“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
They are giving speeches now. The developers of The World, I mean. Which, it took me a minute to remember, is why Grandmère was having this party in the first place. NOT to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers, or even to put on a play. I mean, musical.
This whole thing was to butter up the people in charge of deciding who gets what island.
I can’t say I envy them—the people in charge, I mean. How do you decide who deserves Ireland more, Bono or Colin Farrell? How do you decide who should get England, Elton John or David Beckham?
I guess ultimately it all boils down to who pays the most money. Still, I’m glad I don’t have to be the one to make the decision if, say, they refuse to bid any higher.
One thing I KNOW has been decided is who gets Genovia. THAT was pretty obvious when J.P., looking totally red-cheeked and sheepish, was dragged over to where I was standing near Grandmère by a huge balding man, smoking a cigar.
“There she is!” the huge balding man—John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third, I quickly realized, J.P.’s dad—exclaimed. “The little lady I’ve been dying to meet, the princess of Genovia, the one responsible for bringing my boy here outta his shell! How’re ya, sweetheart?”
I thought J.P.’s dad must have been talking about Grandmère. You know, since she was the one who’d cast J.P. in her show, which I guess, could be considered “bringing him out of his shell.”
But to my surprise, I saw that Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third was gazing down at ME, not Grandmère.
Grandmère, for her part, was looking as if she smelled something foul. Probably it was the cigar.
But all she said was, “John Paul. This is my granddaughter, Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo.” (Grandmère always reverses my last two names. It’s a thing between her and my mom.)
“How do you do, sir,” I said, sticking out my right hand….
Only to have it swallowed up in Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third’s big, meaty paw.
“Couldn’t be better,” he said, pumping my arm up and down, while J.P., standing next to his dad with his hands buried deep in his pockets, looked like he wanted to die. “Couldn’t be better. I’m pleased to make the acquaintance of the girl who—sorry, princess who—is the first person at that stuck-up school you kids go to ever to ask my boy to lunch!”
I just stood there, looking from J.P. to his dad and then back again. I sort of couldn’t believe it. I mean, that no one at AEHS had ever asked J.P. to join them for lunch before.
On the other hand, he did say he wasn’t much of a joiner. And he WAS always really weird about the corn-in-the-chili thing. And if you didn’t know the story behind why…well, you might think he was kind of odd. Until you got to know him better, I mean.
“And look what it’s done for him!” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third went on. “One little lunch, and the kid’s got the lead in the school musical! And he’s even got friends now! College friends! What’s that one guy’s name, J.P.? The one you were talking to all last night on the phone? Mike?”
J.P. was looking steadfastly at the floor. I didn’t blame him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Michael.”
“Right, Mike,” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy the Third went on. “And the princess here.” He gave me a chuck under the chin. “Kid’s been eating lunch alone since he started at that snobby school. I was gonna make him transfer if it went on much longer. Now he’s eating lunch with a princess! It’s the damnedest thing. That is one fine granddaughter you’ve got there, Clarisse!”
“Thank you, John Paul,” Grandmère said graciously. “And may I say, your son is a very charming young man. I am sure he will go very far in life.”
“Damned right he will,” Mr. Reynolds-Abernathy said, and now it was J.P.’s turn to get a chuck under the chin. “Eating lunch with princesses. Well, just wanted to say thanks. Oh, and to let you know I withdrew my bid for that island—what’s it called? Oh, right! Genovia! ‘Together we will fight.’ Love that line, by the way. Anyway, right, it’s all yours, Clarisse, seeing the favor your little granddaughter did for me and my boy here.”