Sweet Sixteen Princess (2 page)

I asked my mom at breakfast this morning if Grandmère and Lilly were planning a surprise party for my sweet sixteen, and she choked on her fresh-squeezed OJ from Papaya King and went, “Sweet Jesus, I hope not.”

To which Mr. Gianini added, “Don't expect me to chaperone if they are. I saw enough grinding at the Nondenominational Winter Dance this year to last me a lifetime.”

Which is true. Grinding does seem to be all the rage around Albert Einstein High lately. I wish it were krumping, instead. But no. My peers (all except for Michael, who is opposed to grinding for reasons he has yet to share with me, beyond saying it's “stupid looking”) seem only to want to rub their private parts against one another.

Too bad they won't let us do THAT in PE.

“I thought you didn't want a party this year,” my mom said. “Because of what happened at your party last year.”

“I don't,” I said. “But, you know…people don't always listen to me.”

By people, of course, I meant Grandmère. As my mom well knew.

“Well, you can rest easy,” my mom said. “I haven't heard anything about Lilly and your grandmother planning any party.”

I quizzed Lilly at length about my suspicions in the limo on the way to school, but she never once cracked.

Perhaps I was only imagining the whole Grandmère/Lilly plot to fete me against my will.

Which isn't any wonder, really, if you think about all the stuff they've gotten up to behind my back in the past. Really, they are like the Snape/Malfoy pairing of the Muggle world. Only without the capes.

I observed J. P. closely all through lunch to see if I could detect any signs that he might explode in a volcano of passion, as Tina suggested he was going to someday.

He must have noticed me staring at him though, because at one point when Lilly got up to get a second helping of mac and cheese (her mother's low-carb diet has had the opposite effect she'd evidently hoped for where Lilly is concerned—it has only turned Lilly into even more of a raging carboholic), he looked at me and went, “Mia. Do I have something on my face?”

I was like, “No. Why?”

“Because you keep looking at me.”

Busted! How embarrassing!

“Sorry,” I muttered into my Diet Coke, hoping he wouldn't notice how I was blushing. Only how could he not, under the unforgiving glare of the fluorescent overheads? (Note to self: Look into cost of
getting new, more flattering lighting in caf.) “I was just…checking something.”

“Checking what?”

“Nothing,” I said hastily, and dug into my bean salad.

“Mia,” J. P. started to say, in a soft—but deep—voice, that (not surprisingly, considering the fact that Boris, across the table, had his violin out, and was showing Tina, Ling Su, and Perin how easy it was to pluck out the chords to the Foo Fighters' “Best of You”) only I could hear. “Do you—”

But he never got to finish whatever it was he was going to say to me, because at that moment Lilly returned.

“Can you believe they were out of mac and cheese?” she asked. “I had to settle for four slices of bread and a bag of Doritos.” She seemed to overcome her disappointment pretty quickly, though, if how fast she chowed down those Doritos is any indication.

I wonder what J. P. was going to say to me?

I think Tina is definitely right. One of these days, he's going to blow like Mount Vesuvius. There will be no controlling J. P.'s eruption of passion when it finally happens.

I walked into Grandmère's suite at the Plaza only to be attacked by this woman with purple hair in a pair of lowriders who went, “Oh, great, she's here,” and tried to stick a portable microphone pack down the back of my shirt.

“What are you DOING?” I demanded.

Fortunately Lars was with me, and he stepped in front of the woman and said, looking down at her all menacingly, “May I help you?”

Ms. Purple Hair had to crane her neck to see Lars's face. Apparently she didn't like what she saw up there, since she took a few stumbling steps backward and went, “Um…Lewis? We've got a slight…or, I guess I should say, big—
really
big—problem.”

Which is when this skinny guy in a pair of fancy red eyeglasses came hurrying out of Grandmère's living room, going, “Oh, great, she's here. Princess Mia, I'm so glad to meet you. I'm Lewis, and this is
my assistant, Janine—” He indicated the purple-haired woman, who was still staring up at Lars like she was looking at King Kong, or someone, and seemed unable to utter a sound. “If you'd just let Janine put your mic on, we can go ahead and get started.”

I didn't bother asking Lewis what it was we could go ahead and get started. Instead, I went, “Excuse me,” and walked past him, and right up to Grandmère, who was sitting in her pink Louis XV chair with her hair all freshly set, her makeup perfect, and a trembling, nearly hairless toy poodle in her lap.

