“Oh my God, love triangle!” Trisha squealed, and the two of them started laughing so hard that they splashed the water in their foot basins, causing their pedicure specialists to have to ask them to please control themselves.

It was at that moment Grandmère hobbled back into the room, wearing her robe and flip-flops and looking particularly frightening because she’d also just had a facial and so all of her pores were still open and her face was devoid of makeup and very shiny and she was wearing an expression of extreme surprise….

But not, it turned out (much to my relief), because she’d overheard us.

It was because no one had drawn her eyebrows back on.

Monday, May 1, 7 p.m., the Royal Genovian Yacht Clarisse 3, master suite

I have never seen so much pre-party psychosis in my life. And I’ve been to a lot of parties.

The florist brought the wrong floral arrangements—whites roses and purple lilies, not pink—and the caterer’s crispy seafood spring rolls came with a peanut sauce instead of an orange sauce (I don’t care, but there’s some speculation that Princess Aiko of Japan has a peanut allergy).

Grandmère and Vigo are having CORONARIES about it. You would think somebody had forgotten to polish the silver, or something.

Don’t even get me started on the aneurysm they had when I suggested we use the helicopter landing pad as a dance floor.

Whatever! It’s not like anybody’s going to be landing the helicopter on it!

At least my dress arrived safely. I’ve been stuffed into it (it’s silver and sparkly and formfitting and what can I say? It was made especially for me, and you can tell. There’s not a whole lot left to the imagination), and my hair is all twisted up and tucked into my tiara, and I’ve been ordered to sit here quietly out of everyone’s way, and not move until it’s time to make my grand entrance, once all the guests have arrived.

Like I’m all that jazzed to go anywhere, seeing as how what awaits me out there are my twin “surprises”—one from J.P., and the other from Lilly.

I’m sure I’m overreacting. I’m sure whatever J.P. got me, I’m going to like it. Right? I mean, he’s my boyfriend. He’s not going to do anything to embarrass me in front of my family and friends. The whole thing with the guy who dressed up like the knight and rode up on the horse painted white—I mean, I explained that already. He got the message. I know he got the message.

So…why do I feel so sick to my stomach?

Because he called me a little while ago to see how I was. (I’m actually feeling a little better about some things now that I’ve shared my “secret” with all the girls. The one about my book AND the one about my being the last unicorn in the Albert Einstein High senior class—besides J.P., I mean. The fact that they didn’t seem to think it was such a big deal was a pretty big relief. I mean, not that it IS a big deal, because it’s not. It’s just…well, it’s good to know they don’t think it’s a big deal. Although I wish Lana would quit texting me with alternative titles for my book. I don’t actually think Put It in My Candyhole is that good a name for a novel.)

J.P. also wanted to ask if I was “ready” for my birthday surprise.

Ready for my birthday surprise? What is he talking about? Is he trying to freak me out on purpose? Seriously, between him and Lilly—with her talk of how she can only give me my present tonight—I’m going to go mental. I really am.

I don’t know how anyone can expect me to sit still, either. In fact, I haven’t been sitting. I’ve been looking out one of the portholes, at all the people coming up the gangplank. (I’m trying to keep myself hidden behind the curtains so no one can see me, keeping in mind Grandmère’s golden rule: If you can see them, they can see you.)

I can’t believe everyone who’s showing up for this shindig. So many celebrities: There’s Donald Trump and his wife. Princes William and Harry. Posh Spice and David Beckham. Bill and Hillary Clinton. Will Smith and Jada Pinkett. Bill and Melinda Gates. Tyra Banks. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Barack and Michelle Obama. Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick. Sean Penn. Moby. Michael Bloomberg. Oprah Winfrey. Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick. Heidi Klum and Seal.

And the evening’s entertainment, Madonna, and her band, are already setting up. She’s promised to do her old-school stuff, in addition to some of her new songs (Grandmère is donating extra money to the charity of Madonna’s choice for her to sing “Into the Groove,” “Crazy for You,” and “Ray of Light”).

Hopefully it won’t be at all weird for Madonna that her ex, Sean Penn, is also here.

Grandmère had initially planned on having a different musical entertainer for my eighteenth birthday (Pavarotti) but fortunately he died. (No offense, he was awfully nice, but opera is kind of hard to dance to.)

The thing is, in addition to celebrities…there are so many people from my past here! My cousin Sebastiano (stopping to talk to all the paparazzi, snapping pictures where all the limos and taxis are dropping people off), with a supermodel on his arm. He’s a famous fashion designer now. He even has a line of jeans in Wal-Mart.

Oh, and there’s my cousin Hank, in white leather pants and a black silk top. His stalkers have found their way to the Seaport (they must have read about the party on Page Six, where it was announced this morning), and are screaming for his autograph. Hank pauses suavely and signs for them. It’s hard to believe we used to hunt for crawdads together in overalls and bare feet, back in Versailles, Indiana, all those years ago. Now Hank routinely has giant billboards of himself in his underwear up in Times Square. Who would have thought? I mean, I’ve seen him squirt Coca-Cola out of his nose.