So. He came over.
He’s out in the living room right now, talking to Mom and Mr. G about his movie deal. I’m “changing for Boris’s concert.”
But, obviously I’m not. I’m writing about what happened when he came over instead. Which is that I totally tried VERY VERY HARD to get my MHCs to respond to his. I did this by doing what Tina did, when she saw Boris in his swimsuit.
Yes. I jumped his bones.
Or I tried to, anyway. I just figured, if I could get J.P. to kiss me—really kiss me, the way Michael used to, when we were having a heavy-duty make-out session in his dorm room—maybe everything would be all right. Maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about pretending I have a cold tomorrow when I have lunch with Michael. Maybe I won’t be so super attracted to him anymore.
But it didn’t work.
Not that J.P. pushed me away, or anything. He kissed me back, and stuff. He tried. He really did try.
But he kept stopping every thirty seconds or so to talk about his movie deal.
I’m not even joking.
Like about how “Sean” had asked him to write the screenplay. (I guess a screenplay isn’t the same as writing a play. J.P. has to rewrite the whole thing from scratch now, in a different computer program.)
And how J.P. is seriously considering moving out “to the Coast” so he can be there for the filming.
He’s even debating putting school off for a year so he can work on the movie. Because you can go to school any time.
But you can only be one of the hottest young screenwriters in Hollywood once.
Anyway, he asked me to come with him. Out to Hollywood.
This completely killed the mood. The making out mood, I mean.
I guess some girls would love it if their boyfriend, who’d written a play about them that was soon to become a major motion picture directed by Sean Penn, asked them to defer college for a year and move out to Hollywood with them.
But I, being the ultimate loser that I am, just blurted out, “Why would I do that?” before I could really stop myself. Mostly because I didn’t really have my mind in the conversation. I was thinking about…well, not Hollywood film deals.
Also because I’m a horrible person, for the most part.
“Well, because you love me,” J.P. was forced to remind me. We were lying on my bed, with Fat Louie glaring balefully at us from the windowsill. Fat Louie hates it when anyone but me lies on my bed. “And you want to support me.”
I flushed, feeling guilty for my outburst.
“No,” I said. “I mean, what would I do out in Hollywood?”
“Write,” J.P. said. “Maybe not romance novels, because frankly, I think you’re capable of much more important work—”
“You haven’t even read my book,” I reminded him, feeling hurt. We’d still never gotten to have our Stephen and Tabitha King editorial talk. And important work? Romance novels are important! To the people who like to read them, anyway.
“I know,” J.P. said, laughing. But not in a mean way. “And I’m going to, I swear, I’ve just been so swamped with the play and then finals and everything. You know how it is. And I’m sure it’s the best romance novel there is. I’m just saying, I think you could write something much weightier if you really put your mind to it. Something that could change the world.”
Weightier? What is he talking about? And haven’t I done enough for the world? I mean, I made Genovia a democracy. Well, not me personally, but I helped. And if you write something that cheers someone up when they’re feeling down, doesn’t that change the world?
And let me tell you something: I have seen A Prince Among Men now, and it is not going to change the world OR cheer anybody up. I don’t mean to sound like I’ve got sour grapes, but it’s the truth. It doesn’t even make you think except to make you think that the guy who wrote it must think pretty highly of himself.
Sorry. I didn’t mean that. That was uncalled for.
Anyway, I was like, “J.P., I don’t know. Moving to Hollywood with you isn’t something my mom or my dad is going to approve of. They both expect me to go to college.”
“Right,” J.P. said. “But taking a year off might not be such a bad idea. It’s not like you got in anywhere that great anyway.”
Ouch. See, that would have been a great opportunity for me to say, “Actually, J.P., I was kind of exaggerating when I said I didn’t get in anywhere….”
Only, of course, I didn’t. Instead, I just suggested we go into the living room and watch True Life: I’m Hooked on OxyContin, because I didn’t want to get in an argument.
Anyway, after watching True Life, I learned something. Not just that I am never going to do drugs (obviously). But that writing is my drug. It’s the only thing I ever do that I really like.
I mean, besides kiss Michael. But I can’t do that anymore, obviously.
Thursday, May 4, 8 p.m., ladies’ room, Carnegie Hall
OH MY GOD!
I thought this concert was going to be really boring, but I was wrong.
Oh, not the music. That’s totally boring. I’ve heard it a million times coming out of the G&T supply closet (although I’ll admit, it’s kind of different to hear it coming from the center of the Carnegie Hall stage, especially seeing all these fancy people turned out in their best clothes, clutching CDs with Boris—BORIS—on the cover, all saying his name in excited voices. I mean, it’s just Boris Pelkowski. But these people seem to think he’s some kind of celebrity. Which, hello, HIGHlarious).