“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” Michael asked with a grin. “Did you really think I was going to stand idly by while you kissed another guy?”
Which was right when J.P. walked past us, and went, “Hey, man. Good one,” and held out his palm, which Michael lightly slapped.
“Wait,” I said. “What’s going on here?”
Which was when Lilly stepped up and draped an arm around my neck.
“Oh, POG,” she said. “Chill out.”
Then she went on to describe how she and her brother—with J.P.’s help—concocted this plan to have Michael and J.P. switch places during the finale, so Michael, not J.P., could be the one who kissed me.
And that’s precisely what they did.
How they managed to do so behind my back, though, I will never know. I mean, seriously.
“Does this mean you forgive me for the sexy-dance thing?” I asked Michael, after we’d been de-miked and de-braided and we were alone in one of the wings backstage, while offstage, everyone else was getting congratulated by their family—or meeting the celebrities of their dreams.
But what did I need with celebrities, when the person I looked up to most in the world was standing RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME?
“Yes, I forgive you for the sexy-dance thing,” Michael said, his arms tight around me. “If you’ll forgive me for having been such an absentee boyfriend lately.”
“It’s not your fault. You were upset about your parents. I totally understand.”
To which he replied simply, “Thanks.”
Which made me realize, then and there, that being in a mature relationship has nothing to do with drinking beer and dancing sexy. Instead, it has everything to do with being able to count on someone not to break up with you just because you danced with another guy at a party one night, or not to take it personally when you can’t call them as often as you’d like because you’re super-busy dealing with midterms and a family crisis.
“I’m really sorry, Michael,” I said. “I hope things will work out for your parents. And, um, seriously…about what happened at your party—the beer—the beret—the sexy dance. None of it will ever happen again.”
“Well,” Michael admitted. “I did sort of enjoy the sexy dance.”
I goggled up at him. “You DID?”
“I did,” Michael said, leaning down to kiss me. “If you promise me that next time, you’ll do it just for me.”
I promised. Did I EVER.
When Michael finally lifted his head for air, he said, his voice a little unsteady, “The truth is, Mia, I don’t want a party girl. All I’ve ever wanted is you.”
Oh. So THAT’S what he’d meant to say.
“Now, what do you say we go take these stupid costumes off,” Michael said, “and join the party?”
I said I thought that sounded just fine.
Wednesday, March 10, still the big party
They are giving speeches now. The developers of The World, I mean. Which, it took me a minute to remember, is why Grandmère was having this party in the first place. NOT to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers, or even to put on a play. I mean, musical.
This whole thing was to butter up the people in charge of deciding who gets what island.
I can’t say I envy them—the people in charge, I mean. How do you decide who deserves Ireland more, Bono or Colin Farrell? How do you decide who should get England, Elton John or David Beckham?
I guess ultimately it all boils down to who pays the most money. Still, I’m glad I don’t have to be the one to make the decision if, say, they refuse to bid any higher.
One thing I KNOW has been decided is who gets Genovia. THAT was pretty obvious when J.P., looking totally red-cheeked and sheepish, was dragged over to where I was standing near Grandmère by a huge balding man, smoking a cigar.
“There she is!” the huge balding man—John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third, I quickly realized, J.P.’s dad—exclaimed. “The little lady I’ve been dying to meet, the princess of Genovia, the one responsible for bringing my boy here outta his shell! How’re ya, sweetheart?”
I thought J.P.’s dad must have been talking about Grandmère. You know, since she was the one who’d cast J.P. in her show, which I guess, could be considered “bringing him out of his shell.”
But to my surprise, I saw that Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third was gazing down at ME, not Grandmère.
Grandmère, for her part, was looking as if she smelled something foul. Probably it was the cigar.
But all she said was, “John Paul. This is my granddaughter, Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo.” (Grandmère always reverses my last two names. It’s a thing between her and my mom.)
“How do you do, sir,” I said, sticking out my right hand….
Only to have it swallowed up in Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third’s big, meaty paw.
“Couldn’t be better,” he said, pumping my arm up and down, while J.P., standing next to his dad with his hands buried deep in his pockets, looked like he wanted to die. “Couldn’t be better. I’m pleased to make the acquaintance of the girl who—sorry, princess who—is the first person at that stuck-up school you kids go to ever to ask my boy to lunch!”
I just stood there, looking from J.P. to his dad and then back again. I sort of couldn’t believe it. I mean, that no one at AEHS had ever asked J.P. to join them for lunch before.
On the other hand, he did say he wasn’t much of a joiner. And he WAS always really weird about the corn-in-the-chili thing. And if you didn’t know the story behind why…well, you might think he was kind of odd. Until you got to know him better, I mean.
“And look what it’s done for him!” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third went on. “One little lunch, and the kid’s got the lead in the school musical! And he’s even got friends now! College friends! What’s that one guy’s name, J.P.? The one you were talking to all last night on the phone? Mike?”
J.P. was looking steadfastly at the floor. I didn’t blame him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Michael.”
“Right, Mike,” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third went on. “And the princess here.” He gave me a chuck under the chin. “Kid’s been eating lunch alone since he started at that snobby school. I was gonna make him transfer if it went on much longer. Now he’s eating lunch with a princess! It’s the damnedest thing. That is one fine granddaughter you’ve got there, Clarisse!”
“Thank you, John Paul,” Grandmère said graciously. “And may I say, your son is a very charming young man. I am sure he will go very far in life.”
“Damned right he will,” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy said, and now it was J.P.’s turn to get a chuck under the chin. “Eating lunch with princesses. Well, just wanted to say thanks. Oh, and to let you know I withdrew my bid for that island—what’s it called? Oh, right! Genovia! ‘Together we will fight.’ Love that line, by the way. Anyway, right, it’s all yours, Clarisse, seeing the favor your little granddaughter did for me and my boy here.”
Grandmère’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. So did Rommel’s, on account of she was squeezing him so hard.
“Are you quite certain, John Paul?” Grandmère asked.
“One hundred percent,” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third said. “It was a mistake for me to bid on it in the first place. I never wanted Genovia—though it took me seeing this play tonight to realize it. It’s that other one, the one with the car race—”
“Monaco,” Grandmère suggested coldly, looking like she smelled something even worse than cigar smoke. But then, she ALWAYS looks like that when she’s reminded of Genovia’s closest neighbor.
“Yeah, that’s the one.” J.P.’s dad looked grateful. “I gotta remember that. Buyin’ it for J.P.’s mom, you know, for an anniversary present. She loves that movie star, the one who was princess there, what’s her name?”