Party Princess Read online

  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!

&n
bsp; 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 a
nyone 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?