. And we’ll think of some way to get it. The money, I mean. Just don’t tell anyone, all right? We’re trying to keep it a secret until we figure out what we’re going to do.

Totally! I won’t tell a soul! But I had an idea. About how to raise money. Have you seen those scented candles the band was selling to raise money for their trip to Nashville?

WE ARE NOT SELLING SCENTED CANDLES.

It was just a suggestion. I thought they were kind of nice. They have these cute little ones shaped like strawberries.

NO CANDLES.

Okay. But I know I could sell a ton to my aunts and uncles back in Saudi Arabia.

NO CANDLES.

Okay! I get it. No candles. Is there something wrong? I mean, besides the money thing? Because, no offense, but you seem…kinda upset. I mean, about the candles.

It’s not about the candles.

What is it, then?

Nothing. Michael’s parents are going out of town this weekend, and he’s throwing a party in their apartment while they’re gone, and he wants me to come.

But that sounds like fun!

FUN???? Are you crazy??? There are going to be COLLEGE GIRLS there.

So?

So??? What do you mean, So??? Don’t you see, Tina? If Michael sees me around a bunch of college girls at a party, he’s going to realize I’m not a party girl.

But Mia. You AREN’T a party girl.

I know that! But I don’t want MICHAEL to know that!

But Michael knows you aren’t a party girl. He knew you weren’t much of a party girl when he met you.. I mean, you have NEVER been a party girl. You never even GO to parties. I mean, girls like Lana Weeinberger, THEY go to parties, but not girls like us. We don’t get INVITED to parties. We stay home Saturday nights and watch whatever is on HBO, or maybe we go out with our boyfriends, or have a sleepover with our friends. But we don’t go to PARTIES. It’s not like we’re POPULAR.

Thanks, Tina.

Well, you know what t I mean. What’s wrong with not being a party girl? Why can’t you just go to the party and have a good time hanging out and meeting some new people?

Because the whole idea of hanging out with a bunch of cool college girls who are going to think I’m a dorky princess makes my palms feel sweaty.

Ew. But they won’t think you’re a dorky princess, Mia, once they get to know you. Because you AREN’T a dorky princess.

Hello, have you MET me?

Well, okay. You’re a princess. But you’re not a dork. I mean, you’re practically failing Geometry. How dorky is that?

But that’s exactly what I mean! These girls are SMART, they got into an Ivy League university, and I’m…practically failing Geometry.

If you really don’t want to go, why don’t you tell Michael you have to do something with your grandmother that night?

I can’t! Michael was so excited when I said yes!!!! I don’t want to break his heart AGAIN. I mean, it’s bad enough I have to do it every three months when he asks me whether I’ve changed my mind about the whole sex thing (like there’s really a chance I’m going to. And okay, he’s a guy, so it’s not like he’s ever seen Kirsten Dunst’s heart-wrenching portrayal of an unwed teen mom in Fifteen and Pregnant on the Lifetime Channel). But still. I am ONLY FIFTEEN. I’m not ready to give up the golden bough of my virginity!

Not until your Senior Prom anyway! On a king-size featherbed at the Four Seasons!

Totally. And while I know Michael is the most faithful and steadfast of lovers, if I don’t go to the party, the lure of an exotic college girl, dancing suggestively on his parents’ coffee table, might be too much even for HIM to resist! Do you see my difficulty now?

Hey you guys. Guess what?

Oh! Hi, Lilly!

Um. Hi, Lilly.

What were you guys just talking about?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Yeah, you so clearly were NOT talking about nothing. But whatever. I think I may have the solution to our financial problems anyway. Guess who said she’d be the advisor for our new literary magazine?

Lilly, I totally appreciate your enthusiasm about this, and all, but a literary magazine isn’t going to generate enough income to make up for what we’ve already lost. In fact, with printing costs and all, it’s just going to cause us to have to spend MORE money we don’t have.

A literary magazine? That sounds like so much fun! And then you’ll have a place to publish “No More Corn!”, Mia!

I can’t let “No More Corn!” be printed in a school literary magazine.

Oh, I suppose your story is too good to be in a mere student-published periodical.

That’s not it at all. I just don’t want the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili to read it. I mean, come on. He KILLS himself at the end.

Oh! That WOULD be awkward! I mean, if he realized the story is about him. It might hurt his feelings.

Exactly.

Funny how this didn’t worry you when you were trying to get your story published in Sixteen, a national magazine with a million readers.

No self-respecting boy would be caught dead reading Sixteen magazine, and you know it, Lilly. But he’s totally likely to read a school-run literary magazine!

Whatever. Look, Ms. Martinez loves the idea of a school lit mag. I asked her just before class, and she said she thought it was great, since Albert Einstein High School has a newspaper, but not a literary magazine, and it will be a great opportunity for the student population’s many artists, poets, and storytellers to see their craft in print.

Um, yeah, but unless we’re going to CHARGE them to publish their stuff, I don’t see how that’s going to raise US any cash.

Don’t you see, Mia? We can charge people for copies of the magazine once we’ve printed it. I bet we’ll sell LOTS of copies!

Thank you, Tina. The lack of jadedness in your response is quite refreshing compared to SOME people’s negative attitudes.

I’m sorry. I’m really not trying to be negative. I’m just trying to be practical. We’d be better off selling candles.

Oooooh, you should see the cute Noah’s Ark candles they have! They’ve got all the animals, two by two…even tiny little unicorns! Are you SURE you don’t want to consider candle-selling, Mia?

AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!

Oh, sorry. I guess not.

Wednesday, March 3, French

I heard about what’s going on.—Shameeka

WHO TOLD YOU????

Ling Su. She feels awful about it. She doesn’t know how she messed up like that.

Oh, the money thing. Well, it’s not really her fault. And listen, we’re kind of trying to keep it a secret. So could you not mention it to anyone?

I totally understand. I mean, when the seniors find out, they are NOT going to be happy. Especially Amber Cheeseman. She may look small, but I hear she’s strong as an ape.

Yeah, that’s what I mean. That’s why we’re trying to keep it on the down low.

Gotcha. My lips are sealed.

Thanks, Shameeka.

Hey, you guys. Is it true?—Perin

Is WHAT true?

About the student government being broke.

WHO TOLD YOU?

Um, I heard it from the receptionist this morning in the attendance office when I brought in my latte pass. But don’t worry, I won’t tell. She said not to.

Oh. Well. Yes. It’s true.

And you’re starting a literary magazine too make up for the lost revenue?

Who told you that?

Lilly. Can I just say that, even though I think starting a literary magazine is a neat idea and all, when we needed to make some money fast at my old school, we sold the cutest scented candles in the shapes of actual fruits, and we made a mint!

What a great idea! Don’t you think so, Mia?

NO!

Wednesday, March 3, G & T

So at lunch today Boris Pelkowski put his tray down next to mine and said, “So I hear we’re broke.”

And I seriously lost it.

“YOU GUYS,” I yelled at the entire lunch table. “YOU HAVE TO STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS. WE’RE TRYING TO KEEP IT A SECRET.”

Then I explained about how much I value my life, and how I would not care for it to be cut short by an enraged hapkido brown-belt valedictorian with monkeylike strength in her upper torso (even if, by killing and/or maiming me, she would actually be doing me a favor, since then I wouldn’t have to live with the humiliation of having my boyfriend forsake me because I am not a party girl).

“She would never kill you, Mia,” Boris pointed out helpfully. “Lars would shoot her first.”

Lars, who was showing Tina’s bodyguard, Wahim, all the games on his new Sidekick, looked up upon hearing his name.

“Who is planning to kill the princess?” Lars asked alertly.

“No one,” I said, from between gritted teeth. “Because we’re going to get the money before she ever finds out. RIGHT????”

I think I must have really impressed them with my seriousness, since they all went, “Okay.”

Then, thankfully, Perin changed the subject.

“Uh-oh, looks like they did it again,” she said, pointing to the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili. Because he was sitting in his usual place by himself, disgustedly picking pieces of corn from his bowl of chili, and flicking them onto his lunch tray.

“That poor guy,” Perin said with a sigh. “I feel so bad whenever I see him sitting alone like that. I know how that feels.”

There was a painful pause as we all recalled how Perin had sat by herself at the beginning of the school year because she was new. Until we adopted her, that is.

“I thought he got a girlfriend,” Tina said. “Didn't you say you saw him buying prom tickets last year, Mia?”

“Yes,” I replied, with a sigh. “But I was wrong. It turned out he was only asking the people who were selling the prom tickets if they knew where the closest F train station was.”

Which, incidentally, is what inspired my short story about him.

“It's so sad,” Tina said, gazing in the direction of the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili. “It makes me think that what happens in Mia’s short story about him could happen in real life.”

!!!!!

“Maybe we should ask him to sit with us,” I said. Because the last thing I need, on top of everything else, is the guilt of having caused some guy to commit suicide by not being nicer to him.

“No, thank you,” Boris said. “I have enough problems digesting this disgusting food without having to do so in the company of a bonafide weirdo.”

“Hello,” Lilly said under her breath. “Pot, this is kettle. You’re black.”

“I heard that,” Boris said, looking pained.

“You were meant to,” Lilly sang.

Then Lilly pulled a bunch of flyers from her Hello Kitty Trapper Keeper. She’d clearly been down in the office, photo-copying something. She started passing the photocopies around.

“Everybody, give these out in your afternoon classes,” she said. “Hopefully by tomorrow we’ll get enough submissions to run our first issue by the end of this week.”

I looked down at the bright pink flyer. It said:

HEY YOU!

Are you sick and tired of being told what’s hot and what’s not by the so-called media?

Do you want to read stories written by your peers, about issues that really matter to you, instead of the stream of pap we are fed by teen magazines and our parents’ newspapers?

Then submit your original articles, poetry, short stories, cartoons, manga, novellas, and photos to Albert Einstein High School’s first ever literary magazine

FAT LOUIE’S PINK BUTTHOLE!!!!

Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole now accepting submissions for Volume I, Issue I

Oh my God.

OH MY GOD.

“Before you go all reactionary about the name of our literary magazine, Mia,” Lilly began—I guess because she must have noticed my lips turning white—“may I just point out that it is extremely creative and that, if we stick with it, we will never have to worry about any other literary magazine in the world having the same name?”

“Because it’s named after my cat’s butt!”

“Yes,” Lilly said. “It is. Thanks to the movies based on your life, your cat is famous, Mia. Everyone knows who Fat Louie is. That is why our magazine is going to sell. Because when people realize it has something to do with the princess of Genovia, they will snatch it right up. Because, for reasons that are beyond me, people are actually interested in you.”

“But the title isn’t about ME!” I wailed. “It’s about my cat! My cat’s butt, to be exact!”

“Yes,” Lilly said. “I will admit it’s a bit on the juvenile side. But that is why it will get people’s attention. They won’t be able to look away. I figure for the first cover, I’ll take a picture of Fat Louie’s butt, and then—”

She kept on talking, but I wasn’t listening. I COULDN’T listen.

Why must I be surrounded by so many lunatics?

Wednesday, March 3, Earth Science

Kenny just asked me to rewrite our worksheet on subduction zones. Not do the actual WORK over again (although it wouldn’t really be over again, since I didn’t do it in the first place—he did), but redo it on a new sheet that isn’t covered in pizza stains like the one we would be handing in if I weren’t redoing it, due to the fact that Kenny did it last night while he was eating his dinner.

