“Sit back down, Amelia,” Grandmère said in her scariest voice.

I sat.

“I think,” Grandmère said, “that you should put on a show.”

At least, that’s what I could have sworn she said.

But that couldn’t be correct. Because no one in her right mind would say something like that.

Wait. Did I just write “in her right mind”?

“A show?” I knew Grandmère had recently cut back on her smoking. She hadn’t quit or anything. But her doctor told her if she didn’t cut back, she’d be on an oxygen tank by the time she’s seventy.

So Grandmère had started limiting her cigarettes to after meals only. This is on account of her not being able to find an oxygen tank that goes with any of her designer outfits.

I decided that maybe the nicotine patch she was wearing had backfired or something, sending pure, unadulterated carbon monoxide into her bloodstream.

Because that was the only explanation I could think of for why she might possibly consider it a good idea for Albert Einstein High School to put on a show.

“Grandmère,” I said. “Maybe you should peel off your patch. Slowly. And I’ll just call your doctor—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Amelia,” she said, sniffing at the suggestion that she might be suffering from any sort of brain aneurysm or stroke, either of which, at her age, are highly likely, according to Yahoo! Health. “It is a perfectly reasonable idea for a fund-raiser. People have been putting on benefits and amateur entertainments for centuries to generate donations for their causes.”

“But, Grandmère,” I said. “The Drama Club is already putting on a show this spring, the musical Hair. They’ve started rehearsals and everything.”

“So? A little competition might make things more interesting for them,” Grandmère said.

“Uh,” I said. How was I going to break it to Grandmère that her idea was totally subpar? Like, almost as bad as selling candles? Or starting a literary magazine and calling it Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole?

“Grandmère,” I said. “I appreciate your concern for my economic blunder. But I do not need your help. Okay? Really, it’s going to be all right. I will find a way to raise the cash myself. Lilly and I are already on it, and we—”

“Then you may tell Lilly,” Grandmère said, “that your financial problems are over, since it is your grandmother’s intention to put on a play that will have the theater community begging for tickets, and everyone who is anyone in New York society dying to be involved. It will be a completely original spectacle, in order to showcase your myriad talents.”

She must have meant Lilly’s talents. Because I have no theatrical skills.

“Grandmère,” I said. “No. I really mean it. We don’t need your help. We’re fine, okay? Just fine. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, cut it out. Because I swear, if you butt in again, I’ll call Dad. Don’t think I won’t!”

But Grandmère had already drifted away, asking her maid to find her Rolodex…she apparently had some calls to make.

Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to stop her. I can just tell Principal Gupta not to let her into the building. With the new security cameras and all, they can’t claim they didn’t see her coming: She doesn’t go anywhere without a stretch limo and a hairless toy poodle. She can’t be too hard to spot.

Wednesday, March 3, the loft

Lilly says Grandmère must be projecting her feelings of powerlessness over being outbid by John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third for the fake island of Genovia onto my problems with the student government’s financial situation.

“It’s a classic case of transference,” is what Lilly said when I called her a little while ago to beg her one last time to change the name of her literary magazine. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it. If it makes her happy, why not let her put on her little play? I’ll happily play the lead…I have no problem taking on yet another responsibility, in addition to the vice presidency, my role as creator, director, and star of Lilly Tells It Like It Is, and editing Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.”

“Yeah,” I said. “About that, Lilly…”

“Well, it was my idea, wasn’t it?” Lilly reminded me. “Shouldn’t I be editor? This magazine’s going to ROCK, we’ve had so many kick-ass contributions already.”

“Lilly,” I said, mustering all of my carefully honed leadership qualities and speaking in a calm, measured voice, the way my dad addresses Parliament, “I don’t care about your being editor, and all of that. And I think it’s great and everything that you’re doing this—providing a forum in which the artists and writers of AEHS can express themselves. But don’t you think we need to concentrate on how we’re going to raise the five grand we need for the seniors’ gradua—”

“Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole IS going to raise five grand,” Lilly said confidently. “It’s going to raise MORE than five grand. It’s going to raise the roof off the publishing industry as we know it. Sixteen magazine is going to be put out of business when people get hold of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole and read the honest, raw pieces it contains, slices of American teen life that will have 60 Minutes pounding on my door, demanding interviews, and no doubt Quentin Tarantino, asking for the film rights—”

“Wow,” I said, barely listening. Am I the ONLY person who recognizes the GREAT pain we are going to be in when Amber Cheeseman finds out we have no money to pay for Alice Tully Hall? “The contributions you’ve gotten are that good, huh?”

“Spectacular. I had no idea our fellow students were so DEEP. Kenny Showalter in particular wrote an ode to his true love that brought tears to my—”

“Kenny wrote an ode?”

“Well, he CALLS it a thesis about brown dwarf stars, but it is clearly a tribute to a woman. A woman he once loved, then tragically lost.”

