But still! They walked in right as I was dancing! With ANOTHER GUY! It was super-embarrassing!!! I mean, they’re Michael’s PARENTS!!!!
This was almost as embarrassing as the time they walked in when Michael and I were kissing, you know, on the couch over Winter Break (well, okay, we were doing MORE than kissing. There was some under-the-shirt and over-the-bra action going on. Which I will admit for a girl who doesn’t want to have sex until prom night of her senior year is pretty risky behavior. But whatever. The truth is, I got so involved in the whole kissing thing, I didn’t even notice what Michael’s hands were doing until it was too late. Because by then I was LIKING it. So in a way, I was like, THANK GOD Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz walked in when they did. Or who knows WHERE I’d have let Michael’s hands go next?).
Still. This was even MORE EMBARRASSING than THAT time, believe it or not. Because, I mean—dancing! With another guy!
Which I don’t even know if they saw, because they were like, “Sorry, don’t mind us,” and hurried down the hall to their room before any of us could practically even say hello.
Still. Every time I think of what they MIGHT have seen, I go all hot and cold—the way Alec Guinness said he always felt every time he saw himself in the scene in Star Wars: A New Hope where Obi Wan talks about feeling a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.
Worse, as soon as the Drs. Moscovitz were gone—I totally stopped dancing when I saw them; in fact, I froze—Lilly came up to me and whispered, “Were you supposed to be sexy dancing or something? Because you sort of looked like someone stuck an ice cube down your shirt and you were trying to shake it out.”
Sexy dancing! Lilly thought I was sexy dancing! With J.P.! In front of Michael!
After that, of course, it was impossible to keep up my party-girl charade. I fully went and sat down by myself on the couch.
And Michael didn’t even come over to ask me if I’d lost my mind or challenge J.P. to a duel or anything. Instead, he followed his parents, I guess to see if they’d come back early because something was wrong, or if the conference had just ended early, or what.
I sat there for like two minutes, listening to everyone around me laughing and having a good time, and feeling my palms break into a cold sweat. I was surrounded by people—surrounded by them!—but I swear I had never felt more alone in my life. Sexy dancing! I’d been sexy dancing! With another boy!
Even Lilly had stopped filming me, finding the sight of Doo Pak tasting Cool Ranch Doritos for the first time much more interesting than my intense mortification.
J.P. was the only one who said a word to me after that—besides Tina, on the couch opposite mine, who leaned over and said, “That was a very nice dance, Mia,” like I’d been doing some kind of performance piece, or something.
“Hey,” J.P. said, coming over to where I was sitting. “I think you forgot this.”
I looked at what he was holding. My three-quarters-empty beer! The substance responsible for my having thought it might be a good idea to do a sexy dance with another boy in the first place!
“Take it away!” I moaned and buried my face in my knees.
“Oh,” J.P. said. “Sorry. Um… are you all right?”
“No,” I said to my thighs.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“Can you create a rift in the space-time continuum so no one will remember what an ass I just made of myself?”
“Um. I don’t think so. How did you make an ass of yourself?”
Which was sweet of him—to pretend he hadn’t noticed, and all. But seriously, that just made it worse.
Which is why I did the only thing I thought I reasonably could: I gathered up my things—and my bodyguard—and left before anybody could see me cry.
Which I did all the way home.
And now all I can do is hope that J.P. was lying and that he really does know how to create a rift in the space-time continuum that will make it so that everyone who was at that party forgets I was ever there, too.
Especially Michael.
Who by now has to be way more than slightly aware that I am, in the worst sense of the word, a party girl.
Oh, God.
I think I need an aspirin.
Sunday, March 7, 9 a.m., the loft
No messages from Michael. No e-mail. No calls.
It’s official: He is disgusted to even know me.
And I don’t blame him one bit. I’d go throw myself into the East River in shame if I didn’t have rehearsal.
I just called Zabar’s and, using my mom’s credit card (um, unbeknownst to her, since she’s still sleeping, and Mr. G has taken Rocky out to go buy orange juice), ordered bagels and lox to be delivered to the Moscovitzes’ apartment, as my way of saying I’m sorry.
No one can stay mad after an everything bagel from Zabar’s.
Right?
Sexy dancing! What was I THINKING?????
Sunday, March 7, 5 p.m., the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza
We never should have worried about memorizing our lines by Monday. I know them cold already, we’ve been through this play so many times.
And my feet are killing me from all the (not sexy) dancing. Feather says we all have to get something called jazz shoes. She’s bringing a bunch for us tomorrow.
Except that by tomorrow, my feet will have fallen off.
Also, my throat is starting to hurt from all the singing. Madame Puissant has us sipping hot cups of Emergen-C.