Party Princess (3 page)

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!