Father, Genovia, for the future is tonight!
Cross my heart and hope to die,
My father’s death I’ll avenge, swore I
So with this braid, I make the twist
That by morning’s light, he’ll not exist!
And when I sang that second chorus of “Father, Genovia, together we will fight/Father, Genovia, for the future is tonight!” I am almost positive I heard Grandmère—GRANDMÈRE, of all people—sniffle!
Well, okay, maybe she’s just suffering from a bit of postnasal drip. But still.
Oh, it’s time for the big finale! This is it. Time for the big kiss.
I really hope Tina isn’t right and J.P. doesn’t like me that way. Because no matter what happens, my heart belongs to Michael and always will.
Not that kissing someone else in a play—I mean, musical—is like cheating on him. Because it totally isn’t. What J.P. and I—
Where IS J.P. anyway? We’re supposed to hold hands and run out onto the stage together, with looks of joy upon our faces, and then he gives me the big kiss.
But how can I hold his hand and run out onto the stage when he’s MISSING????
This is crazy. He was here after the last number. Where could he—
Oh, finally, here he comes.
Wait—that’s someone in J.P.’s costume. But that’s not J.P….
Wednesday, March 10, the big party
Oh my God. I can’t believe ANY of this is happening.
Seriously. It’s all like a dream. Because when I reached out to grab J.P.’s hand and rush out onto the stage with him, I found myself grabbing MICHAEL’S hand instead.
“MICHAEL?” I couldn’t help exclaiming. Even though we aren’t supposed to talk backstage, on account of our body mics possibly picking it up. “What are you—?”
But Michael put his finger to his lips, pointed to my mic, then grabbed my hand and dragged me out onto the stage—
Exactly the way J.P. had, in all our rehearsals.
Then, as everyone sang, “Genovia! Genovia!” Michael, in J.P.’s Gustav costume, swept me into his arms, bent me back, and planted the biggest movie kiss you’ve ever seen on my lips.
Nobody even noticed it wasn’t J.P. until the curtain call, when we all had to grab hands and bow.
“Michael!” I cried again. “What are you doing here?”
We didn’t have to worry about our mics picking anything up at that point, because the audience was clapping so hard, they wouldn’t have heard it anyway.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” Michael asked with a grin. “Did you really think I was going to stand idly by while you kissed another guy?”
Which was right when J.P. walked past us, and went, “Hey, man. Good one,” and held out his palm, which Michael lightly slapped.
“Wait,” I said. “What’s going on here?”
Which was when Lilly stepped up and draped an arm around my neck.
“Oh, POG,” she said. “Chill out.”
Then she went on to describe how she and her brother—with J.P.’s help—concocted this plan to have Michael and J.P. switch places during the finale, so Michael, not J.P., could be the one who kissed me.
And that’s precisely what they did.
How they managed to do so behind my back, though, I will never know. I mean, seriously.
“Does this mean you forgive me for the sexy-dance thing?” I asked Michael, after we’d been de-miked and de-braided and we were alone in one of the wings backstage, while offstage, everyone else was getting congratulated by their family—or meeting the celebrities of their dreams.
But what did I need with celebrities, when the person I looked up to most in the world was standing RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME?
“Yes, I forgive you for the sexy-dance thing,” Michael said, his arms tight around me. “If you’ll forgive me for having been such an absentee boyfriend lately.”
“It’s not your fault. You were upset about your parents. I totally understand.”
To which he replied simply, “Thanks.”
Which made me realize, then and there, that being in a mature relationship has nothing to do with drinking beer and dancing sexy. Instead, it has everything to do with being able to count on someone not to break up with you just because you danced with another guy at a party one night, or not to take it personally when you can’t call them as often as you’d like because you’re super-busy dealing with midterms and a family crisis.
“I’m really sorry, Michael,” I said. “I hope things will work out for your parents. And, um, seriously…about what happened at your party—the beer—the beret—the sexy dance. None of it will ever happen again.”
“Well,” Michael admitted. “I did sort of enjoy the sexy dance.”
I goggled up at him. “You DID?”
“I did,” Michael said, leaning down to kiss me. “If you promise me that next time, you’ll do it just for me.”
I promised. Did I EVER.
When Michael finally lifted his head for air, he said, his voice a little unsteady, “The truth is, Mia, I don’t want a party girl. All I’ve ever wanted is you.”
Oh. So THAT’S what he’d meant to say.
“Now, what do you say we go take these stupid costumes off,” Michael said, “and join the party?”
I said I thought that sounded just fine.
Wednesday, March 10, still the big party