“Oh, Amelia, good, you're here,” she said. “Where's your mic?”

“Grandmère,” I said, noticing for the first time the cameraman hovering by her shoulder. “What is going on? Who are these people? Why is that man filming us?”

“He isn't going to be able to use any of the footage, Mia, if you don't put a mic on,” Grandmère said irritably. “Janine! Janine, would you please put a mic on her?”

Lewis came in, bobbing his spiky-haired head.

“Um, yes, Your Highness, well, Janine tried, see, but there appears to be a problem—”

“What problem?” Grandmère demanded imperiously.

“She, um,” Lewis said, looking scared. But not of Lars. Of Grandmère. “Wouldn't let Janine put it on her.”

Grandmère swung the evil eye she'd been focusing on Lewis onto me.

“Amelia,” she said coldly. “Kindly allow the violet-haired young lady to put a microphone on you, so that we can get this out of the way. I have a dinner engagement I don't care to miss.”

“Nobody's putting anything on me,” I said, so loudly that Rommel, in Grandmère's lap, put his ears back and whimpered, “until someone explains to me what's going on.”

“Oh, sorry,” Lewis said, looking mortified. “I thought you knew. I had no idea. Janine and I—oh, and that's Rafe, with the camera”—Rafe, a burly guy in a bandanna, waved at me from behind his camera lens—“are from MTV, and you're currently being
filmed for a very special episode of MTV's hit reality series,
My Super Sweet Sixteen
.”

I looked from Lewis to Grandmère to Rafe—I couldn't see Janine, because she was still out in the foyer with Lars—and back again.

“What?” I said.

“
My Super Sweet Sixteen
is a reality television series on MTV,” Lewis explained, as if that were the part I was having trouble with. “Each week it features a different teen getting ready to celebrate his or her sixteenth birthday party. We film all the preparations leading up to the party, and then the party itself. It's one of our most popular shows. Surely you've seen it.”

“Oh, I've seen it, all right,” I said. “Which is why I'm out of here. Bye.”

And I started to leave.

BECAUSE I KNEW IT!!!! I KNEW MY GRANDMOTHER HAD BEEN UP TO SOMETHING!!!!!

But I didn't get very far, on account of tripping over a power cord for one of the lights they'd set up.

Also on account of Grandmère standing up (dislodging a very surprised Rommel, who fortunately, due to years of practice, was able to land on his feet) and saying, “Amelia! Sit down this instant!”

It's her voice. There's just something about that voice that MAKES you do what she says. I don't know how she does it, but she does.

I found myself sinking down onto the couch, nursing the shin I'd bonked against her coffee table.

“That's better,” Grandmère said in a totally different tone. She sank back down into her fancy pink chair. “Now, let's try that again. Amelia, these nice people are going to televise your sweet sixteen birthday party on a special edition of their reality series. This will generate a great deal of publicity for the country of Genovia, over which you will one day rule, and which is currently suffering from an almost total lack of American tourists, thanks to the weak dollar and your father's recent decision to limit the number of cruise ships that may dock there to twelve per week. Now, please allow Janine to put a microphone on you so that we can begin. I don't want to keep my
dinner date waiting. Mr. Castro is a very impatient man.”

I took a deep breath. Then I went—even though I really, really didn't want to know—“What sweet sixteen birthday party?”

“The one I am throwing for you,” Grandmère said. “I shall be flying you and one hundred of your closest friends in the royal jet to Genovia, where you'll be met at the airport by horse-drawn carriages and taken immediately to the palace for a champagne brunch, followed by an all-expenses-paid shopping trip to boutiques such as Chanel and Louis Vuitton on the Rue de Prince Phillipe for the girls, and a trip to the Genovian beach for private jet ski lessons for the boys. Then it's back to the palace for massages and fashion and beauty makeovers. Then everyone is invited to a black-tie ball in your honor, at which Destiny's Child, who have agreed to reunite for one night only on your behalf, will perform their greatest hits. After which I will have everyone flown home the following morning so that they arrive back in America in time for school on Monday.”

I could only stare at her. I knew my mouth was open. I also knew that Rafe was filming the whole thing.

But I couldn't close my mouth. And I couldn't summon the words to ask Rafe to put his camera down.

Because I was totally FREAKED!!!!

