“Grace Kelly,” Grandmère said in an even colder voice.
“That’s the one.” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third grabbed his son by the arm. “C’mon, kid,” he said. “Let’s go put a bid in, before one of these other, er, people”—he was full-on staring at Cher, who did have a pretty skimpy outfit on, but was still human, and all—“snap it up.”
As soon as they were out of earshot, I turned to Grandmère and said, “Okay, admit it. The reason you put on this play was NOT to entertain the masses who would come to donate money to the Genovian olive growers, but to ingratiate yourself to J.P.’s dad and get him to drop his bid on the faux island of Genovia, wasn’t it?”
“Perhaps initially,” Grandmère said. “Later, I will admit, I rather got into the spirit of the thing. Once bitten by the theater bug, it remains in the blood, you know, Amelia. I will never be able to turn my back completely on the dramatic arts. Especially not now that my show”—she glanced in the direction of all the reporters and theater critics who were waiting for her to make a statement—“is such a hit.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Just answer one question for me. Why was it so important to you that J.P. and I kiss at the end? And tell me the truth for a change, not that bunk about the audience expecting a kiss at the end of a musical, or whatever.”
Grandmère had shifted Rommel in her arms so that she could examine her reflection in the diamond-encrusted compact she’d pulled from her bag. “Oh, good heavens, Amelia,” she said, checking that her makeup was perfect before she went to be interviewed. “You’re almost sixteen years old, and you’ve only kissed one boy in your entire life.”
I coughed. “Two, actually,” I said. “Remember Josh—”
“Pfuit!” Grandmère said, closing her compact with a snap. “In any case, you’re much too young to be so serious about a boy. A princess needs to kiss a lot of frogs before she can say for certain she’s found her prince.”
“And you were hoping John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth would turn out to be my prince,” I said. “Because, unlike Michael, his dad is rich…and also happened to be bidding against you for the faux island of Genovia.”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Grandmère said vaguely. “But what are you complaining about? Here’s your money.”
And just like that, she handed me a check for exactly five thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight dollars.
“The money you need for your little financial problem,” Grandmère went on. “It’s just a small percentage of what we’ve actually raised so far tonight. The Genovian farmers will never know it’s missing.”
My head spun. “Grandmère! Are you serious?” I didn’t have to worry anymore about Amber Cheeseman sending my nasal cartilage crashing into my frontal lobe! It was like a dream come true.
“You see, Amelia,” Grandmère said smugly. “You helped me, and I helped you. That is the Renaldo way.”
This actually made me laugh.
“But I got you your island,” I said, feeling a bubble of triumph—yes, triumph—well up inside me. “I asked J.P. to eat lunch with me, and that’s what made his dad drop his bid. I didn’t have to stoop to any elaborate lies or blackmail schemes or strangulation—which appears to be the Renaldo way. But there’s another way, Grandmère. You might want to check it out. It’s called being nice to people.”
Grandmère blinked down at me.
“Where would Rosagunde have gotten, if she’d been nice to Lord Alboin? Niceness, Amelia,” she said, “gets you nowhere in life.”
“Au contraire, Grandmère,” I said. “Niceness got you the faux island of Genovia, and me the money I needed….”
And, I added silently to myself, my boyfriend back.
But Grandmère just rolled her eyes and went, “Does my hair look all right? I’m heading over to the photographers now.”
“You look great,” I told her.
Because what does it hurt to be nice?
As soon as Grandmère had been swallowed up by the press corps that had been waiting for her, J.P. appeared, holding out a glass of sparkling cider for me, which I took from him and gratefully gulped down. All that singing can make you thirsty.
“So,” J.P. said. “That was my dad.”
“He seems to really love you,” I said diplomatically. Because it wouldn’t have been nice to say God, you were right! He IS super embarrassing! “In spite of the corn thing.”
“Yeah,” J.P. said. “I guess. Anyway. Mad at me?”
“Mad at you?” I cried. “Why are you always asking if I’m mad at you? I think you’re the greatest guy I ever met!”
“Except Michael,” J.P. reminded me, glancing over to where Michael stood, having a heart-to-heart with Bob Dylan…not far, actually, from where Lana Weinberger and Trish Hayes were being ignored by Colin Farrell. And pouting because of it.
“Well, of course,” I said to J.P. “Seriously, that was SO SWEET, what you did for me…and for Michael. I honestly can’t thank you enough. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”
“Oh,” J.P. said with a smile. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
“I do have one question, though,” I said, finally getting the guts to ask him something that had been bothering me for a while. “If you hate corn so much, why do you even GET the chili? I mean, in the caf.”
J.P. blinked at me. “Well, because I hate corn. But I love chili.”
“Oh. Okay. See you tomorrow,” I said, and gave him a little wave good-bye. Even though I didn’t understand at all.
But, you know, I’ve pretty much come to the conclusion that I only understand about 15 percent of what people are saying to me anyway. Like what Amber Cheeseman said to me a little while ago, over by the caviar bar: “You know, Mia, you’re really fun in person. After all the stuff I’ve read about you, I expected you to be sort of a stick in the mud. But you’re a real party girl after all!”
So, I guess the definition of “party girl” sort of varies, depending on who, you know, is doing the talking.
A second later, Lilly sidled up to me. If I hadn’t known the truth—you know, about her parents—I might have been all, “Lilly! What are you doing, sidling up to people? You don’t sidle.”
But it was obvious from the sidle that she knew the truth about them now—so all I said was, “Hey.”
“Hey.” Lilly was gazing across the room at Boris, who was pumping Joshua Bell’s hand so hard, it was clear he might actually break it. Behind him stood two people who could only be Mr. and Mrs. Pelkowski, both beaming shyly at their son’s hero, while behind THEM, my mom and Mr. Gianini, and Lilly’s parents, were listening intently to something Leonard Nimoy was telling them. “How’s it going?”
“All right,” I said. “Did you get to talk to Benazir?”
“She didn’t show,” Lilly said. “I had a nice chat with Colin Farrell, though.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You did?”
“Yeah,” Lilly said. “He agrees with me that the IRA needed to disarm, but has some pretty radical ideas on how they ought to have gone about it. Oh, and then I had a long talk with Paris Hilton.”
“What did you and Paris Hilton talk about?”
“Mostly the peace process in the Middle East. Though she did say she thought my shoes were hot,” Lilly said.
And we both looked down at Lilly’s black Converse high-tops, the ones she’d drawn silver Stars of David all over, in order to celebrate her Jewish heritage, and which she’d donned especially for tonight’s occasion.
“They are nice,” I admitted. “Listen, Lilly. Thanks. For helping to straighten out things between me and Michael, I mean.”