I wish Kenny would be more careful with our homework. It’s a big pain for me to have to copy it over. Lilly’s not the only one with carpals, you know. I mean, SHE isn’t the one who has to sign a gazillion autographs for people every time she gets out of her limo in front of the Plaza. People have started LINING UP there every day after school because they know I’ll be coming for my princess lesson with Grandmère. I have to keep a Sharpie with me at all times just for that reason.

Writing Princess Mia Thermopolis over and over again is no joke. I wish my name weren’t so long.

Maybe I should just switch to writing HRH Mia. But would that seem stuck-up?

Kenny just showed me the Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole flyer and asked if I thought his thesis on brown dwarf stars would be suitable for publication.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “I have nothing to do with it.”

“But it’s named after your cat,” he said, looking dismayed.

“Yeah,” I said. “But I still have nothing to do with it.”

He doesn’t seem to believe me.

I can’t say I blame him.

HOMEWORK

PE: WASH GYM SHORTS!!!

U.S. Economics: Chapter 8

English: pages 116–132, O Pioneers

French: Écrivez une histoire comique pour vendredi

G&T: Figure out what I’m going to wear to The Party Geometry: Worksheet

Earth Science: Ask Kenny

Don’t forget: Tomorrow is Grandmère’s birthday! Bring gift to school so I can give it to her at princess lessons!!!!!!!!

Wednesday, March 3, the Plaza

Something is definitely up with Grandmère. I knew this the minute I walked into her suite, because she was being WAY too nice to me. She was like, “Amelia! How lovely to see you! Sit down! Have a bonbon!” and shoved all these truffles from La Maison du Chocolat in my face.

Oh yeah. Something’s going on.

Either that or she’s drunk. Again.

AEHS should really do a convocation about coping with alcoholic grandparents. Because I could use some tips.

“Good news,” she announced. “I think I might be able to help you with your little financial predicament.”

WHOA. WHOA!!!!!! Grandmère is coming through with a loan? Oh, thank you, God! THANK YOU!

“When I was in school,” she went on, “and we ran low on funds for our spring trip to Paris to visit the couture houses one year, we put on a show.”

I nearly choked on my tea. “You WHAT?”

“Put on a show,” Grandmère said. “It was The Mikado, you know. That we put on, I mean. Gilbert and Sullivan. Quite difficult, particularly since we were an all-girls school, and there are so many male leads. I remember Genevieve—you know, the one who used to dip my braids into her inkwell when I wasn’t looking—was so disappointed in having to play the Mikado.” An evil grin spread across Grandmère’s face. “The Mikado was supposed to be quite large, you know. I suppose Genevieve was upset about being typecast.”

Okay. So, obviously, no loan was forthcoming. Grandmère just felt like taking a little jog down memory lane, and had decided to drag me along with her.

I wondered if she’d even notice if I started text messaging Michael. He’d just be getting out of his Stochastic Analysis and Optimization class.

“I had the starring role, of course,” Grandmère was going on, lost in reverie. “The ingenue, Yum-Yum. People said I was the finest Yum-Yum they had ever seen, but I’m sure they were only trying to flatter me. Still, with my twenty-inch waist, I did look absurdly fetching in a kimono.”

Text message: STUCK W/GM

“No one was more surprised than I was when it turned out there was a Broadway director in the audience—Señor Eduardo Fuentes, one of the most influential stage directors of his day—and he approached me after opening night with an offer to star in the show he was directing in New York. I never even considered it, of course—”

Text message: I MISS U

“—since I knew I was destined for much greater things than a career in the theater. I wanted to be a surgeon, or perhaps a fashion designer, like Coco Chanel.”

Text message: I LUV U

“He was devastated, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out he was a little bit in love with me. I did look smart in that kimono. But, of course, my parents never would have approved. And if I HAD gone to New York with him, I’d never have met your grandfather.”

Text message: GET ME OUT OF HERE

“You should have heard my rendition of ‘Three Little Maids’:

‘Three little maids from school are we—’”

Text message: OMG SHE IS SINGING SEND HELP NOW

“‘Pert as a schoolgirl well can be—’”

Fortunately Grandmère broke off at that point in a coughing fit. “Oh dear! Yes. I was quite the sensation that year, let me tell you.”

Text message: THIS IS WORSE THAN WHAT AC WILL DO 2 ME WHEN SHE FINDS OUT ABOUT THE $

“Amelia, what are you doing with that mobile phone?”

“Nothing,” I said, quickly pressing SEND.

Grandmère’s face still had a dewy look from her stroll down memory lane.

“Amelia. I have an idea.”

Oh no.

See, there are two people in my acquaintance from whom you never want to hear the words “I have an idea.”

Lilly is one.

Grandmère is the other.

“Would you look at that?” I pointed at the clock. “Six o’clock already. Well, I better get going, I’m sure you have dinner plans with some shah or something. Isn’t it your birthday tomorrow? You must have some pre-birthday reflection to do….”

“Sit back down, Amelia,” Grandmère said in her scariest voice.

I sat.

“I think,” Grandmère said, “that you should put on a show.”

At least, that’s what I could have sworn she said.

But that couldn’t be correct. Because no one in her right mind would say something like that.

Wait. Did I just write “in her right mind”?

“A show?” I knew Grandmère had recently cut back on her smoking. She hadn’t quit or anything. But her doctor told her if she didn’t cut back, she’d be on an oxygen tank by the time she’s seventy.

So Grandmère had started limiting her cigarettes to after meals only. This is on account of her not being able to find an oxygen tank that goes with any of her designer outfits.

I decided that maybe the nicotine patch she was wearing had backfired or something, sending pure, unadulterated carbon monoxide into her bloodstream.

Because that was the only explanation I could think of for why she might possibly consider it a good idea for Albert Einstein High School to put on a show.

“Grandmère,” I said. “Maybe you should peel off your patch. Slowly. And I’ll just call your doctor—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Amelia,” she said, sniffing at the suggestion that she might be suffering from any sort of brain aneurysm or stroke, either of which, at her age, are highly likely, according to Yahoo! Health. “It is a perfectly reasonable idea for a fund-raiser. People have been putting on benefits and amateur entertainments for centuries to generate donations for their causes.”

“But, Grandmère,” I said. “The Drama Club is already putting on a show this spring, the musical Hair. They’ve started rehearsals and everything.”

“So? A little competition might make things more interesting for them,” Grandmère said.

“Uh,” I said. How was I going to break it to Grandmère that her idea was totally subpar? Like, almost as bad as selling candles? Or starting a literary magazine and calling it Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole?

“Grandmère,” I said. “I appreciate your concern for my economic blunder. But I do not need your help. Okay? Really, it’s going to be all right. I will find a way to raise the cash myself. Lilly and I are already on it, and we—”

“Then you may tell Lilly,” Grandmère said, “that your financial problems are over, since it is your grandmother’s intention to put on a play that will have the theater community begging for tickets, and everyone who is anyone in New York society dying to be involved. It will be a completely original spectacle, in order to showcase your myriad talents.”

She must have meant Lilly’s talents. Because I have no theatrical skills.

“Grandmère,” I said. “No. I really mean it. We don’t need your help. We’re fine, okay? Just fine. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, cut it out. Because I swear, if you butt in again, I’ll call Dad. Don’t think I won’t!”

But Grandmère had already drifted away, asking her maid to find her Rolodex…she apparently had some calls to make.

Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to stop her. I can just tell Principal Gupta not to let her into the building. With the new security cameras and all, they can’t claim they didn’t see her coming: She doesn’t go anywhere without a stretch limo and a hairless toy poodle. She can’t be too hard to spot.

Wednesday, March 3, the loft

Lilly says Grandmère must be projecting her feelings of powerlessness over being outbid by John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third for the fake island of Genovia onto my problems with the student government’s financial situation.

“It’s a classic case of transference,” is what Lilly said when I called her a little while ago to beg her one last time to change the name of her literary magazine. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it. If it makes her happy, why not let her put on her little play? I’ll happily play the lead…I have no problem taking on yet another responsibility, in addition to the vice presidency, my role as creator, director, and star of Lilly Tells It Like It Is, and editing Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.”

“Yeah,” I said. “About that, Lilly…”

“Well, it was my idea, wasn’t it?” Lilly reminded me. “Shouldn’t I be editor? This magazine’s going to ROCK, we’ve had so many kick-ass contributions already.”

“Lilly,” I said, mustering all of my carefully honed leadership qualities and speaking in a calm, measured voice, the way my dad addresses Parliament, “I don’t care about your being editor, and all of that. And I think it’s great and everything that you’re doing this—providing a forum in which the artists and writers of AEHS can express themselves. But don’t you think we need to concentrate on how we’re going to raise the five grand we need for the seniors’ gradua—”

“Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole IS going to raise five grand,” Lilly said confidently. “It’s going to raise MORE than five grand. It’s going to raise the roof off the publishing industry as we know it. Sixteen magazine is going to be put out of business when people get hold of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole and read the honest, raw pieces it contains, slices of American teen life that will have 60 Minutes pounding on my door, demanding interviews, and no doubt Quentin Tarantino, asking for the film rights—”

“Wow,” I said, barely listening. Am I the ONLY person who recognizes the GREAT pain we are going to be in when Amber Cheeseman finds out we have no money to pay for Alice Tully Hall? “The contributions you’ve gotten are that good, huh?”

“Spectacular. I had no idea our fellow students were so DEEP. Kenny Showalter in particular wrote an ode to his true love that brought tears to my—”

“Kenny wrote an ode?”

“Well, he CALLS it a thesis about brown dwarf stars, but it is clearly a tribute to a woman. A woman he once loved, then tragically lost.”

Whoa. Who had KENNY ever loved and lost? Except…

Me?

But I couldn’t let this news distract me! It was important to stay on point. I HAD to get Lilly to change the name of her literary magazine.

Oh, and make five thousand dollars—Ooooh! Michael’s IMing me!

SKINNERBX: Hey! So what was the deal with your grandmother? Was she really singing?

FTLOUIE: What? Oh yeah! Among other things. How are you?

SKINNERBX: Great. Still stoked you’re coming over this weekend.

Okay, my life is so seriously over. I thought Amber Cheeseman was going to be the death of me, but it turns out I’m going to die well before she ever finds out I’ve squandered her commencement money on environmentally friendly recycling bins. I am going to have to kill MYSELF first, because that’s the only way I can see to get out of going to this party.

Because I CAN’T go to this party. I CAN’T. See, I know what’s going to happen if I go: I’m going to be all shy and intimidated by the much smarter, older people there, and I’m going to end up sitting by myself in a corner, and Michael is going to come over and be like, “Is everything okay?” and I’m going to be like, “Yes,” but he will know I am lying because my nostrils will flare (note to self: Does he know about how my nostrils flare when I lie??? Find out.) and then he’ll figure out I’m not a party girl and am, in fact, the total social drag I know myself to be.

Besides, I don’t even own a beret.

I’m not going to let this happen. Because I’m just going to say I can’t go.

Okay. Here I go.

FTLOUIE: Michael, I’m really sorry, but—

DELETE DELETE DELETE

I CAN’T say no. Because what if he takes it personally? What if he thinks it’s like a rejection of HIM?

WHAT IF HE SEEKS SOLACE FOR HIS INJURED PRIDE IN THE ARMS OF ONE OF THOSE MEAN COLLEGE GIRLS????

Wait. I’ve got to pull myself together. Michael isn’t like that. He would never cheat on me with another girl, no matter how hard she threw herself at him. Even if Craig DID cheat on Ashley with Manny on Degrassi when Ashley wouldn’t have sex with him. That doesn’t mean Michael would do the same thing. Because he is BETTER than Craig. Who, by the way, was suffering from bipolar disorder at the time. And is also a fictional character.