Champagne brunches? All-expenses-paid shopping trips to Louis Vuitton? Massages? Destiny's Child? One hundred of my closest friends?

I don't even KNOW one hundred people, much less have that many friends.

“It's going to be spectacular,” Lewis said, pulling up a chair so he could peer at me more closely through the lenses of his red-framed glasses—which kind of resembled plastic scissor handles, I noticed. “It'll be the most fantastic episode of
My Super Sweet Sixteen
ever. We're even changing the name of the series just for your episode…we're calling it
My Super ROYAL Sweet Sixteen
. Your party, Princess, is going to make every other party ever featured on this show look like a five-year-old's birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese.”

“And,” Grandmère said—up close, I could see that she had really layered on the pancake makeup for the benefit of the camera—“it will attract millions of eager tourists to Genovia, once they've seen all that our little country has to offer by way of exclusive, high-end shopping, world-class entertainment, seaside recreation opportunities, fine dining, luxury accommodations, and old-world hospitality.”

I looked from Grandmère to Lewis and then back again, my mouth still open.

Then I jumped up and ran for the door.

Well, who wouldn't have run? This has got to be, hands down, the most disturbing thing she's ever done. Seriously. I mean, MTV?
My Super ROYAL Sweet Sixteen
? Has she lost her mind?

She called Mom to complain, of course. About me. She says I'm being selfish and ungrateful. She says all I ever think about is myself, and that this is a tremendous opportunity for Genovia to finally get some good press after all the negative news stories about it lately, considering the snail thing and almost getting thrown out of the EU, and all. She says if I really cared about the country over which I will someday rule, I would accept her generous gift and agree to be filmed doing so.

And I DO really care about Genovia. I DO.

BUT I DO NOT WANT A SWEET SIXTEEN BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!!!

And I particularly do not want one that is going to be BROADCAST AROUND THE COUNTRY ON MTV!!!!!!!

Why is that so hard for people to understand????

At least Mom's on my side. When she heard what Grandmère (and MTV) had planned, her lips got all small, the way they do when she's really, really mad. Then she said, “Don't worry, honey. I'll take care of it.”

Then she went to make some phone calls.

To my dad in Genovia, I hope. Or possibly an insane asylum, so that Grandmère can be locked up at last for her own—and my—protection.

But I suppose that's a little too much to ask.

Why can't I have a NORMAL grandma? One who'd make me a cake for my birthday, instead of hosting a transcontinental royal slumber party for me, and allow a cable network to FILM it?

WHY?

I was regaling everyone at lunch about Grandmère's crazy scheme—I had purposefully not told anyone about it, including Lilly, just so I could tell everyone about it at the same time, because ever since J. P. started sitting with us at lunch, there's sort of been this contest between us girls to see who can make him laugh the hardest, because, well, J. P. seems like he could use a laugh, being a bottled-up volcano of passion, and all.

Not that anyone has really ADMITTED that's what we do. Try to see who can make J. P. laugh the hardest, that is.

But we totally do.

At least, I do.

Anyway, I was telling everyone about Lewis-with-the-scissor-handle glasses, and Janine-of-the-purple-hair, and they were laughing—especially J. P., particularly when I got to the part about the sex-segregated shopping for girls and jet-skiing for boys—when Lilly put down her chicken parm on a roll and
was like, “Frankly, Mia, I think it was extremely uncool of you to turn down your grandmother's generous offer to throw you such a fantastic party.”

I just stared at her with my mouth open, the way I'd stared at Grandmère and Lewis the night before.

“I do think it would be kind of neat to fly to Genovia for the weekend,” Perin said softly, from the other side of the table.

“I could totally use a Louis Vuitton violin case,” Boris said.

“But only the girls would be allowed to shop,” I pointed out to him. “You'd have to be jet-skiing with the boys. And you know how you get that allergic reaction to sand-flea bites.”

“Yeah,” Boris grumbled. “But Tina could have bought one for me.”

“You guys,” I said. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “
Hello
. Have you ever even seen that show,
My Super Sweet Sixteen
? They totally try to make the people on it look bad! On purpose. That's the POINT of the series.”

“Not necessarily,” Lilly said. “I think the point
of the series is to show how some American young people choose to celebrate their coming-of-age—which in this country is at sixteen—and to convey to audiences what a difficult and yet joyous time it can be, as sweet sixteens struggle on the threshold of adulthood, not quite a child anymore, not yet a man or woman….”

