Not that anyone has really ADMITTED that’s what we do. Try to see who can make J. P. laugh the hardest, that is.
But we totally do.
At least, I do.
Anyway, I was telling everyone about Lewis-with-the-scissor-handle glasses, and Janine-of-the-purple-hair, and they were laughing—especially J. P., particularly when I got to the part about the sex-segregated shopping for girls and jet-skiing for boys—when Lilly put down her chicken parm on a roll and was like, “Frankly, Mia, I think it was extremely uncool of you to turn down your grandmother’s generous offer to throw you such a fantastic party.”
I just stared at her with my mouth open, the way I’d stared at Grandmère and Lewis the night before.
“I do think it would be kind of neat to fly to Genovia for the weekend,” Perin said softly, from the other side of the table.
“I could totally use a Louis Vuitton violin case,” Boris said.
“But only the girls would be allowed to shop,” I pointed out to him. “You’d have to be jet-skiing with the boys. And you know how you get that allergic reaction to sand-flea bites.”
“Yeah,” Boris grumbled. “But Tina could have bought one for me.”
“You guys,” I said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Hello. Have you ever even seen that show, My Super Sweet Sixteen? They totally try to make the people on it look bad! On purpose. That’s the POINT of the series.”
“Not necessarily,” Lilly said. “I think the point of the series is to show how some American young people choose to celebrate their coming-of-age—which in this country is at sixteen—and to convey to audiences what a difficult and yet joyous time it can be, as sweet sixteens struggle on the threshold of adulthood, not quite a child anymore, not yet a man or woman….”
Everyone stared at her. J. P. was the one who finally said, “Um, I always thought the point of the series was to show stupid people spending way too much money on something that ultimately has no meaning.”
“TOTALLY!” I burst out. I couldn’t believe J. P. had put it so exactly right. Well, I could, of course, because J. P. is a wordsmith, like me, and aspires to a literary career of some sort, just like I do.
But I also couldn’t because, well, he’s a guy, and most of the time, guys just don’t GET stuff like that.
“Lilly,” I said, “don’t you remember that episode where those girls invited five hundred of their closest friends to that rock concert they gave for themselves at that night club, and they made that big deal out of not letting freshmen come, and had the ones who crashed thrown out by bouncers? Oh, and charged their friends admission to get in? To their own birthday party?”
“And then gave the money to charity,” Lilly pointed out.
“But still!” I said. “What about that girl who had herself carried into her party on a bed held on the shoulders of eight guys from the local crew team, then forced all her friends to watch a fashion show with herself as the only model?”
“No one is saying you have to do any of those things, Mia,” Lilly glowered.
“Lilly, that’s not the point. Think about it,” I said. “I’m the princess of Genovia. I’m supposed to be a role model. I support causes like Greenpeace and Housing for the Hopeful. What kind of role model would I be if I showed up on TV, spent all that money flying my friends to Genovia and had a huge shopping spree and rock concert, just for them?”
“The kind who really appreciates her friends,” Lilly said, “and wants to do something nice for them.”
“I do really appreciate you guys,” I said, a little bit hurt by this. “And I definitely think each and every one of you deserves a trip to Genovia for shopping sprees and free concerts. But think about it. How would it look, spending all that money on a birthday party?”
“It’s going to look like your grandmother really, really loves you,” Lilly said.
“No, it’s not. It’s going to look like I’m the biggest selfish spoiled brat on the planet. And if my grandmother really, really loved me,” I said, “she’d spend all that money on something I really wanted—like helping to feed AIDS orphans in Ethiopia, or even…I don’t know. Getting stationary bikes for spinning classes at AEHS!—not something I don’t care about at all.”
“Mia’s right,” Tina said. “Although…I’ve always wanted to see Destiny’s Child in concert.”
“And I’ve always wanted to see the art collection at the Genovian palace,” said Ling Su, a little wistfully.
“I could totally use a makeover,” Perin said. “Maybe then people would stop thinking I’m a boy.”
“You guys!” I was shocked. “You can’t be serious! You’d want to let yourselves be filmed doing all that stuff? And have it be shown on MTV?”
Tina, Ling Su, Perin, and Boris looked at one another. Then they looked at me, and shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Admit it, Mia,” Lilly said angrily. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you being afraid of looking selfish on TV. It has to do with you still holding what happened at your party last year against me.” Lilly’s lips got as small as—maybe even smaller than—my mom’s had, the night before. “And so you’re going to make everybody here suffer for it.”
Silence roared across the lunch table after Lilly dropped this little bombshell. Boris suddenly didn’t seem to know where to look, and so settled for staring at the leftover buffalo bites on his tray. Tina turned red and reached for her Diet Coke, sucking very noisily on the straw sticking out of it.
Or maybe her sucking just seemed noisy, compared to how quiet everyone had gotten.
Except of course for J. P., who, out of everyone there, was the only person who had no idea what Lilly had done at my fifteenth birthday party. Even Perin knew, having been filled in about it by Shameeka during a particularly boring French class. In French, no less.
“Wait,” J. P. said. “What happened at Mia’s party last year?”