Besides, college girls don’t wear thongs. They think they are sexist.

Tina is right. I’ve just got to be honest with him. I’ve got to come out and say it.

FTLOUIE: Michael, I can’t go to your party because I don’t even like parties and besides I think it’s going to be totally boring hanging out with a bunch of college people, especially if all you talk about is dystopic sci-fi films….

DELETE DELETE DELETE

I can’t say THAT! Oh, God. What am I going to do????

FTLOUIE: Yeah! Can’t wait!

God. I am such a liar.

SKINNERBX: So what’s this I hear about your grandmother having some kind of party next Wednesday night for Bob Dylan?

FTLOUIE: Bob Dylan? You mean the singer?

SKINNERBX: Yeah. Bono and Elton John are supposed to be there, too.

For a minute I thought maybe Michael had inhaled too much secondhand marijuana smoke from the dorm room across the hall from his.

Then I remembered Grandmère’s benefit to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers.

FTLOUIE: Oh, right. Wow, that’s funny. How did you hear about that?

SKINNERBX: Netscape. Apparently she’s hosting something called Aide de Ferme?

Farm Aid. I should have known.

FTLOUIE: Oh. Yeah. She is.

SKINNERBX: So is there a chance you can sneak me in? I’d love to ask Bob if he still believes an individual can change the world as we know it with a single song. Do you think that would be okay? I promise not to embarrass you in front of any world leaders.

Oh! How sweet! Michael wants to meet a celebrity! That is so not like him.

But then, Bob Dylan isn’t your average celebrity. After all, he practically invented his own language. At least, that’s what it sounds like whenever Michael puts on one of his CDs.

Still, Michael will no doubt find a use for Bob’s sage, Yoda-like musical wisdom. He seems to have no problem figuring out what Bob is saying.

And, as an added plus for me, I get a date for next Wednesday night!

And okay, he’s basically just using me to meet Bob Dylan. But whatever.

See, that’s the great thing about having a boyfriend. When you’ve had the suckiest day imaginable, all he has to do is ask you out, and it’s like: Poof! Bad stuff begone. Really, it’s some powerful stuff, the whole boyfriend thing.

FTLOUIE: That sounds like it should be doable.

Michael then went on to write very nice things to me, like what an effective leader I am, both of Genovia and AEHS, and how much he can’t wait to see me this weekend, and what he’s going to do to me when he DOES see me, and how he thinks I’m the best writer in the world, and how Shonda Yost, Sixteen magazine’s fiction editor, must have been on crack not to pick “No More Corn!” as the winner of her contest.

Which was all very nice, but didn’t really do anything to address the problem that was REALLY weighing on my mind:

What am I going to do about his party?

Oh, yeah. And how am I going to get the money to rent Alice Tully Hall?

Thursday, March 4, the limo on the way to school

I’m so tired. Last night just as I was getting into bed, I got an IM. I thought it must be Michael, writing to say he loves me. You know, one last time before he went to sleep.

But it was BORIS PELKOWSKI, of all people.

JOSHBELL2: Mia! What’s this I hear about your grandmother having a party next Wednesday night and inviting celebrated violinist and my personal artistic hero, Joshua Bell, to it?

Good grief.

FTLOUIE: Joshua Bell wouldn’t happen to be considering buying an island in The World off the coast of Dubai, would he?

JOSHBELL2: I don’t know about that. He could be buying Indiana, the great state from which he hails, which happens to be the birthplace of many other musical geniuses as well, including Hoagy Carmichael and Michael Jackson. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Mia—could you get me into that party? I have GOT to meet him. There’s something very important I have to tell Joshua Bell.

You know, Boris might be hot now, but he’s still weird.

FTLOUIE: I can probably figure out a way to sneak you in.

JOSHBELL2: Oh, THANK YOU, Mia! You don’t know how much I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can ever do for you—besides rehearse in the supply closet, which I already do—let me know!

As if that weren’t random enough, then Ling Su IMed me.

PAINTURGURL: Hey, Mia! I heard your grandma is having a party on Wednesday night, and Matthew Barney, the controversial conceptual artist, is going to be there.

FTLOUIE: Let me guess: Matthew Barney is buying an island in The World off the coast of Dubai.

PAINTURGURL: How did you guess? He’s buying Iceland for his wife, Björk. Any chance you could smuggle me in to meet him?

FTLOUIE: No problem.

PAINTURGURL: Mia Thermopolis, you rule!

Then came one from Shameeka:

BEYONCE_IS_ME: Hi, Mia!

FTLOUIE: Wait, I already know: You heard Beyoncé is coming to the party my grandmother is giving Wednesday night to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers, and you’d like me to sneak you in so you can meet her.

BEYONCE_IS_ME: Actually, it’s Halle Berry. She’s buying California. Is BEYONCÉ going to be there, too????

FTLOUIE: Consider yourself invited.

BEYONCE_IS_ME: REALLY???? YOU ARE THE BEST!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then Kenny:

E=MC2: Mia, is it true your grandmother is hosting a party next week at which the world-renowned scientist Dr. Rita Rossi Coldwell will be in attendance?

FTLOUIE: Probably. Want to come?

E=MC2: COULD I? Thanks so much, Mia!

FTLOUIE: Don’t mention it.

Then Tina:

ILUVROMANCE: Mia, is it true your grandmother is having a party and all these celebrities are going to be there?

FTLOUIE: Yes. Which one do you want to meet?

ILUVROMANCE: I don’t care! ANY celebrity is fine with me!

FTLOUIE: Done. Be there or be square.

ILUVROMANCE: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! CELEBRITIES!!! I’M SO EXCITED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then, finally, Lilly:

WOMYNRULE: Hey! What’s this I hear about your grandma inviting Benazir Bhutto to some party next Wednesday night?

Whoa. Not Benazir, too. What’s she bidding on? Faux Pakistan?

FTLOUIE: You want to come and meet her?

WOMYNRULE: You know I do. She and I have a few things I need to discuss. Primarily her support of the Taliban for all those years.

FTLOUIE: Be my guest.

WOMYNRULE: Rockin’. See ya tomorrow, POG.

I guess all that stuff I wrote to Carl Jung about—you know, being the president of my student government, but still super unpopular—turns out not to be true. I’m QUITE popular.

Thanks to my GRANDMA.

Thursday, March 4, Homeroom

I’m going to kill her.

I told her NO. I specifically, and definitively, said NO to her.

How can she do this to me?

Again?

Thursday, March 4, PE

Seriously. How did she even DO it? I mean, so fast?

And they’re everywhere, of course. The walls are plastered with them. I opened my locker, and one popped out into my hand.

SHE STUFFED THEM INTO EVERYONE’S LOCKER.

That had to have taken HOURS. How did she do it? Who did she PAY to do it?

God. It could have been anyone. A teacher, even. They barely earn a living wage, after all. I know, I’ve seen Mr. G’s pay stubs lying around.

Everyone is walking around with one in their hand. A bright yellow flyer that says:

AUDITIONS TODAY, 3:30 P.M.

The Plaza Hotel, Grand Ballroom A brand-new, all-original show

Braid!

All Are Welcome No Theatrical Experience Necessary

I already overheard some of the Drama Club members—the ones who have been busy rehearsing for Hair—looking around all darkly under their eyebrow piercings and going, “Braid!? What’s Braid!? I never heard of a show called Braid! Is it a new Andrew Lloyd Webber? Is it about Rapunzel?”

They are furious that someone is putting on a theatrical production—especially one that seems to involve hair—that might draw away THEIR audience.

And I can’t say I blame them.

But I am not about to volunteer the information that my GRANDMOTHER is the someone they’re all looking for. I mean, Amber Cheeseman is not the only person in this school who knows how to kill with a single blow of the heel of her hand. Some of those drama people…they know how to use swords and stuff. Like, in FENCING.

I do NOT need any rapiers to my heart, thanks very much.

Don’t even get me started on nunchucks.

What can Grandmère be thinking? What is Braid!?

And why can’t she ever just stay OUT OF MY LIFE??? It’s not like I don’t have ENOUGH problems, thank you very much. I mean, just this morning, when I went into Rocky’s bedroom to kiss him good-bye before I left for school, he pointed at me all happily and shrieked, “Tuck!”

Yes. My brother thinks I’m a truck.

WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO SEES THAT THIS MIGHT BE A POTENTIAL PROBLEM????

Thursday, March 4, U.S. Economics

Okay, so paying attention now:

The focus of economics is to understand the problem of scarcity. How do we fulfill the unlimited wants of humankind with the limited and/or scarce resources available?

This is called utility—the advantage or fulfillment a person receives from consuming a good or service.

The more the person or government consumes, the larger the total utility will be.

So Grandmère’s utility must be the biggest in the WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD.

Thursday, March 4, English

Oh my God. Lana knows.

I don’t know how she found out, but she knows. I know she knows because she came up to me in the hallway and went, “I know.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And she said it all knowingly. You know?

The thing is…I don’t know WHAT she knows. Does she know Grandmère is the one behind the rival show?

Or does she know about how I blew all the seniors’ money?

Or does she know about—gasp!—my fear that Michael is going to find out I’m not a party girl?

But how COULD she? I have confided this fear to no one—no one except Tina Hakim Baba, and telling her a secret is like telling it to a wall. She’d NEVER tell.

Especially not to LANA.

Still, whatever it is Lana knows, she says she won’t tell…

…but only if I meet her demands.

HER DEMANDS!!!

She says to meet her in the third-floor stairwell right after lunch, where she’ll tell me what she wants to maintain her silence.

I didn’t know the popular people knew about the third-floor stairwell. I thought that was the sole reserve of the geeks.

God, I wonder what she wants. What if she, like, wants to be my best friend?

Seriously! Like what if she wants me to pretend to like her so she gets HER picture in Us Weekly alongside mine? Or so she can come along to the next royal wedding I attend and schmooze with Prince William? You so know she’s just WAITING for a chance to get him alone so she can show him why her name is the one most often scrawled on the stall doors of the AEHS boys’ rooms (according to Boris).

But wait…what if that’s not it at all? What if she doesn’t want me to pretend to be her friend, but instead, she wants my resignation as president—so SHE can be president????

It’s totally possible. I mean, she never really DID get over my beating her in the election. I mean, she PRETENDED not to care—telling everyone after she lost, that being student body president is stupid anyway, and that she didn’t know what she was thinking, ever running for the post in the first place.

But what if she’s changed her mind? What if she doesn’t REALLY think it’s stupid after all, and wants my job?

Although would that necessarily be the worst thing? I mean, being president is a lot of work for basically nothing. I haven’t gotten even a single thank-you for the recycling bins.

And I know the signs on them are spelled wrong, but still.

Although if Lana demands my resignation, at least it will free up a bunch of time in my schedule. I mean, then maybe I’d have time to work on that book I’ve been meaning to start writing. I could expand “No More Corn!” into a novel. I could try to sell it to an actual publisher. I wouldn’t have to worry about The Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili reading it, either, because what high school kid has time to read books for pleasure? None.

And then I could be published, and go on Book TV and talk all knowledgeably about symbolism and stuff.

God. That would be so great.

But wait. Lana CAN’T take over being president, even if I resign. If I resign, Lilly, as VP, will get the job.

So that CAN’T be what Lana wants. She must want something else from me.

But what? I have NOTHING. She’s got to know that. Nothing except the throne of Genovia awaiting me at some date in the future…

Could THAT be what she wants? Not my throne but, like, my CROWN?

I can’t give my tiara away. My dad would kill me. It’s worth, like, a million bucks or something. That’s why Grandmère has to keep it in the vault at the Plaza.