Everyone stared at her. J. P. was the one who finally said, “Um, I always thought the point of the series was to show stupid people spending way too much money on something that ultimately has no meaning.”

“TOTALLY!” I burst out. I couldn't believe J. P. had put it so exactly right. Well, I could, of course, because J. P. is a wordsmith, like me, and aspires to a literary career of some sort, just like I do.

But I also couldn't because, well, he's a guy, and most of the time, guys just don't GET stuff like that.

“Lilly,” I said, “don't you remember that episode where those girls invited five hundred of their closest friends to that rock concert they gave for themselves at that night club, and they made that big deal out
of not letting freshmen come, and had the ones who crashed thrown out by bouncers? Oh, and charged their friends admission to get in? To their own birthday party?”

“And then gave the money to charity,” Lilly pointed out.

“But still!” I said. “What about that girl who had herself carried into her party on a bed held on the shoulders of eight guys from the local crew team, then forced all her friends to watch a fashion show with herself as the only model?”

“No one is saying you have to do any of those things, Mia,” Lilly glowered.

“Lilly, that's not the point. Think about it,” I said. “I'm the princess of Genovia. I'm supposed to be a role model. I support causes like Greenpeace and Housing for the Hopeful. What kind of role model would I be if I showed up on TV, spent all that money flying my friends to Genovia and had a huge shopping spree and rock concert, just for them?”

“The kind who really appreciates her friends,” Lilly said, “and wants to do something nice for them.”

“I do really appreciate you guys,” I said, a little bit hurt by this. “And I definitely think each and every one of you deserves a trip to Genovia for shopping sprees and free concerts. But think about it. How would it look, spending all that money on a
birthday party
?”

“It's going to look like your grandmother really, really loves you,” Lilly said.

“No, it's not. It's going to look like I'm the biggest selfish spoiled brat on the planet. And if my grandmother really, really loved me,” I said, “she'd spend all that money on something I really wanted—like helping to feed AIDS orphans in Ethiopia, or even…I don't know. Getting stationary bikes for spinning classes at AEHS!—not something I don't care about at all.”

“Mia's right,” Tina said. “Although…I've always wanted to see Destiny's Child in concert.”

“And I've always wanted to see the art collection at the Genovian palace,” said Ling Su, a little wistfully.

“I could totally use a makeover,” Perin said.
“Maybe then people would stop thinking I'm a boy.”

“You guys!” I was shocked. “You can't be serious! You'd want to let yourselves be filmed doing all that stuff? And have it be shown on MTV?”

Tina, Ling Su, Perin, and Boris looked at one another. Then they looked at me, and shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Admit it, Mia,” Lilly said angrily. “This doesn't have anything to do with you being afraid of looking selfish on TV. It has to do with you still holding what happened at your party last year against me.” Lilly's lips got as small as—maybe even smaller than—my mom's had, the night before. “And so you're going to make everybody here suffer for it.”

Silence roared across the lunch table after Lilly dropped this little bombshell. Boris suddenly didn't seem to know where to look, and so settled for staring at the leftover buffalo bites on his tray. Tina turned red and reached for her Diet Coke, sucking very noisily on the straw sticking out of it.

Or maybe her sucking just seemed noisy, compared to how quiet everyone had gotten.

Except of course for J. P., who, out of everyone there, was the only person who had no idea what Lilly had done at my fifteenth birthday party. Even Perin knew, having been filled in about it by Shameeka during a particularly boring French class. In French, no less.

“Wait,” J. P. said. “What happened at Mia's party last year?”

“Something,” Lilly said fiercely, her eyes very bright behind her contacts, “that's never going to happen again.”

“Okay,” J. P. said. “But what was it? And why does Mia still hold it against you?”

But Lilly didn't say anything. Instead, she scooted her chair back and ran—pretty melodramatically, if you ask me—to the ladies' room.

I didn't go after her. Neither did Tina. Instead, Ling Su did, saying, with a sigh, “I guess it's my turn, anyway.”

The bell rang right after that. As we were picking up our trays to take them back to the jet line, J. P. turned to me and asked, “So are you ever going
to tell me what that was all about?”

But, remembering what Tina had said about the volcano of passion, I shook my head. Because I don't want him exploding all over ME.