Party Princess
Thursday, March 4, French
Whatever. That was so not helpful.
Détente—any international situation where previously hostile nations not involved in an open war “warm up” to each other and threats de-escalate.
God, it would rule if what Lana wanted was détente.
Thursday, March 4, third-floor stairwell
Okay, so I’m here, but Lana’s not.
She said after lunch. I’m sure that’s what she said.
It’s after lunch now.
SO WHERE IS SHE????
God, I HATE this sneaking around. It was SO HARD ditching those guys. I mean, not Lilly, since she was meeting with Ms. Martinez. But I mean Tina and Boris and Perin and everybody. I had to tell them I was coming up here to make a private phone call to Michael.
Which Tina so obviously thought meant I was coming up here to break the news to Michael that I’m not a party girl. She kept going, “You go, girl!” until Shameeka was all, “What are you guys TALKING about?”
Tina IS right, though. I’ve got to stop lying to Michael and tell him the truth. Only I’ve got to figure out a way to tell him that doesn’t give away my dark secret—that I am not a party girl.
But HOW??? How to accomplish this? You would think, for an inveterate liar like me, it would be easy to make up some excuse that would put me in the clear…like that I have to go to some special royal function this weekend.
Too bad no royals have died lately. A state funeral would be a PERFECT excuse.
But since no one’s croaked recently, what about…a WEDDING?
Yeah! I could say one of my Grimaldi cousins is getting married again, and I HAVE to go. Michael would believe me, it’s not like he reads any of the magazines that would cover news like that…unless he tries looking it up on Netscape.
Maybe I’ll just text him. Yeah, I’ll text him right now, and be all, “SRY, HAVE 2 GO 2 GENOVIA 4 THE WEEKEND! 2 BAD! DUTY CALLS! MAYBE NXT TIME!”
Except that ultimately, it would just be simpler if I stopped lying. I mean, pretty soon I’m not going to be able to keep track of all my stories and get mixed up and—
SOMEONE IS COMING!!!!
It’s LANA!!!!
Thursday, March 4, G & T
Okay. So that was surreal.
So it WAS the money. That we’re out of it, I mean. That’s what Lana had meant when she’d said she knew.
And all she ended up wanting in exchange for her silence was to be invited to Grandmère’s party. The one she’s throwing to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers.
Seriously.
I was so shocked—I mean, I’d really expected Lana to ask me for something that would complicate my life a LOT more than a simple party invitation—that I was all, “Why would you want to go to THAT? I mean—do YOU want to meet Bob Dylan, too?”
Lana just looked at me like I’m stupid (so what else is new?) and went, “Um, no. But Colin Farrell is going to be there. He’s bidding on Ireland. Everyone knows that.”
Everyone except me, apparently.
But still. I pretended like I’d known. I went, “Oh. Right. Sure. Yeah. Okay.”
Then I said I’d make sure she got an invitation.
“TWO invitations,” Lana hissed, in a manner not dissimilar to the way Gollum went around hissing “My precious” in Lord of the Rings. “Trish wants to come, too.” Trisha Hayes is Lana’s main henchperson, the Igor to her Dr. Frankenstein. “Though if she thinks SHE’S getting Colin, she’s high.”
I didn’t comment on this apparent rift in their unconditional sisterly love for each other. Instead, I was all, “Um, yeah, okay, two invitations.”
But then, because I am incapable of keeping my mouth shut, I was like, “But, um, if you don’t mind my asking—how’d you hear? About the money, I mean?”
She made another face and went, “I looked up how much those stupid ‘cans and battles’ recycling bins cost online. Then I just did some math. And I knew you had to be broke.”
God. Lana is even more conniving than I ever gave her credit for. Conniving AND much better at math than I am.
Maybe she SHOULD have been president.
I probably should have just let her go at that point. I probably should have just been all, “Well, see ya.”
But I couldn’t, of course. Because that would have been too easy. Instead, I had to be all, “Um, Lana. Can I ask you a question?”
And she was like, “What?” with her eyes all narrowed.
I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth next: “How do you, um. Party?”
Lana’s super–lip glossed mouth fell open at that one. “How do you WHAT?”
“You know,” I said. “Party. I mean, I know you go to a lot of, um, parties. So I was just wondering…like, what do you DO at them? How do you, you know. Party?”
Lana just shook her head, her stick-straight blond hair (she’s never had to worry about her hair forming an upside-down yield-sign shape) shimmering under the fluorescent lights.
“God,” she said. “You are such a dork.”
Since this was unchallengingly true, I didn’t say anything.
This was apparently the right move, since Lana continued, “You just show up—looking fantastic, of course. Then you grab a beer. If the music’s any good, you dance. If there’s a hot guy, you hook up. That’s it.”
I thought about this. “I don’t like beer,” I said.