WAIT—WHAT IF SHE WANTS MICHAEL???

But why would she? She never wanted him when he was here at AEHS. In fact, for some reason, she seemed to find him completely dorky and unappealing (has anyone ever BEEN as blind?).

Besides, I heard that lately she’s been dating the Dalton basketball team.

She BETTER not want Michael, that’s all I can say. I mean, she can have my throne.

BUT NEVER MY BOYFRIEND.

Mia, what’s wrong?—T

Nothing’s wrong! What makes you think something’s wrong?

Because you look like you just swallowed a sock.

Do I? I don’t mean to. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all.

Oh. I thought something might have happened with Michael. Did you talk to him yet? About your not being a party girl, I mean?

Um. No.

Mia! You have to be firm with guys. It’s like Ms. Dynamite says in “Put Him Out”—I understand you love him and UR down/But that don’t mean you gotta be his clown.

I KNOW!

You guys. We have SO MANY submissions for the first issue. Ms. Martinez and I are meeting at lunch to decide what’s going in and what’s not. Volume I of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole is going to ROCK.

PLEASE STOP CALLING IT THAT.

No, because that is its NAME. You’re the only one who doesn’t like it. Well, except Principal Gupta. But like HER opinion counts. Speaking of which, POG, what’s this Braid! thing your grandmother’s got going on?

How do you know it’s her????

Um, who else would hold auditions at the Plaza? Duh. So. What is it?

I don’t know. Just another of my crazy grandmother’s schemes to humiliate and annoy me.

God, who peed in YOUR cornflakes this morning?

NO ONE!!! I’m just sick of her always butting into my life!!!

Mia’s worried about Michael finding out she’s not a party girl.

TINA!!!!!!!!!!

Well, I’m sorry, Mia. But it’s so ridiculous. Don’t you think it’s ridiculous, Lilly?

What’s a party girl?

You know. Like Lana. Or Paris Hilton.

UGH!!!! Why would you want to be like Paris Hilton, anyway????

I don’t. That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m just—Paris Hilton is one of those women who is too pretty to live. Don’t you think, Tina?

Totally. She is NO ONE for you to be threatened by, Mia.

I am not threatened by her! I just—

Check it out:

WOMEN WHO ARE TOO BEAUTIFUL

TO LIVE AND SHOULD BE SENT AWAY

TO LIVE WITH ONE ANOTHER

ON A DESERTED ISLAND

SO THE REST OF US CAN STOP

FEELING SO INADEQUATE

by

Lilly Moscovitz

1) Paris Hilton. Wait—she’s pretty, can eat whatever she wants and never get fat, much less have to exercise, AND she’s an heiress? Is there no JUSTICE on this planet? And okay, she is kind to animals and gay people, and she is obviously smart enough to land herself a fiancé who is related to one of the richest families in the world. But did she ever think about using her mind to develop something other than a reality TV show? What about a cure for cancer, Paris? What about a way to atomize seawater to produce droplets to rise into the clouds and increase their reflectivity of sunlight, resulting in cooling temperatures adequate to compensate for global warming, thus saving the planet? Come on, Paris, we know you could do it if you applied yourself. With your money and brains, you could really make a difference!

2) Angelina Jolie. Just get rid of her! She’s way too beautiful, with those stupid pouty lips and all that hair and those sticky-outy hip bones. I don’t care about any of that stealing-Brad-from-Jennifer stuff, or the Ethiopian orphan she adopted, or whether or not she ever made out with her brother. Just get rid of her! She’s too pretty!

3) Keira Knightley. Oh my God, I HATE her! She’s WAY too beautiful to live! It’s bad enough she got to make out with Orlando in Pirates, but now she also plays Elizabeth Bennett in yet another Pride and Prejudice remake? I am sorry, but she’s no Lizzie Bennett. Lizzie Bennett is supposed to be SMART, not beautiful. That’s the whole point of the story—that Lizzie isn’t traditionally gorgeous the way Keira is. GOD! Just get rid of her!

4) Jessica Alba. She was bearable in the leading role in the postapocalyptic TV show Dark Angel. At least we never had to see her abs, because it was too rainy in Seattle, where the show took place, for halter tops. Then along came a little film about an aspiring hip-hop dancer called Honey, and then Sin City, and The Fantastic Four, and it was ALL ABS, ALL THE TIME for Miss Alba. Then her name started popping up in Eminem songs. Do we need this? Do we need the foremost poet of our time waxing eloquent on Jessica Alba? We do not. Get her out of here.

5) Halle Berry. Must I even go on? Oh, sure, she TRIED to look bad in Monster’s Ball. Too bad it didn’t work. Halle Berry could not look bad if her life depended on it. She seems to exist merely to make all the rest of us feel insecure. Buh-bye, Halle Berry.

6) Natalie Portman. I guess you WOULD need to cast someone really beautiful to play Princess Leia’s mother. Still. Did they HAVE to cast someone so impossibly beautiful that she even makes those horrible lines in Attack of the Clones—the part where Amidala and Anakin are rolling down that hill with the stupid cow things—sound smart? Sure, Natalie’s tried to redeem herself by playing indie roles that don’t require vinyl bodysuits. But it doesn’t matter how many colors you dye your hair, Ms. Portman. We still think you’re too pretty to live.

7) Shannyn Sossamon. I had my doubts in A Knight’s Tale. I was like, What’s someone that gorgeous doing living in the Middle Ages? But when I saw The Rules of Attraction, I KNEW: Shannyn Sossamon is way too beautiful to play a girl who guys are dumping and cheating on all over the place. It would NEVER HAPPEN. Get rid of her!

8) Thandie Newton. I could handle her in the Audrey Hepburn role in the remake of Charade, because Audrey Hepburn was also too beautiful to live, so it was only to be expected that an actress playing a role she made famous would have to be that beautiful, as well. And I could handle her in the sci-fi adventure The Chronicles of Riddick, because, basically, she played an alien. But when she showed up as Dr. Carter’s love interest on ER, I knew it was time: Time to get rid of her! What is Thandie Newton doing on TV? She is way too pretty to be on TV! She needs to stick to feature films! And no way would some doctor from Chicago go to the Congo and come back with THANDIE NEWTON. Okay??? Women who look like her DON’T GO TO THE CONGO. Please get her out of my sight!

9) Nicole Kidman. Okay, what is Nicole Kidman supposed to be? Is she supposed to be a human being? Because I think she might be one of those aliens that popped out of its human suit in the movie Cocoon. Remember, the super-shiny one? Because Nicole radiates beauty and light the same way that alien did. Hey, maybe she’s one of those aliens the Scientologists are waiting for, the ones who are supposedly going to come back to rescue us all (well, at least all their fellow Scientologists) before we destroy our planet by abusing its natural resources. Maybe that’s why Tom Cruise married her. Nicole Kidman, phone home! Tell the spaceship to hurry up already!

10) Penélope Cruz. Another alien! Although she isn’t as shiny as Nicole, Penelope is definitely too beautiful to be a human being. Maybe that’s why Tom Cruise went out with her for so long! He THOUGHT she might be an alien, like Nicole, but then it turned out Penelope had simply won the genetic lottery, and is just naturally gorgeous. What’s going to happen when Tom finds out Katie Holmes isn’t an alien, either? Is he going to dump her, too? HOW MANY MORE PRETERNATURALLY BEAUTIFUL WOMEN ARE LEFT FOR TOM TO MARRY/DATE? Why won’t the Scientology mothership hurry up and come to TAKE THEM ALL AWAY?????

Thursday, March 4, French

Whatever. That was so not helpful.

Détente—any international situation where previously hostile nations not involved in an open war “warm up” to each other and threats de-escalate.

God, it would rule if what Lana wanted was détente.

Thursday, March 4, third-floor stairwell

Okay, so I’m here, but Lana’s not.

She said after lunch. I’m sure that’s what she said.

It’s after lunch now.

SO WHERE IS SHE????

God, I HATE this sneaking around. It was SO HARD ditching those guys. I mean, not Lilly, since she was meeting with Ms. Martinez. But I mean Tina and Boris and Perin and everybody. I had to tell them I was coming up here to make a private phone call to Michael.

Which Tina so obviously thought meant I was coming up here to break the news to Michael that I’m not a party girl. She kept going, “You go, girl!” until Shameeka was all, “What are you guys TALKING about?”

Tina IS right, though. I’ve got to stop lying to Michael and tell him the truth. Only I’ve got to figure out a way to tell him that doesn’t give away my dark secret—that I am not a party girl.

But HOW??? How to accomplish this? You would think, for an inveterate liar like me, it would be easy to make up some excuse that would put me in the clear…like that I have to go to some special royal function this weekend.

Too bad no royals have died lately. A state funeral would be a PERFECT excuse.

But since no one’s croaked recently, what about…a WEDDING?

Yeah! I could say one of my Grimaldi cousins is getting married again, and I HAVE to go. Michael would believe me, it’s not like he reads any of the magazines that would cover news like that…unless he tries looking it up on Netscape.

Maybe I’ll just text him. Yeah, I’ll text him right now, and be all, “SRY, HAVE 2 GO 2 GENOVIA 4 THE WEEKEND! 2 BAD! DUTY CALLS! MAYBE NXT TIME!”

Except that ultimately, it would just be simpler if I stopped lying. I mean, pretty soon I’m not going to be able to keep track of all my stories and get mixed up and—

SOMEONE IS COMING!!!!

It’s LANA!!!!

Thursday, March 4, G & T

Okay. So that was surreal.

So it WAS the money. That we’re out of it, I mean. That’s what Lana had meant when she’d said she knew.

And all she ended up wanting in exchange for her silence was to be invited to Grandmère’s party. The one she’s throwing to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers.

Seriously.

I was so shocked—I mean, I’d really expected Lana to ask me for something that would complicate my life a LOT more than a simple party invitation—that I was all, “Why would you want to go to THAT? I mean—do YOU want to meet Bob Dylan, too?”

Lana just looked at me like I’m stupid (so what else is new?) and went, “Um, no. But Colin Farrell is going to be there. He’s bidding on Ireland. Everyone knows that.”

Everyone except me, apparently.

But still. I pretended like I’d known. I went, “Oh. Right. Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

Then I said I’d make sure she got an invitation.

“TWO invitations,” Lana hissed, in a manner not dissimilar to the way Gollum went around hissing “My precious” in Lord of the Rings. “Trish wants to come, too.” Trisha Hayes is Lana’s main henchperson, the Igor to her Dr. Frankenstein. “Though if she thinks SHE’S getting Colin, she’s high.”

I didn’t comment on this apparent rift in their unconditional sisterly love for each other. Instead, I was all, “Um, yeah, okay, two invitations.”

But then, because I am incapable of keeping my mouth shut, I was like, “But, um, if you don’t mind my asking—how’d you hear? About the money, I mean?”

She made another face and went, “I looked up how much those stupid ‘cans and battles’ recycling bins cost online. Then I just did some math. And I knew you had to be broke.”

God. Lana is even more conniving than I ever gave her credit for. Conniving AND much better at math than I am.

Maybe she SHOULD have been president.

I probably should have just let her go at that point. I probably should have just been all, “Well, see ya.”

But I couldn’t, of course. Because that would have been too easy. Instead, I had to be all, “Um, Lana. Can I ask you a question?”

And she was like, “What?” with her eyes all narrowed.

I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth next: “How do you, um. Party?”

Lana’s super–lip glossed mouth fell open at that one. “How do you WHAT?”

“You know,” I said. “Party. I mean, I know you go to a lot of, um, parties. So I was just wondering…like, what do you DO at them? How do you, you know. Party?”

