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“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—
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