Which was all very nice, but didn’t really do anything to address the problem that was REALLY weighing on my mind:
What am I going to do about his party?
Oh, yeah. And how am I going to get the money to rent Alice Tully Hall?
Thursday, March 4, the limo on the way to school
I’m so tired. Last night just as I was getting into bed, I got an IM. I thought it must be Michael, writing to say he loves me. You know, one last time before he went to sleep.
But it was BORIS PELKOWSKI, of all people.
JOSHBELL2: Mia! What’s this I hear about your grandmother having a party next Wednesday night and inviting celebrated violinist and my personal artistic hero, Joshua Bell, to it?
Good grief.
FTLOUIE: Joshua Bell wouldn’t happen to be considering buying an island in The World off the coast of Dubai, would he?
JOSHBELL2: I don’t know about that. He could be buying Indiana, the great state from which he hails, which happens to be the birthplace of many other musical geniuses as well, including Hoagy Carmichael and Michael Jackson. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Mia—could you get me into that party? I have GOT to meet him. There’s something very important I have to tell Joshua Bell.
You know, Boris might be hot now, but he’s still weird.
FTLOUIE: I can probably figure out a way to sneak you in.
JOSHBELL2: Oh, THANK YOU, Mia! You don’t know how much I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can ever do for you—besides rehearse in the supply closet, which I already do—let me know!
As if that weren’t random enough, then Ling Su IMed me.
PAINTURGURL: Hey, Mia! I heard your grandma is having a party on Wednesday night, and Matthew Barney, the controversial conceptual artist, is going to be there.
FTLOUIE: Let me guess: Matthew Barney is buying an island in The World off the coast of Dubai.
PAINTURGURL: How did you guess? He’s buying Iceland for his wife, Björk. Any chance you could smuggle me in to meet him?
FTLOUIE: No problem.
PAINTURGURL: Mia Thermopolis, you rule!
Then came one from Shameeka:
BEYONCE_IS_ME: Hi, Mia!
FTLOUIE: Wait, I already know: You heard Beyoncé is coming to the party my grandmother is giving Wednesday night to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers, and you’d like me to sneak you in so you can meet her.
BEYONCE_IS_ME: Actually, it’s Halle Berry. She’s buying California. Is BEYONCÉ going to be there, too????
FTLOUIE: Consider yourself invited.
BEYONCE_IS_ME: REALLY???? YOU ARE THE BEST!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then Kenny:
E=MC2: Mia, is it true your grandmother is hosting a party next week at which the world-renowned scientist Dr. Rita Rossi Coldwell will be in attendance?
FTLOUIE: Probably. Want to come?
E=MC2: COULD I? Thanks so much, Mia!
FTLOUIE: Don’t mention it.
Then Tina:
ILUVROMANCE: Mia, is it true your grandmother is having a party and all these celebrities are going to be there?
FTLOUIE: Yes. Which one do you want to meet?
ILUVROMANCE: I don’t care! ANY celebrity is fine with me!
FTLOUIE: Done. Be there or be square.
ILUVROMANCE: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! CELEBRITIES!!! I’M SO EXCITED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then, finally, Lilly:
WOMYNRULE: Hey! What’s this I hear about your grandma inviting Benazir Bhutto to some party next Wednesday night?
Whoa. Not Benazir, too. What’s she bidding on? Faux Pakistan?
FTLOUIE: You want to come and meet her?
WOMYNRULE: You know I do. She and I have a few things I need to discuss. Primarily her support of the Taliban for all those years.
FTLOUIE: Be my guest.
WOMYNRULE: Rockin’. See ya tomorrow, POG.
I guess all that stuff I wrote to Carl Jung about—you know, being the president of my student government, but still super unpopular—turns out not to be true. I’m QUITE popular.
Thanks to my GRANDMA.
Thursday, March 4, Homeroom
I’m going to kill her.
I told her NO. I specifically, and definitively, said NO to her.
How can she do this to me?
Again?
Thursday, March 4, PE
Seriously. How did she even DO it? I mean, so fast?
And they’re everywhere, of course. The walls are plastered with them. I opened my locker, and one popped out into my hand.
SHE STUFFED THEM INTO EVERYONE’S LOCKER.
That had to have taken HOURS. How did she do it? Who did she PAY to do it?
God. It could have been anyone. A teacher, even. They barely earn a living wage, after all. I know, I’ve seen Mr. G’s pay stubs lying around.
Everyone is walking around with one in their hand. A bright yellow flyer that says:
AUDITIONS TODAY, 3:30 P.M.
The Plaza Hotel, Grand Ballroom A brand-new, all-original show
Braid!
All Are Welcome No Theatrical Experience Necessary
I already overheard some of the Drama Club members—the ones who have been busy rehearsing for Hair—looking around all darkly under their eyebrow piercings and going, “Braid!? What’s Braid!? I never heard of a show called Braid! Is it a new Andrew Lloyd Webber? Is it about Rapunzel?”