Lana just shook her head, her stick-straight blond hair (she’s never had to worry about her hair forming an upside-down yield-sign shape) shimmering under the fluorescent lights.

“God,” she said. “You are such a dork.”

Since this was unchallengingly true, I didn’t say anything.

This was apparently the right move, since Lana continued, “You just show up—looking fantastic, of course. Then you grab a beer. If the music’s any good, you dance. If there’s a hot guy, you hook up. That’s it.”

I thought about this. “I don’t like beer,” I said.

But Lana just ignored me. “And you wear something sexy.” Her gaze flicked from my combat boots up to the top of my head, and she added, “Although for you, that might be a challenge.”

Then she sauntered off.

It can’t be that simple. Partying, I mean. You just go, drink, dance, and, um, hook up? This information does not help me at all. What do you do if they’re playing fast music? Are you supposed to dance fast? I look like I’m having a seizure when I dance fast.

And what are you supposed to do with this alleged beer while you’re dancing? Do you put it down on, like, a coffee table or something? Or do you hold it while you dance? If you’re dancing fast, won’t it spill?

And don’t you have to introduce yourself to everyone in the room? Grandmère insists that at parties I make sure I greet every guest personally, shaking their hand and inquiring after their health. Lana didn’t say anything about that.

Or about the most important thing of all: What are you supposed to do about your bodyguard?

God. This partying thing is going to be even harder than I thought.

Thursday, March 4, Geometry

Something horrible just occurred to me. I mean, something even more horrible than the usual things that occur to me, like that Rocky might be suffering from childhood disintegrative disorder, or that the mole on my right hip is growing and could turn into a two-hundred-pound tumor like the one that grew on that lady I saw on that documentary on the Discovery Health Channel called 200 Pound Tumor.

And that’s that Lana might be self-actualized.

Seriously. I mean, that shakedown in the stairwell just now—that was almost a beautiful thing. It was CLASSIC.

And okay, she did it in a totally underhanded and manipulative way. But she got exactly what she set out to get.

She CAN’T be self-actualized. I mean, it totally wouldn’t be fair if she were.

But you can’t deny that she knows how to get what she wants out of life. Whereas I am just floundering around, lying to everyone all the time, and definitely NOT getting what I want.

I don’t know. I mean, sure, she’s pure unadulterated evil.

But it’s something to think about.

Alternate exterior angles—A pair of angles on the outer sides of two lines cut by a transversal, but on opposite sides of the transversal.

Thursday, March 4, Earth Science

Just now Kenny asked me if I would recopy our viscosity lab handout. He got Alfredo sauce all over it while filling in the blanks last night during dinner.

I guess it’s a small price to pay for not actually having to know what viscosity is.

HOMEWORK

PE: WASH GYM SHORTS!!!

U.S. Economics: Questions at end of Chapter 8

English: Pages 133–154, O Pioneers

French: Rewrite histoire

G&T: Cut black velvet knee-length skirt to micromini for party. FIND BERET!!!!

Geometry: Chapter 17, problems on pages 224–230 Earth Science: Who cares? Kenny will do it.

Thursday, March 4, the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza

A lot of people showed up for the Braid! auditions. I mean, a LOT.

Which is weird when you consider that none of the Drama Club people can even audition for Braid! because they’re too busy rehearsing for Hair.

Which means that all of the people who showed up today were theater neophytes (which means “beginner or novice,” according to Lilly), like Lilly and Tina and Boris and Ling Su and Perin (but not Shameeka, since she’s only allowed that one extracurricular per semester).

But Kenny was there, with some of his wonder-geek pals. And Amber Cheeseman, her school uniform sleeves rolled up to show off her apelike forearms.

Even The Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili showed up.

Wow. I really had no idea there were so many aspiring thespians at AEHS.

Although if you think about it, acting is one of the few professions in which you can make a ton of money while having no actual intelligence or talent whatsoever, as many a star has shown us.

So in that way, you can see why it would be such an appealing career option to so many people.

Grandmère decided to actually run this as if it were a real audition. She had her maid hand out applications to everyone who walked through the door. We were supposed to fill them out, then stand for a Polaroid taken by Grandmère’s chauffeur, then hand the Polaroid and our application to a tiny, extremely ancient man with huge glasses and an ascot, who was sitting behind a long table set Jennifer-Lopez-in-her-Flashdance-re-creation-video-for-“I’m Glad”-style in the middle of the room. Grandmère sat next to him, with her toy poodle Rommel shivering—in spite of his purple suede bomber jacket—on her lap.

I went up to her, waving my form and the Number One Noodle Son bag in which I had stowed her birthday gift earlier that day and dragged with me to school.

“I’m not filling this out,” I informed her, slapping the form down on the table. “Here’s your present. Happy birthday.”

Grandmère took the bag from me—inside it were the padded satin hangers I had special-ordered from Chanel for her (Whatever. Dad was the one who’d suggested—and paid for—them.), and said, “Thank you. Please be seated, Amelia, dear.”

I knew the “dear” was entirely for the benefit of the guy sitting next to her—whoever he was—not for me.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” I said to her. “I mean…is this really how you want to spend your birthday?”

Grandmère just waved me away. “When you’re my age, Amelia,” she said, “age becomes meaningless.”

Oh, whatever. She’s in her SIXTIES, not her nineties. Instead of satin hangers, I should have gotten her one of those shirts I saw downtown that say DRAMA QUEEN inside the Dairy Queen logo.

Lilly flagged me down, so I sat with her and Tina and everybody. Right away Lilly was all, “So what’s the deal here, POG? I’m reporting on this for The Atom, so make it good.”

Lilly always gets the best assignments for the school paper. I have totally sunk to special features—i.e. occasional stories on the school band concert or the library’s most recent acquisitions—since I am too busy with presidential and princess stuff to make a regular deadline.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’ll find out when you find out.”

“Off the record,” Lilly said. “Come on. Who’s the little dude with the glasses?”

Before she could ask me anything else, though, Grandmère stood up—dumping poor Rommel from her lap to the ballroom floor, where he slid around a bit before finding his footing on the slippery parquet—and said in a deceptively kind voice (deceptive because, of course, Grandmère isn’t kind), as the room fell silent, “Welcome. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Clarisse, Dowager Princess of Genovia. I am very delighted to see so many of you here today for what will prove, I am certain, to be an important and historic moment in the history of Albert Einstein High School, as well as the theatrical world. But before I say more about that, allow me to introduce, without further ado, the much celebrated, world-famous theatrical director, Señor Eduardo Fuentes.”

Señor Eduardo! No! It can’t be!

And yet…it was! It was the famous director who had asked Grandmère, all those years before, to come to New York with him and star in an original Broadway production!

He had to have been in his thirties back then. He’s gotta be about a HUNDRED now. He’s so old, he looks like a cross between Larry King and a raisin.

Señor Eduardo struggled to rise from his chair, but he was so rickety and frail that he only managed to get about a quarter of the way up before Grandmère pushed him down again impatiently, then went on with her speech. I could practically hear his fragile bones snap under her grip.

“Señor Eduardo has directed countless plays and musicals on numerous prestigious stages worldwide, including Broadway and London’s West End,” Grandmère informed us. “You should all feel extremely honored at the prospect of working with such an accomplished and revered professional.”

“Tank you,” Señor Eduardo managed to get in, waving his hands around and blinking in the bright lights from the ballroom ceiling. “I tank you very, very much. It geeves me great pleasure to look out across so many youthful faces, shining with excitement and—”

But Grandmère wasn’t letting anyone, not even a centenarian world-famous director, steal her show.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she cut him off, “you are, as I said, about to audition for an original work that has never been performed before. If you are cast in this piece, you will, in essence, become a part of history. I am especially pleased about welcoming you here today because the piece you are about to read from was written almost entirely by”—she lowered her false eyelashes modestly—“me.”

“Oh, this is good,” Lilly said, eagerly jotting stuff down in her reporter’s notebook. “Are you getting this, POG?”

Oh, I was getting it all right. Grandmère wrote a PLAY? A play she means for us to put on to raise money for AEHS’s senior graduation?

I am so, so dead.

“This piece,” Grandmère was going on, holding up a sheaf of papers—the script, apparently—“is a work of complete originality and, I am not embarrassed to say, genius. Braid! is, essentially, a classic love story, about a couple who must overcome extraordinary odds in order to be together. What makes Braid! all the more compelling is that it is based on historical fact. Everything that happens in this piece ACTUALLY HAPPENED IN REAL LIFE. Yes! Braid! is the story of an extraordinary young woman who, though she spent most of her life as a simple commoner, was one day thrust into a role of leadership. Yes, she was asked to assume the throne of a little country you all might have heard of, Genovia. This brave young woman’s name? Why, none other than the great—”

No. Oh my God, no. For the love of God, no. Grandmère’s written a play about me. About MY LIFE. I AM GOING TO DIE. I AM GOING TO—

“—Rosagunde.”

Wait. What? ROSAGUNDE?

“Yes,” Grandmère went on. “Rosagunde, the current princess of Genovia’s great-great-great-great, and so on grandmother, who exhibited incredible bravery in the face of adversity, and was eventually rewarded for her efforts with the throne of what is today Genovia.”

Oh. My. God.

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

AND SHE WANTS MY SCHOOL TO PUT IT ON.

IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.

“Braid! is, at heart, a love story. But the tale of the great Rosagunde is much more than a romance. It is, in fact—” Here, Grandmère paused, as much for dramatic effect as to take a sip from the glass on the table beside her. Water? Or straight vodka? We will never know. Not unless I had gone up there and taken a big swig. “—A MUSICAL.”

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 driveway 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

I knew I’d be inundated with e-mails the minute I turned my computer on. And I was right.

From Lilly:

WOMYNRULE: Does your grandmother realize that the subject matter of her little play is practically rated PG-13? I mean, it contains attempted rape, excessive alcohol consumption, murder, violence—about the only thing it DOESN’T have in it is bad language, and that’s only because it takes place in the year 568. And could you believe how off-key Amber Cheeseman was? I totally blew her out of the water. If I don’t get the part of Rosagunde, it will be a travesty of justice. I was MADE to play this role.

From Tina:

ILUVROMANCE: That was fun today! I really hope I get the part of Rosagunde. I know I won’t, because Lilly was so good at the audition, the part will totally go to her. But it would be sooo cool to play a princess. I mean, not for you, since you play a princess in real life and everything. But for someone like me, I mean. I know Lilly will get it. Still, I hope I don’t get the part of Alboin’s mistress. I wouldn’t want to play a mistress. Also, I don’t think my dad would let me.

From Ling Su:

PAINTURGURL: Okay, clearly Lilly is going to get the part of Rosagunde, but if I get stuck with the part of the mistress, I am going to scream! Asian actresses are always being relegated to roles where they are forced to play sexual subservients. Or, worse, just plain subservients… like Rosagunde’s maid. I refuse to be typecast! I hope she didn’t think my performance of Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl” was too strident. Also, is your grandma going to need help with the sets? Because I paint totally good castles and stuff.

From Perin:

INDIGOGRLFAN: Wasn’t that fun today? I know I wasn’t very good. I was just so surprised, you know? I mean, that your grandmother had me read for the part of Gustav instead of Rosagunde. Especially after I sang T.A.T.U.’s “They’re Not Gonna Get Us.” But it must have been because there were so many more girls than boys auditioning. You don’t think she thinks I’m a boy, do you???

