But I’m willing to risk it only if I can end this conversation.
FTLOUIE: Sorry, T, going out with J.P. I’ll text you later!
Saturday, April 29, midnight, the loft
It turns out I needn’t have worried about J.P. asking me to the prom at dinner tonight. He was too exhausted from rehearsal—and frustrated: He spent almost the whole time complaining about Stacey—even to be thinking about it, apparently.
And then after dinner, we had other concerns. It’s so weird how everywhere I go with J.P., the paparazzi seem to show up. This never happened when I dated Michael.
I guess that’s the difference between going out with a lowly college student (which Michael was at the time), and a rich theater producer’s son like J.P.
Anyway, as we were coming out of Blue Ribbon, the paps were out in full force. I thought at first Drew Barrymore must have been in there with her latest boy toy or whatever, and I was looking around for her.
But it turned out they were all trying to get pictures of ME.
At first it was fine, just…whatever. I had on my new Christian Louboutin boots so I was feeling okay about it. It’s like Lana says…if you have on your CLs, nothing bad can happen to you (shallow…but true).
But then one of them yelled, “Hey, Princess, how does it feel to know your father is going to lose the election…and to your cousin René, who’s never run so much as a Laundromat, let alone a whole country?”
I haven’t had nearly four years of princess lessons (well, on and off) for nothing. It wasn’t like I was unprepared for this. I just said, “No comment.”
Except that might have been a mistake, because, of course, if you say anything, that just baits them to ask you more, and even though J.P. and Lars and I were trying to walk back to the loft (it’s literally, like, two blocks from the restaurant, so we hadn’t bothered with the limo), the paps crowded all around us, and we couldn’t walk fast enough, especially since my CLs have, like, four-inch heels and I haven’t really practiced walking in them enough and I was kind of teetering in them (just a little) like Big Bird.
So the reporters were totally able to keep up even though I had Lars on one side and J.P. on the other, hustling me along.
“But your dad is losing in the polls,” the “journalist” said. “Come on. That’s gotta hurt. Especially since if you had just kept your mouth shut, none of this would be happening.”
Man! These guys are brutal. Also, their grasp on politics is somewhat lacking.
“I did what was right for the people of Genovia,” I said, trying to keep a pleasant smile plastered across my face, the way Grandmère had taught me. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re just trying to get home—”
“Yeah, guys,” J.P. said, while Lars was opening his coat to make sure his gun showed. Not that this ever scared the paps, because they knew good and well he couldn’t shoot them (although he had, upon occasion, shoulder rolled a few of them). “Just leave her alone, will you?”
“You’re the boyfriend, right?” one of the paps wanted to know. “Is that Abernathy-Reynolds, or Reynolds-Abernathy?”
“Reynolds-Abernathy,” J.P. said. “And quit pushing!”
“The people of Genovia sure do seem to want bloomin’ onions,” another of the paparazzi pointed out. “Don’t they, Princess? How does that make you feel?”
“I’ve been trained in a special technique that can send your nasal cartilage into your brain using only the heel of my hand,” Lars informed the pap. “How does that make YOU feel?”
I know I should be used to this stuff by now. Really, there are other people who have it so much worse than me. I mean, at least the “press” lets me go to and from school in relative anonymity.
Still. Sometimes…
“Is it true Sir Paul McCartney is bringing Denise Richards to your birthday party Monday night, Princess?” one of the reporters yelled.
“Is it true Prince William will be there?” yelled another.
“What about your ex-boyfriend?” yelled a third. “Now that he’s back in—”
That was the exact moment when Lars physically threw me into an empty cab he’d signaled to pull over, and commanded it to take us around SoHo a few times until he was sure we’d shaken off all the reporters (who’ve given up staking out the loft due to the fact that all the residents, including Mom, Mr. G, and me routinely water-balloon-bomb them from above).
All I can say is, thank God J.P. is so busy with his play that he had no idea what that last reporter had been talking about. He no sooner checks the Internet for Google alerts on me (or Michael Moscovitz) than he remembers to eat breakfast. That’s how crazed he is right now.
Anyway, when we got back to the loft, there was no sign of any reporters lurking around (thanks to their having gotten soaked one too many times due to Mom’s expert aim).
That was when J.P. asked if he could come up.