Party Princess (8 page)

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!

S
KINNER
B
X
: Hey! So what was the deal with your grandmother? Was she really singing?

F
T
L
OUIE
: What? Oh yeah! Among other things. How are you?

S
KINNER
B
X
: 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.

F
T
L
OUIE
: 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.

F
T
L
OUIE
: 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????

F
T
L
OUIE
: Yeah! Can’t wait!

God. I am such a liar.

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

F
T
L
OUIE
: Bob Dylan? You mean the singer?

S
KINNER
B
X
: 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.

F
T
L
OUIE
: Oh, right. Wow, that’s funny. How did you hear about that?

S
KINNER
B
X
: Netscape. Apparently she’s hosting something called Aide de Ferme?