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“Take it away!” I moaned and buried my face in my knees.
“Oh,” J.P. said. “Sorry. Um… are you all right?”
“No,” I said to my thighs.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“Can you create a rift in the space-time continuum so no one will remember what an ass I just made of myself?”
“Um. I don’t think so. How did you make an ass of yourself?”
Which was sweet of him—to pretend he hadn’t noticed, and all. But seriously, that just made it worse.
Which is why I did the only thing I thought I reasonably could: I gathered up my things—and my bodyguard—and left before anybody could see me cry.
Which I did all the way home.
And now all I can do is hope that J.P. was lying and that he really does know how to create a rift in the space-time continuum that will make it so that everyone who was at that party forgets I was ever there, too.
Especially Michael.
Who by now has to be way more than slightly aware that I am, in the worst sense of the word, a party girl.
Oh, God.
I think I need an aspirin.
Sunday, March 7, 9 a.m., the loft
No messages from Michael. No e-mail. No calls.
It’s official: He is disgusted to even know me.
And I don’t blame him one bit. I’d go throw myself into the East River in shame if I didn’t have rehearsal.
I just called Zabar’s and, using my mom’s credit card (um, unbeknownst to her, since she’s still sleeping, and Mr. G has taken Rocky out to go buy orange juice), ordered bagels and lox to be delivered to the Moscovitzes’ apartment, as my way of saying I’m sorry.
No one can stay mad after an everything bagel from Zabar’s.
Right?
Sexy dancing! What was I THINKING?????
Sunday, March 7, 5 p.m., the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza
We never should have worried about memorizing our lines by Monday. I know them cold already, we’ve been through this play so many times.
And my feet are killing me from all the (not sexy) dancing. Feather says we all have to get something called jazz shoes. She’s bringing a bunch for us tomorrow.
Except that by tomorrow, my feet will have fallen off.
Also, my throat is starting to hurt from all the singing. Madame Puissant has us sipping hot cups of Emergen-C.
Phil, the pianist, looks ready to drop. Even Grandmère is starting to droop. Only Señor Eduardo, dozing in his chair, looks rested. Well, Señor Eduardo and Rommel.
Oh, God. She’s making them run through, “Genovia, My Genovia” one more time. I freaking HATE this song. At least I’m not in this number. Still. Can’t she see she’s driving us past the breaking point? My God, aren’t there rules about how long you can force a child to work?
Oh, well. At least all of this is keeping my mind off last night’s humiliation. Sort of. I mean, Lilly still brings it up every chance she gets—“Oh, Mia, hey, thanks for the bagels,” and “Hey, Mia, maybe you could work that sexy dance into the scene where you murder Alboin,” and “Where’s your beret?”
