“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?