“Something,” Lilly said fiercely, her eyes very bright behind her contacts, “that’s never going to happen again.”
“Okay,” J. P. said. “But what was it? And why does Mia still hold it against you?”
But Lilly didn’t say anything. Instead, she scooted her chair back and ran—pretty melodramatically, if you ask me—to the ladies’ room.
I didn’t go after her. Neither did Tina. Instead, Ling Su did, saying, with a sigh, “I guess it’s my turn, anyway.”
The bell rang right after that. As we were picking up our trays to take them back to the jet line, J. P. turned to me and asked, “So are you ever going to tell me what that was all about?”
But, remembering what Tina had said about the volcano of passion, I shook my head. Because I don’t want him exploding all over ME.
Friday, April 30,
between lunch and G&T
At least Michael is on my side about it. The party thing, I mean. Because when I called him just now on my cell (even though, technically, this was not an emergency) to tell him what Grandmère had planned, he said, “When you say transcontinental slumber party, do you mean that we’d get to sleep in the same room?”
To which I replied, “Most assuredly not.”
“And you haven’t changed your mind about having sex with me now?” Michael asked. “As opposed to after your senior prom?”
“I think you would have been the first to know if I had,” I said, blushing deeply, as I always do when this topic comes up.
“Oh,” Michael said. “Well, then I’m on your side.”
“But, Michael,” I said, just to make sure I understood. Communication between couples is so important, as we all know from Dr. Phil. “Don’t you want to go jet-skiing and see Destiny’s Child?”
“Jet skis are really harmful to the environment, being far more polluting than other two-stroke motors, not to mention that marine mammal experts have testified that personal watercraft activity near seals, sea lions, and elephant seals disturbs normal rest and social interaction, and causes stampedes into the water
that can separate seal pups from adult mothers,” Michael said. “And, no offense, but Destiny’s Child is a girl band.”
“Michael,” I said, shocked. “Don’t be sexist!”
“I’m not saying they aren’t immensely talented, not to mention sexy as hell,” Michael said. “But let’s face it: Only girls like to listen to them.”
“I guess you’re right,” I admitted.
“But you should let the people who love you throw some kind of party for you,” Michael said. “Not necessarily on MTV, but you know…something. Turning sixteen is a big deal. And it’s not like you had a bat mitzvah or anything.”
“But—”
“I know you’re still emotionally scarred by what my sister did at your last party,” Michael said. “But maybe you should give her another chance. After all, she seems totally crazy about J. P. I highly doubt she’s going to cheat on him in a closet with a Tibetan busboy.”
“I think Jangbu was Nepalese,” I said.
“Whatever. The point is, Mia, your sweet sixteen should be a birthday you’ll remember for all time. It should be special. Don’t let Lilly—or your grandmother—dictate how you celebrate it. But DO celebrate it.”
“Thanks, Michael,” I said, feeling truly moved by his words. He is so wise sometimes.
“And if you change your mind about the sex thing,” he joked, “call me.”
And other times, so not.
Friday, April 30, G&T
I think I finally get it. What’s going on with Lilly and this My Super Royal Sweet Sixteen thing, I mean.
I figured it out when Lilly looked up from the issue of The ’Zine—the school literary magazine—she is currently working on, and said, in an effort to get me to change my mind about the birthday thing, “It may be the only way some of us are ever going to get on MTV!”
And then it all became clear. Why it is that Lilly is so adamant about my letting Grandmère go ahead with her birthday plan, I mean.
Think about it. Where on earth would GRANDMÈRE have gotten the idea to go on My Super Sweet Sixteen? She’s never seen that show. She doesn’t even know what MTV is. Somebody had to have planted that idea in her head.
And I’m betting that somebody is named Lilly Moscovitz.
I KNEW IT!!!! I KNEW THEY WERE IN ON SOMETHING TOGETHER!!!!
They really ARE like Snape and Malfoy. Minus the capes.
“Lilly,” I said, trying to sound understanding, and not accusatory. Because Dr. Phil says this is the best way to handle conflict resolution. “I’m sorry Andy Milonakis got his own show, and you didn’t. And I do think it’s a travesty of justice, because your show is way more intelligent AND entertaining than his is. And I’m sorry your parents are separated, and I’m sorry your boyfriend won’t say the L word. But I am not violating my most sacred principles just so that you can finally reach your target demographic. I’m sorry, but there’s not going to be any Super ROYAL Sweet Sixteen Slumber Party in Genovia. And that’s final. And you can tell my grandmother that.”
Lilly blinked a few times. “Me? Tell your grandmother? Why would I tell your grandmother anything?”
“Oh, please,” I said. “Like you weren’t the one who put the bug in her ear about the show My Super Sweet Sixteen.”
“Is that what you think?” Lilly demanded, throwing down the pen she was using to mark up ’Zine submissions. “Well, what if I did? SOMEONE should do something for your birthday, since you’re so opposed to anyone so much as mentioning it.”
“And whose fault is that?” I asked her. “After you ruined my birthday party last year—not to mention what you did at Christmas, in Genovia—”
“I SAID I WAS SORRY FOR THAT!” Lilly shrieked. “WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU FREAKING TRUST ME THAT IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN?”