From Boris:

JOSHBELL2: Mia, do you think your grandmother would be willing to add a scene to her play where Gustav takes out a violin and serenades Rosagunde? Because I really think that would add some emotional depth to the production, should I be the person cast to play Gustav. Plus, it would add historical accuracy, since the rebec, the violin’s predecessor, dates from 5000 BC. I know Maroon 5’s “She Will Be Loved” wasn’t the most inspired choice for my audition song, but Tina said she didn’t think your grandmother would like the only other song I’d prepared, Eminem’s “Cleaning Out My Closet.”

From Kenny:

E=MC2: Mia, I’m troubled by the suggestion your grandmother made as I was sitting back down after my audition piece that whoever plays the part of Gustav the smith ought at least to be capable of growing facial hair. It almost sounded as if she were inferring that I myself am not capable of this, when the truth is that I DO have facial hair, it is just very fair. I hope your grandmother is not going to be prejudiced against blonds in her casting of the male roles.

From Shameeka:

BEYONCE_IS_ME: All anybody can talk about are those auditions today! Sounds like Lilly is going to get the lead (what else is new?). Wish I could have been there. Is it true the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili was there????

Seriously. It’s like they’ve forgotten we have other things to worry about besides who is going to be cast as Gustav and Rosagunde.

Like, for instance, the fact that we are still broke.

I guess it doesn’t really matter so much to them, since they are not the ones in charge.

One thing I will say for Grandmère’s choice of plays: She could not have chosen a piece that more fully illustrates the problems of the royal, in that, ultimately, you are all alone when it comes to making decisions of state. As it did for Rosagunde in that bedroom fifteen hundred years ago, the buck, for me, stops here.

This is all too much for one lone teen to bear. I need someone to help me, someone to tell me what the right thing is to do. Should I just come clean with Amber, confess my sin, and get my whupping over with?

Or is there still a chance I can get the money before she finds out?

It’s times like these when I realize how woefully inadequate my familial support network really is. I mean, I can’t turn to my mother for advice in this matter. She is the person who was responsible for our cable going out once a month because she forgot to pay the bill—at least before Mr. G moved in.

And I can’t turn to my dad. If he finds out how badly I’ve screwed up my STUDENT government budget, he’s not going to be exactly jazzed about turning me loose on our COUNTRY’s budget. The last thing I need right now is a series of lectures from Dad on cost-effective municipal planning.

I already told Grandmère, and you can see the good THAT did. Who else is there for me to turn to, except Michael, of course?

And we all know how helpful HE was in the matter.

Speaking of Michael, the only e-mail I got that was unrelated to today’s Braid! audition was the one I got from him. And that’s just because he doesn’t even go to AEHS anymore, and didn’t know anything about what was going on:

SKINNERBX: Hey, Thermopolis! How’s it going? I was wondering if you wanted to come over tomorrow night for a sci-fi film fest. I have to screen a bunch of them for my History of Dystopic Science Fiction in Film elective, and since I’m having the party Saturday night, I figured I should watch them while I had the chance. Want to join me?

It would have been inappropriate, of course, for me to say what I WANTED to say, which was: Michael, you are my lifeblood, my reason for living, the only thing that keeps me sane in the tempest-tossed sea of life, and I would like nothing better than to screen a bunch of dystopic sci-fi flicks with you tomorrow night.

Because it’s lame to say that kind of stuff in an e-mail.

But I still thought it, in my head.

FTLOUIE: I’d love to.

SKINNERBX: Excellent. We can order in from Number One Noodle Son.

FTLOUIE: And I can make some dip.

SKINNERBX: Dip? What for?

FTLOUIE: For the party! Don’t people serve dip at parties?

SKINNERBX: Oh. Yeah. But I just figured I’d buy some Saturday afternoon, or whatever.

I could see that my effort to appear enthusiastic about Michael’s party had fallen completely flat. But I persevered nonetheless, because I couldn’t let him know, you know, how NOT excited I was about it.

FTLOUIE: Homemade dip is always better. I can make it and leave it overnight in the refrigerator, and that way it will be all gelled and everything for the party. Which I’m so excited about coming to.

SKINNERBX: Um. Okay. Whatever you want. See you tomorrow then.

FTLOUIE: Can’t wait!

Actually, though, I CAN wait… both for the party AND the dystopic sci-fi film festival. Because those movies Michael has to watch for that class of his are MAJOR bummers. I mean, Soylent Green? Excuse me, but gross.

Plus a lot of them have very scary parts, and scary movies have completely screwed with my psyche. Seriously. I think scary movies are responsible for half, if not more, of my neuroses.

TOP 20 WAYS SCARY MOVIES

HAVE MESSED ME UP:

1) I can’t see chairs pulled away from the table without thinking of Poltergeist and having to push them back in. Ditto drawers that have been pulled out.

2) I can’t pass those red-and-white smokestacks across from the FDR without thinking about poor Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory.

3) I can’t go over a bridge without thinking of the Mothman Prophecies. Ditto see a chemical plant.

4) After seeing Blair Witch, I can no longer go

a) into wooded areas

b) camping

c) into any dark basements.

Not that I would have done any of those things anyway. But now I REALLY won’t.

5) For a long time I couldn’t look at the TV without thinking that a girl might crawl out of it and kill me like in The Ring and The Ring 2.

6) Every time I see an alley, I expect there to be a dead body in it. But that’s probably from too many episodes of Law and Order, not the movies.

7) Don’t even talk to me about boiling pots of water on the stove (Whitey the rabbit from Fatal Attraction).

8) Little white dogs = Precious from Silence of the Lambs.

9) Any supermodern-looking, windowless building in the middle of nowhere is the place where they harvest the organs of people in comas from the movie Coma.

10) Cornfields = the movie Signs, and we’re all going to die.

11) After Titanic, I will never, ever, ever go on a cruise.

12) Whenever I see an oil tanker on the road, I know I’m going to die, because whenever you see one in the movies, it explodes.

13) If a semi is tailing us, I always assume it’s trying to kill us, like in The Duel.

14) I can’t go through the Holland Tunnel without thinking it’s going to leak like in Daylight.

15) I don’t know if I will ever be able to have children thanks to Rosemary’s Baby. I will definitely never live in the Dakota. I don’t know how Yoko Ono stands it.

16) I’ll never adopt, either, thanks to The Good Son.

17) I will never get anesthesia for anything but non-elective surgery because of She Woke Up Pregnant.

18) After talking at length to several elevator repairmen, I know now that unless someone places an incendiary device on top of the elevator, like in Speed, it is mathematically impossible for all the cables supporting it to snap at once. Still. You never know.

19) Thanks to Jaws I will never set foot in the ocean again.

20) The call is ALWAYS coming from inside the house.

See? I have been SCREWED UP by the movies. The whole reason I hate parties, probably, is because of how traumatized I was over Broken Lizard’s Club Dread, which I watched with Michael thinking it was going to be a comedy, like Super Troopers. Only it turned out to be a horror film about young people being killed at a tropical resort, usually during a party.

Michael doesn’t realize the MAJOR sacrifice I am making, just by agreeing to watch whatever it is he’s going to make me watch tomorrow night.

In fact, probably one of the major reasons I haven’t transcended my ego and achieved self-actualization yet is because of the psychological scarring I have received from the movies. I wonder if Dr. Carl Jung knew about this when he invented self-actualization. Or did they even HAVE movies back when he was alive?

From the desk of

Her Royal Highness

Princess Amelia Mignonette

Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo

Dear Dr. Carl Jung,

Hi. I know you’re still dead and all, but I was just wondering—when you were inventing the whole self-actualization thing, did you take into account the way movies mess people up? Because it is very difficult to transcend the ego when you are constantly thinking about things like oil tankers blowing up on the highway.

And what about teenagers? We have special concerns and insecurities that adults simply don’t seem to possess. I mean, I have never seen a single adult worrying about a valedictorian possibly taking out a death warrant on her.

And what about boyfriends? There isn’t a single mention of boyfriends or even romance on branches of the Jungian tree of self-actualization. I understand that in order to reap the fruits of life (health, joy, contentment), you must start at the roots (compassion, charity, trust).

But can you really trust your boyfriend when, for instance, he is planning on having a party to which he is inviting college girls, who often smoke and seem to refer routinely to Nietzsche?

I’m not trying to criticize you or anything. I just really want to know. I mean, did you ever see Coma? It was really freaking scary. And I imagine that if you ever saw it, you might revise some of your requirements for transcending the ego. Like, for instance, the whole trust thing. I mean, I know it’s good to trust your doctor—up to a point.

But do you ever REALLY know that he’s not purposefully going to put you in a coma in order to harvest your organs and sell them to some really rich dude in Bolivia?

No. You don’t. So see? There’s a flaw in your whole theory.

So. What am I supposed to do now?

Still your friend,

Mia Thermopolis

Friday, March 5, the limo on the way to school

If Lilly comments one more time on how her interpretation of Rosagunde is going to make Julia Roberts’s portrayal of Erin Brockovich look like community theater, my head is going to spin off, shoot through the sunroof, and land in the East River.

Friday, March 5, Homeroom

They just announced over the intercom that the cast list for Braid! will go up outside the administrative offices at noon.

Just my luck. You could cut the tension around here with a knife. Not just the nervousness over who is going to get what part, either.

But the Drama Club is hopping mad that someone is putting on a musical to rival theirs. They are claiming they are going to contact the writers of Hair and tell them what Grandmère is doing—you know, because her musical’s name is so close to theirs.

I hope they do.

Although, if Grandmère gets sued and stops the show, I am back to selling candles again to raise the five grand I need.

On the other hand, there is no guarantee a musical version of the story of my ancestress Rosagunde could even raise five thousand dollars in ticket sales in the first place. I mean, who would pay money to go to a show written by my grandma? She once gave a speech at a benefit to raise money for the Genovian version of the ASPCA about how the kindest thing you can do for an animal is immortalize it forever by skinning it and using its pelt as a lovely shrug or throw for a divan.

So you see where I am coming from about this.

Friday, March 5, PE

Lana just asked me if I had her invitations yet. She asked me this as I was stepping into my underwear after my post-volleyball shower, which is about as vulnerable a position a person can be in.

I said I hadn’t had a chance to get them yet, but that I would.

Lana then looked down at my Jimmy Neutron underwear and went, “Whatever, freak,” and walked away before I got a chance to explain to her that I wear Jimmy Neutron underwear because Jimmy reminds me a bit of my boyfriend.

The genius part. Not the hair.

But I guess maybe it’s just as well. I highly doubt Lana would understand—even if she DID used to wear her boyfriend’s soccer shorts under her school skirt.

Friday, March 5, U.S. Economics

Demand = How much (quantity) of a product or service is desired by buyers.

Supply = How much the market can offer.

Equilibrium = When supply and demand are equal, the economy is said to be in equilibrium. The amount of goods being supplied is exactly the same as the amount of goods being demanded.

Disequilibrium = This occurs whenever the price or quantity is not equal to demand/supply.

(So, basically, the student government of AEHS is currently in disequilibrium due to our funds (zero) not being equal to the demand for one night’s rental of Alice Tully Hall ($5,728.00).)

Alfred Marshall, author of The Principles of Economics (circa 1890): “Economics is on one side the study of wealth; and on the other, and more important side, a part of the study of man.”

Huh. So that sort of makes economics a SOCIAL science. Like psychology. Because it isn’t really about numbers. It’s about PEOPLE, and what they are willing to spend—or do—to get what they want.

Like Lana, for instance. You know, how she was going to rat me out to Amber if I didn’t get her those invitations to Grandmère’s party?

That was a classic example of supply (I had the supply) versus demand (her demand that I give her what she wanted).

All of which leads me to believe that it’s entirely possible Lana Weinberger isn’t self-actualized at all:

She’s simply really good at economics!