Whoa. Who had KENNY ever loved and lost? Except…

Me?

But I couldn’t let this news distract me! It was important to stay on point. I HAD to get Lilly to change the name of her literary magazine.

Oh, and make five thousand dollars—Ooooh! Michael’s IMing me!

SKINNERBX: Hey! So what was the deal with your grandmother? Was she really singing?

FTLOUIE: What? Oh yeah! Among other things. How are you?

SKINNERBX: Great. Still stoked you’re coming over this weekend.

Okay, my life is so seriously over. I thought Amber Cheeseman was going to be the death of me, but it turns out I’m going to die well before she ever finds out I’ve squandered her commencement money on environmentally friendly recycling bins. I am going to have to kill MYSELF first, because that’s the only way I can see to get out of going to this party.

Because I CAN’T go to this party. I CAN’T. See, I know what’s going to happen if I go: I’m going to be all shy and intimidated by the much smarter, older people there, and I’m going to end up sitting by myself in a corner, and Michael is going to come over and be like, “Is everything okay?” and I’m going to be like, “Yes,” but he will know I am lying because my nostrils will flare (note to self: Does he know about how my nostrils flare when I lie??? Find out.) and then he’ll figure out I’m not a party girl and am, in fact, the total social drag I know myself to be.

Besides, I don’t even own a beret.

I’m not going to let this happen. Because I’m just going to say I can’t go.

Okay. Here I go.

FTLOUIE: Michael, I’m really sorry, but—

DELETE DELETE DELETE

I CAN’T say no. Because what if he takes it personally? What if he thinks it’s like a rejection of HIM?

WHAT IF HE SEEKS SOLACE FOR HIS INJURED PRIDE IN THE ARMS OF ONE OF THOSE MEAN COLLEGE GIRLS????

Wait. I’ve got to pull myself together. Michael isn’t like that. He would never cheat on me with another girl, no matter how hard she threw herself at him. Even if Craig DID cheat on Ashley with Manny on Degrassi when Ashley wouldn’t have sex with him. That doesn’t mean Michael would do the same thing. Because he is BETTER than Craig. Who, by the way, was suffering from bipolar disorder at the time. And is also a fictional character.

Besides, college girls don’t wear thongs. They think they are sexist.

Tina is right. I’ve just got to be honest with him. I’ve got to come out and say it.

FTLOUIE: Michael, I can’t go to your party because I don’t even like parties and besides I think it’s going to be totally boring hanging out with a bunch of college people, especially if all you talk about is dystopic sci-fi films….

DELETE DELETE DELETE

I can’t say THAT! Oh, God. What am I going to do????

FTLOUIE: Yeah! Can’t wait!

God. I am such a liar.

SKINNERBX: So what’s this I hear about your grandmother having some kind of party next Wednesday night for Bob Dylan?

FTLOUIE: Bob Dylan? You mean the singer?

SKINNERBX: Yeah. Bono and Elton John are supposed to be there, too.

For a minute I thought maybe Michael had inhaled too much secondhand marijuana smoke from the dorm room across the hall from his.

Then I remembered Grandmère’s benefit to raise money for the Genovian olive farmers.

FTLOUIE: Oh, right. Wow, that’s funny. How did you hear about that?

SKINNERBX: Netscape. Apparently she’s hosting something called Aide de Ferme?

Farm Aid. I should have known.

FTLOUIE: Oh. Yeah. She is.

SKINNERBX: So is there a chance you can sneak me in? I’d love to ask Bob if he still believes an individual can change the world as we know it with a single song. Do you think that would be okay? I promise not to embarrass you in front of any world leaders.

Oh! How sweet! Michael wants to meet a celebrity! That is so not like him.

But then, Bob Dylan isn’t your average celebrity. After all, he practically invented his own language. At least, that’s what it sounds like whenever Michael puts on one of his CDs.

Still, Michael will no doubt find a use for Bob’s sage, Yoda-like musical wisdom. He seems to have no problem figuring out what Bob is saying.

And, as an added plus for me, I get a date for next Wednesday night!

And okay, he’s basically just using me to meet Bob Dylan. But whatever.

See, that’s the great thing about having a boyfriend. When you’ve had the suckiest day imaginable, all he has to do is ask you out, and it’s like: Poof! Bad stuff begone. Really, it’s some powerful stuff, the whole boyfriend thing.

FTLOUIE: That sounds like it should be doable.

Michael then went on to write very nice things to me, like what an effective leader I am, both of Genovia and AEHS, and how much he can’t wait to see me this weekend, and what he’s going to do to me when he DOES see me, and how he thinks I’m the best writer in the world, and how Shonda Yost, Sixteen magazine’s fiction editor, must have been on crack not to pick “No More Corn!” as the winner of her contest.

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.