“Prove it,” I said, my voice sounding very quiet, compared to hers. Which, considering that she was yelling her head off, was kind of no surprise. Lucky for her Mrs. Hill was in the teacher’s lounge, calling Visa to get her credit limit extended.
“And how am I supposed to do that?” Lilly wanted to know.
I thought about it. What COULD Lilly do to prove that she would never again betray my trust by making out with (or playing strip bowling with) relative strangers at some party I, or one of my family members, was hosting?
I thought about making her sing “Don’t Cha” (“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?”) at the next pep rally, in front of the whole school. That would certainly have been entertaining, not to mention interesting, considering how Principal Gupta might react.
But then I thought of something that would be even MORE interesting.
“Tell J. P. that you love him,” I said.
I had the satisfaction of seeing all the blood drain from Lilly’s face.
“Mia,” she breathed. “I can’t. You know I can’t. We all agreed—boys like to make the first move. They don’t like it when girls say the L word first. They run from them…like startled fawns.”
I felt a little twinge of guilt. Because she was right. What I was asking her to do might very well cause J. P. to drop her like a hot potato.
But it was like there was some kind of crazy little mean elf inside me, making me say it, anyway.
“Don’t you think you’re underestimating J. P.?” I asked. “I mean, he is not like a typical boy. Does a typical boy know the score to Avenue Q by heart? Who isn’t gay, I mean?”
“No,” Lilly said hesitantly.
“Does a typical boy write poems about the school administration and his desire to bring it down?”
“Um,” Lilly said. “I guess not.”
“And does a typical boy pick all the corn out of his chili?”
“Okay,” Lilly said. “Granted, J. P. is not a typical boy. But, Mia, what you’re asking me to do…tell him that I love him…it could permanently damage—or end—my relationship with him.”
“Or,” I said, “it could unloose the lava flow of passion that you and I both know is bubbling just underneath the surface of J. P.’s cool exterior.”
Lilly blinked at me. “Have you been reading Tina’s romance novels?” she wanted to know.
I ignored that. Or the mean little elf did, really.
“If you really and truly want me to forgive you for all those times you ruined my parties,” I said, “you will tell J. P. you love him.”
Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe I was saying them. I don’t even know why I was saying them. What did I care whether or not Lilly told J. P. she loved him?
Although it would definitely cut down on her whining about his not using the L word. And I was kind of interested to see what he’d do in response. You know, in a fun, social-experiment kind of way.
Lilly didn’t look like she agreed with me, though. About it being a fun social experiment to tell J. P. she loved him. In fact, she kind of looked like she wanted to barf.
Which prompted me to ask, “You do love him, don’t you? I mean, you’ve only been going on about how great he is for the past month and a half.”
“Of course I love him,” Lilly said. “I’m crazy about him. Who wouldn’t be? He’s, like, the world’s most perfect guy—smart, funny, sensitive, hot, tall, not gay, and yet still obsessed with Wicked, Everwood, and Gilmore Girls…. That’s why I don’t want to ruin it—what I have with him!”
Which was when I heard myself say, “It’s the only thing I want for my birthday. Besides world peace. Your telling J. P. that you love him, I mean.”
What was WRONG with me? That wasn’t ME talking. It was the mean little elf inside my mouth, making it move and say things I didn’t actually mean.
Maybe this is what happens when you turn sixteen. A mean little elf moves inside your body and starts controlling your words and actions. Funny how they’ve never mentioned anything about THAT on My Super Sweet Sixteen. Or on Dr. Phil.
“This is just like when Henry II asked his knights to kill the Archbishop of Canterbu
ry,” Lilly said in a small voice.
“Or when Rachel asked Ross to drink the glass of leftover fat in order to prove his love on Friends,” I said. Because I wasn’t talking about murdering J. P., for crying out loud.
But was Lilly going to drink the fat?
That was the question she seemed to be struggling with as she murmured, “I have to go to the office to get something photocopied,” and wandered from the G and T room in a sort of daze.
“Mia,” Boris—who had just been headed into the supply closet to practice his latest piece when Lilly and I had started fighting, and so of course he’d stopped to watch (though he’d pretended to be listening to his iPod)—said. “What are you doing?”
Even though Boris is already sixteen, he apparently hasn’t met his mean little elf. Maybe boys don’t get them when they turn sixteen.
Still, I can’t say I appreciated his tone. I mean, he knows from firsthand experience how difficult Lilly can be to deal with sometimes.
Really, Lilly should be grateful he hasn’t said anything to J. P. about the details surrounding their breakup. I don’t think even the Beast would have appreciated hearing about how Belle played Seven Minutes in Heaven with a guy who wasn’t her boyfriend right in front of said boyfriend.
I’m just saying.
Friday, April 30, the Plaza
I entered Grandmère’s suite super carefully, looking around for any cameramen or purple-haired girls who might be lurking in the shadows.
But Grandmère seemed to be the only one in there. Well, Grandmère and Rommel, who I discreetly checked for mics. But he appeared not to have any secret bugs tucked into his purple velour sweat suit. That I could find, anyway.