Friday, March 5, English

One more period until the cast list goes up! Oh, I hope Boris gets the part of Gustav! He wants it so badly!

I hope he gets it, too, Tina! I hope everyone gets the parts they want.

What part do YOU want, Mia?

Me???? Nothing!!! I didn’t even submit a photo or a form, remember? I stink at that kind of thing. Acting and stuff, I mean.

Don’t put yourself down like that! Your Ciara imitation has gotten really EXCELLENT. And I thought you were really good as Rosagunde! Don’t you want the part just a little bit?

No, really. I’m a writer, not an actress. Remember??? I want to WRITE the things the people onstage say. Well, not really, because there’s no actual money in playwrighting. But you get what I mean.

Oh. Right. That makes sense.

Well, all I can say is, if I don’t get the part of Rosagunde, we’ll all know it’s because of the N word.

Nude scene???? When did you do a nude scene????

No, you idiot. NEPOTISM. Favoritism shown to a family member.

But that won’t happen because Mia didn’t really audition and doesn’t even WANT a part. So you should be fine, Lilly! Gosh, I hope we all get the parts we want—even if that means NO part!

I’ll second that!

Friday, March 5, Lunch

CAST LIST FOR:

Albert Einstein High School’s

Alternative Spring Musical

Braid!

Chorus….….…….

Amber Cheeseman, Julio Juarez, Margaret Lee, Eric Patel, Lauren Pembroke, Robert Sherman, Ling Su Wong

Rosagunde’s father…..

Kenneth Showalter

Rosagunde’s maid…..

Tina Hakim Baba

King of Italy….…….

Perin Thomas

Alboin….….….….

Boris Pelkowski

Alboin’s mistress….

Lilly Moscovitz

Gustav….….….….

John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy IV

Rosagunde….…….

Amelia Thermopolis Renaldo

FIRST REHEARSAL TODAY, 3:30 P.M.

The Plaza Hotel, Grand Ballroom

I know I’m only supposed to use my cell phone for emergencies. But the minute I saw that cast list, I could tell this was an emergency. A MAJOR one. Because Grandmère has no idea of the MAGNITUDE of what she’s done.

I called her from the jet line.

“Hello, you’ve reached Clarisse, Dowager Princess of Genovia. I’m either shopping or receiving a beauty treatment at the moment, and cannot come to the phone. At the tone, please leave your name and number, and I’ll ring you back shortly.”

Boy, did I let her have it. Or her voice mail, anyway:

“Grandmère! What do you think you’re doing, casting me in your musical? You know I didn’t even want to audition for it, and that I don’t have any acting talent whatsoever!”

Tina, in line beside me, kept nudging me, going, “But your version of ‘Barbie Girl’ was so good!”

“Well, okay, maybe I can sing,” I shouted into the phone, “but Lilly is much better! You better call me back right away so we can get this mess straightened out, because you’re making a HUGE mistake.” I added this last part for Lilly’s sake, who, even though she’s taken the whole thing really well, still looked a little red around the eyes when she joined us in the jet line, after having disappeared into the ladies’ room for a long time once she’d seen the cast list.

“Don’t worry,” I said to Lilly after I hung up. “You’re destined for the part of Rosagunde. Really.”

But Lilly pretended not to care. “Whatever. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. I don’t know if I’d have had time to memorize all those lines, anyway.”

Which is ridiculous, since Lilly practically has a photographic memory, and almost a hundred percent aural recall (which makes fighting with her super hard because sometimes she drags out stuff you said, like, five years before and have no memory of ever saying. But SHE remembers it. Perfectly).

It’s just so wrong! If anyone deserves the lead in Braid!, it’s her!

“At least by playing Alboin’s mistress,” Lilly said, all bravely, “I only have a few lines—‘Why would you marry her, who doesn’t even want you, when you could have me, who adores you?’, or whatever. So I’ll have plenty of time to work on things that REALLY matter. Like Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.”

And okay, I feel really bad for Lilly, because she totally deserves the part of Rosagunde, and all.

BUT I STILL HATE THAT NAME!!!

Friday, March 5, later during Lunch

So everyone is freaked out because on the way back to our table from the jet line I stopped by where J.P. was sitting by himself and asked him if he wanted to join us.

I don’t know what the big deal is. I mean, it’s not like I suddenly whipped off my clothes and started doing the hula in front of everyone. I just told a guy we know, who some of us may be spending a lot of time with in the near future, that he can come sit with us, if he wants to.

And he said thanks.

And next thing I knew, John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth was sliding his tray down next to mine.

“Oh, hi, J.P.,” Tina said. She shot a warning look at Boris, since he was the one who’d objected so strongly when I’d suggested inviting J.P. to join us, back when we’d only known him as the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili.

But Boris wisely refrained from saying anything about not wanting to eat with a corn hater.

“Thanks,” J.P. said, squeezing into the spot we made for him at our table. Not that he’s fat. He’s just… big. You know, really tall, and everything.

“So what do you think of the falafel?” J.P. asked Lilly, who looked startled at being spoken to by a guy who for, the past two years, we’ve sort of mocked.

She looked even more startled when she realized they both had the exact same things on their trays: falafel, salad, and Yoo-hoo chocolate drink.

“It’s good,” she said, staring at him with kind of a funny look on her face. “If you put enough tahini on it.”

“Anything’s good,” J.P. said, “if you put enough tahini on it.”

THIS IS SO TRUE!!!!!

Trust Boris to go, “Even corn?” all mock-innocently.

Tina shot him another warning look…

…but it was too late. The damage was done. Boris was clearly unable to restrain himself. He started smirking into a napkin, while pretending to be blowing his nose.

“Well,” J.P. said, cheerfully falling for the bait. “I don’t know about that. But maybe, like, erasers.”

Perin brightened at this statement.

“I’ve always thought erasers would taste good fried,” she said. “I mean, sometimes, when I have calamari, that’s what it reminds me of. Fried erasers. So I bet they’d taste good with tahini on them, too.”

“Oh, sure,” J.P. said. “Fry anything, it’d taste good. I’d eat one of these napkins, if it was fried.”

Tina, Lilly, and I exchanged surprised looks. J.P., it turns out, is kind of… funny.

Like, in a humorous, not strange, way.

“My grandmother makes fried grasshoppers sometimes,” Ling Su volunteered. “They’re pretty good.”

“See,” J.P. said. “Told you.” Then, looking at me, he went, “What’re you working on so diligently over there, Mia? Something due next period?”

“Don’t mind her,” Lilly said with a snort. “She’s just writing in her journal. As usual.”

“Is that what that is?” J.P. said. “I always kinda wondered.” Then, when I threw him a questioning look, he went, “Well, every time I see you, you’ve got your nose buried in that notebook.”

Which can mean only one thing: The whole time we’ve been watching the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili, he’s been watching us right back!

Even freakier, he opened his backpack and pulled out a Mead wide-ruled composition notebook with a black marbled cover with KEEP OUT! PRIVATE! written all over it.

JUST LIKE MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“I, too, am a fan of the Mead Composition notebook,” he explained. “Only I don’t keep a journal in mine.”

“What’s in it, then?” Lilly, always ready to ask prying questions, inquired.

J.P. looked slightly embarrassed.

“Oh, I just do some creative writing from time to time. Well, I mean, I don’t know how creative it is. But, you know. Whatever. I try.”

Lilly asked him immediately if he had anything he’d like to contribute to the first issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. He flipped through a couple of pages, and then asked, “How about this?” and read aloud:

Silent Movie

by

J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV

All the time we’re being seen

By Gupta’s silent surveillance machine.

What type of fly needs so many eyes?

Every turn of a hallway another surprise.

Gupta’s security is not so secure

since we know it’s based on nothing but fear.

If I had my way, I would not be here

Except that my tuition’s paid to the end of the year.

Wow. I mean… WOW. That was, like… totally good. I don’t really get it, but I think it’s about, like, the security cameras, and how Principal Gupta thinks she knows everything about us, but she doesn’t. Or something.

Actually, I don’t know what it’s about. But it must be good, because even Lilly seemed really impressed. She tried to get J.P. to submit it to Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. She thinks it might bring down the entire administration.

God. It’s not often you meet a boy who can write poetry. Or can even read anything. Beyond the instructions on an Xbox, I mean.

How weird to think that the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili is a writer like me. What if the whole time I’ve been writing short stories about J.P., he’s been writing short stories about ME? Like, what if HE’s written a story called “No More Beef!” about the time they put meat in the vegetarian lasagna and I accidentally ate some and threw that giant fit?

God. That would kind of… suck.

Friday, March 5, G & T

Grandmère called back right as the bell signaling the end of lunch started ringing.

“Amelia,” she said prissily. “You wanted me for something?”

“Grandmère, what are you doing, casting me in your musical?” I demanded. “You know I don’t want to be in it. I didn’t fill out the audition form, remember?”

“Is that all?” Grandmère seemed disappointed. “I thought you were only supposed to use your mobile in cases of emergency. I hardly think this constitutes an emergency, Amelia.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” I informed her. “This IS an emergency. An emergency crisis in our relationship—yours and mine.”

Grandmère seemed to find this statement totally hilarious.

“Amelia,” she said. “What is the one thing you have been complaining about most since the day you discovered you were, in reality, a princess?”

I had to think about this one.

“Having a bodyguard follow me around?” I asked, in a whisper, so Lars wouldn’t overhear and get his feelings hurt.

“What else?”

“Not being able to go anywhere without the paparazzi stalking me?”

“Think again.”

“The fact I have to spend my summers attending meetings of Parliament instead of going to camp like my friends?”

“Princess lessons, Amelia,” Grandmère says, into the phone. “You loathe and despise them. Well, guess what?”

“What?”

“Princess lessons are canceled for the duration of rehearsals for Braid! What do you think of that?”

You could almost hear the smug satisfaction in her voice. She totally thought she’d pulled one over on me.

Little did she know that my loyalty to my friends is stronger than my hatred for princess lessons!

“Nice try,” I informed her. “But I’d rather have to learn to say ‘Please pass the butter’ in fifty thousand languages than see Lilly not get the part she deserves.”

“Lilly is unhappy with the part she received?” Grandmère asked.

“Yes! She’s the best actress of all of us, she should have had the lead! But you gave her the stupid part of Alboin’s mistress, and she only has, like, two lines!”

“There are no small parts in the theater, Amelia,” Grandmère said. “Only small actors.”

WHAT? I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Whatever, Grandmère,” I said. “If you don’t want your show to suck, you should have cast Lilly in the lead. She—”

“Did I mention,” Grandmère interrupted, “how much I enjoyed meeting your friend Amber Cheeseman?”

My blood literally ran cold, and I froze in front of the G & T room, my phone clutched to my face.

“Wh-what?”

“I wonder what Amber would say,” Grandmère went on, “if I happened to mention to her how you’d squandered the money for her commencement ceremony on recycling bins.”

I was too shocked to speak. I just stood there, while Boris tried to edge past me with his violin case, going, “Um, excuse me, Mia.”

“Grandmère,” I said, barely able to speak because my throat had gone so dry. “You wouldn’t.”

Her reply rocked me to my very core:

“Oh, I would.”

GRANDMÈRE, I wanted to scream. YOU CAN’T GO AROUND THREATENING YOUR ONLY GRANDDAUGHTER!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??????

But of course I couldn’t. Scream that. Because I was in the middle of the Gifted and Talented room. On a cell phone.

And even if it IS Gifted and Talented, and everyone in that class is incredibly weird anyway, you can’t go around screaming into cell phones there.

