Sweet Sixteen Princess (3 page)

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.

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 Canterbury,” 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.

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.

“Oh, for God's sake, Amelia,” Grandmère said, apparently realizing what I was doing. “They're gone. You made your position on the subject perfectly clear yesterday. There isn't going to be any television show. At least, not one featuring you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, throwing down my backpack and making myself comfy on the couch.

Grandmère raised an eyebrow at me. “Amelia,” she said. “Feet.”

I took my feet off her coffee table. I guess the mean elf inside me is also kind of a slob.

“What do you mean, at least not one featuring me?” I asked.

“Well,” Grandmère said. “You didn't want to go. Although you didn't have to have your mother telephone your father, you know, Amelia. You could simply have TOLD me you didn't want to appear on
My Super Royal Sweet Sixteen
.”

“I DID,” I said.

“In any case,” Grandmère said. “It was too late to change all the plans I made for your party, so Lewis has arranged for another young person to take your place.”

“Another young person?” I gaped at her. “Like who? A Mia Thermopolis look-alike?”

“Certainly not,” Grandmère said with a soft snort. “Instead of your sweet sixteen, we'll be celebrating the sweet sixteen of someone else—a young man named Andy Milonakis.”

My jaw dropped. “You're taking ANDY MILONAKIS to GENOVIA?”

“There's no need to shout, Amelia. And yes, I
am. Lewis is very pleased with the way things have turned out. I'll be taking this boy and ten of his friends—I thought one hundred was a bit excessive, considering he's not even a family member—to Genovia, to do all the things you and your friends could have done for YOUR birthday, if you weren't so selfish and stubborn. They're calling it
Andy's Super Royal Sweet Sixteen
. Lewis promises that it's going to reach millions of viewers. The glories of Genovia will soon be known to that hard-to-reach eighteen-to-thirty-nine-year-old male demographic.”

For once, the mean little elf in me was silent. It didn't, for instance, goad me into suggesting that the eighteen-to-thirty-nine-year-old males who enjoy Andy Milonakis's show probably still live at home with their parents and can't afford a trip to Genovia.

It didn't prompt me to mention that the ten friends Andy would be bringing with him to Genovia were probably going to include—at least judging from his TV show—his dog, Woobie, the guy who owns the cherry ice stand on the corner, and Rivka, the
rooster-headed chicken lady, this old woman Andy forces to wear a hat with two chicken legs sticking out of it.

It also didn't urge me to tell Grandmère that Andy Milonakis probably turned sixteen ten years ago, and was just using her to get publicity for his show, the same way she was using him to get publicity for Genovia.

Instead, I said, meaning it, “Grandmère. This is the best birthday present you've ever given me.”

To which Grandmère replied with a slight snort, and a sip of her Sidecar.

But I could tell she was pleased.