"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 under- stood. 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 . . . some- thing. 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 grand- mother—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 GRAND- MERE 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 demogra- phic. 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 grand- mother? Why would I tell your grandmother any- thing?"
"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, throw- ing 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 men- tion 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, call- ing 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."