“I thought that might change your outlook on the situation,” Grandmère purred. “I will, of course, say nothing to your little friend about the state of the class treasury. But in return, you will help solve my current real estate crisis by starring in Braid! The fact is, Amelia, as a descendant of Rosagunde, you will lend much more authenticity to the role than your friend Lilly would—besides which, you are much more attractive than Lilly, who, in certain lights, often resembles one of those dogs with the flat faces.”

A pug! And I thought I was the only one who’d ever noticed!

“See you at rehearsal tonight, Amelia,” Grandmère sang. “Oh, and, if you know what’s good for you, young lady, you’ll mention our little agreement to no one. NO ONE, including your father. Understand?”

Then she hung up.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I can’t believe this. I really can’t. I mean, I guess I always secretly kind of knew it, deep down inside. But she’s never done anything quite this BLATANT before.

Still, I guess I finally have to admit it, since it really is true:

My grandmother is EVIL. Seriously.

Because what kind of woman uses BLACKMAIL to get her granddaughter to do her bidding?

I’ll tell you what kind: an EVIL one.

Or possibly Grandmère’s a sociopath. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least. She exhibits all the major symptoms. Except possibly the one about breaking laws repeatedly.

But while Grandmère may not break federal laws, she breaks laws of common decency ALL the time.

After I’d hung up with Grandmère, I caught Lilly staring at me over the computer on which she was doing the layout for the first issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.

“Something wrong, Mia?” she wanted to know.

“About the Rosagunde thing,” I explained to her. “I’m sorry, but Grandmère won’t budge. She says I have to play her, or she’ll tell You Know Who about You Know What and I’ll get my butt kicked from here to Westchester.”

Lilly’s dark eyes glittered behind her glasses. “Oh, she did, did she?” She didn’t look surprised.

“I really am sorry, Lilly,” I said, meaning it. “You would have made a way better Rosagunde than me.”

“Whatever,” Lilly said with a sniff. “I’ll be fine with my part. Really.”

I could tell she’s just being brave, though. Inside, she’s really hurting.

And I don’t blame her. None of it makes any sense. If Grandmère wants her show to be a success, why wouldn’t she want the best actress she could find? Why would she insist on the part being played by ME, basically the worst actress in the whole school—with the possible exception of Amber Cheeseman?

Oh well. Who knows why Grandmère does half the things she does? I imagine there’s some kind of rationale to it.

But we mere humans will never understand what it is. That is a privilege reserved only for the other aliens from the mothership that brought my grandmother here from the evil planet she was born on.

Friday, March 5, Earth Science

Just now Kenny asked me if I would recopy our mole-mass worksheet, because last night, while completing it, he got Szechuan sauce on it.

I don’t know what got into me. Maybe it was residual meanness left over from my conversation with Grandmère. I mean, like, maybe some of HER meanness rubbed off on me, or something. I don’t know of any other way to explain it.

In any case, whatever it was, I decided to apply economic theory to the situation. I just thought, Why not? The whole self-actualization thing hasn’t worked out for me. Why not give old Alfred Marshall a try? Everyone else seems to be doing it. Like Lana.

And SHE always gets what SHE wants. Just like GRANDMÈRE always gets what SHE wants.

So I told Kenny I wouldn’t do it unless he did tonight’s homework, too.

He looked at me kind of funny, but he said he would. I guess he looked at me funny because he does our homework EVERY night.

Still. I can’t believe it has taken me this long to catch on to how society works. All this time, I thought it was Jungian transcendence I needed in order to find serenity and contentment.

But Grandmère—and Lana Weinberger, of all people—have shown me the error of my ways.

It’s not about forming a base of roots such as trust and compassion in order to reap the fruits of joy and love.

No. It’s about the laws of supply and demand. If you demand something and can provide proper incentive to get people to hand it over, they’ll supply it.

And the equilibrium remains stable.

It’s sort of amazing. I had no idea Grandmère was such an economic genius.

Or that LANA would ever teach ME something.

It sort of casts everything in a new light.

And I do mean everything.

HOMEWORK

PE: GYM SHORTS!!! GYM SHORTS!!!! GYM SHORTS!!!!!

U.S. Economics: Read Chapter 9 for Monday

English: Pages 155–175, O Pioneers

French: Vocabulaire 3ème étape

G&T: Find that water bra Lilly bought me that time as a joke. Wear it to the party.

Geometry: Chapter 18

Earth Science: Who cares? Kenny’s doing it! HA-HA-HA-HA

Friday, March 5, the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza

For the first rehearsal ever of Braid! we had what Grandmère called a “read-through.” We were supposed to read through the script together as a group, each actor saying his or her lines out loud, the way he or she would if we were performing the show onstage.

Can I just say read-throughs are very boring?

I had my journal tucked up behind my script so no one could see that I was writing instead of following along. Although it was kind of awkward to shift the script out from behind my journal when one of my cues came up.

A cue is the line before you are supposed to say yours. I am finding out all sorts of theater-y stuff today.

Like, Grandmère, while she may have written the dialogue for Braid!, she didn’t write the MUSIC. The music was composed by this guy named Phil. Phil is the same guy who was playing the piano to accompany us at the audition yesterday. Grandmère, it turns out, paid Phil a ton of money to write music to go with her lyrics for all the songs in Braid!

She says she got his name off the employment board at Hunter College.

Phil doesn’t look like he’s had much time to enjoy his newfound cash windfall, though. Basically, he pulled an all-nighter to compose the music for Braid!, and it also looks like he still hasn’t really caught up with his sleep. He seemed to be having a lot of trouble staying awake during the read-through.

He wasn’t the only one. Señor Eduardo didn’t open his eyes ONCE after the play’s first line (uttered by Rosagunde: “Oh, la, what a joy it is to live in this sleepy, peaceful village tucked against the seaside.” CUE: FIRST SONG).

Possibly, Señor Eduardo’s dead.

Well, that wouldn’t be so bad. Everybody could be all, “He died doing what he loved best,” like they did in that horrible TV movie where the girl fell out of a tree and broke her neck the day she got a new horse.

Oh, no, wait, he just snored. So he’s not dead after all.

Shoot, my line:

“Oh, Gustav, dare not call yourself a peasant! For the shoes you make for our horses lend strength to their step, and the swords you forge for our people lend courage to their fight for freedom against tyranny!”

Then it was J.P.’s turn to say his line. You know, J.P.’s not a bad actor. And I can’t help noticing that he had HIS Mead composition notebook tucked up in front of HIS script!

You know what would be weird? If he’s writing about ME at the same time I’m writing about HIM. Like, what if J.P. is the boy me? We do have a lot in common—except, you know, he’s not a royal.

Still, I was talking to him a little bit before rehearsal started (because I saw that everyone else was ignoring him—well, Boris and Tina were busy making out, as they do much more now that Boris no longer wears a bionater, and Lilly was going over her editorial remarks about Kenny’s dwarf star thesis with him, and Perin was trying to convince Grandmère that she’s a girl, not a guy, and Ling Su was trying to keep Amber Cheeseman away from me, as she has promised she will do in her capacity as chorus member) and J.P. told me that he has no real interest in acting—that the only reason he has auditioned for every single show the AEHS drama club has ever put on is because his mom and dad are nuts for the theater, and always wanted to have a son in the business.

“But I’d rather write for a living, you know,” J.P. said. “Not, you know, that there are a lot of jobs out there for poets. But I mean, I’d rather be a writer than an actor. Because actors, when you think about it, their job is just to interpret stuff somebody else has written. They have no POWER. The real power’s in the words they’re saying, which someone else has written. That’s what I’m interested in. Being the power behind the Julia Robertses and Jude Laws of the world.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is so freaky!!!! Because I said almost the exact same thing once!!!! I think.

Plus, I understand what it feels like, that pressure to do something just to make your parents happy. Case in point: princess lessons. Oh, and not flunking Geometry, even though it will do me no earthly good in my future.

The only problem is, even though he’s tried out for all the shows AEHS has put on, J.P.’s never gotten a single part. He thinks the reason is because of the Drama Club’s cliquishness.

“I mean, I guess if I REALLY wanted a part in one of their shows,” he told me, “I could have started trying to get in with their group—you know, sit with them at lunch, hang out with them on the steps before school, fetch coffee from Ho’s for them, get my nose pierced, start smoking clove cigarettes, and all of that. But the truth is, I really can’t stand actors. They’re so self-absorbed! I just get tired of being the audience for their performance pieces, you know? Because that’s basically what it’s like when you talk to one. Like they’re doing a monologue just for you.”

“Well,” I said, thinking of all the stories I’d read about teen actors in Us Weekly. “Maybe because they’re insecure. Most teens are, you know. Insecure, I mean.”

I didn’t mention that, of all the teens J.P. had ever spoken to, I am probably the one who is the MOST insecure. Not that I don’t have good reason to be insecure. I mean, how many other teens do you know who have no earthly clue how to party and who have grandmas who try to blackmail them?

“Maybe,” J.P. said. “Or maybe I’m just too critical. The truth is, I don’t think I’m really the club-joining type. I’m sort of more of a loner. In case you didn’t notice.”

J.P. grinned at me after he said that, a sort of sheepish grin. I could sort of start to see what Tina and Lilly were saying, about him being cute. He IS sort of cute. In a big, teddy-bearish sort of way.

And he’s right about actors. I mean, judging by what I’ve seen of them on talk shows. They never shut up about themselves!

And okay, I guess the interviewer is asking. But still.

Oops, my turn again:

“Handmaid, fetch me the strongest grappa from the storerooms! I shall teach this rogue what it means to trifle with the house of Renaldo.”

Oh, God. Two hours until I get to see Michael. I have never needed to smell his neck more than I do now. Of course I can’t tell him what’s bothering me—the whole thing about my being such a non-party girl—but at least I can find some comfort standing next to him in his parents’ kitchen as I make dip, listening to the rumble of his deep voice as he tells me about chaos theory, or whatever.

PLEASE MAKE THIS END.

Oops, my turn again:

“In the name of my father, I dispatch you, Lord Alboin, to hell, where you belong!”

Yay! Joy and felicitations! Alboin is dead! Sing the closing song, then circle round for the finale! Yippee! We can all go home now! Or out on our dates!

No, wait. Grandmère has one last announcement:

“I’d like to thank you all for agreeing to join me on the extraordinary journey we are about to make together. Rehearsing and putting on Braid! should be one of the most creatively fulfilling projects any of you have ever attempted. And I think the rewards will be far more than we ever imagined we’d reap—”

Nice of her to look right at me as she says this last part. Why doesn’t she just come right out and say, And Amber Cheeseman won’t kill you for losing all the commencement money.

“But before we can come close to achieving those rewards, we are going to need to work, and work hard,” she went on. “Rehearsals will be daily, and will last late into the night. You will need to inform your parents not to expect you home for dinner all next week. And you will, of course, have your lines completely memorized by Monday.”

Her statement caused even more trepidatious murmuring. Rommel, disturbed by the obvious psychic pain in the room, started licking his nether regions compulsively, as he does during times of duress.

“I don’t think I can learn all the Italian words I have to know by then, Your Highness,” Perin said nervously.

“Nonsense,” Grandmère said. “Nessun dolore, nessun guadagno.”

But since nobody even knew what that meant, they were still freaking out.

Except J.P., apparently. He said, in his deep, calm, My Bodyguard voice, “Hey, guys, come on. I think we can do this. It’ll be kind of fun.”

It took a second or two for this to sink in. But when it finally did, it was Lilly, surprisingly, who said, “You know, J.P.’s right. I think we can do it, too.”