Party Princess (12 page)

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.