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“Too late!” Grandmère cried. “You’ve already done it! Because only an ASS gets embarrASSed. Where do you think the word comes from, anyway? A true artist is never embarrassed by her work. NEVER.”
“Fine,” Lilly said. “I’m not embarrassed. But—”
“This show,” Grandmère went on, “into which all of you have poured your lifeblood, is too important not to be shared with as many people as we possibly can. And what venue could possibly be as fitting for its one and only performance than a benefit that is being held to raise money for the poor olive growers of Genovia? Don’t you see, people? Braid! bears a message—a message of hope—that it is vital people—especially Genovia’s farmers—hear. In these dark times, our show illustrates that evildoers will ultimately never win, and that even the weakest among us can play a role in thwarting them. Were we to deny people this message, would we not, in essence, be letting the evildoers win?”
“Oh, brother,” I heard Lilly mutter, under her breath.
But everybody else looked pretty inspired.
Until it sunk in that Wednesday night is the day after tomorrow.
And some of us—okay, Kenny—still don’t even know the choreography.
Which is why Grandmère said to be prepared for tomorrow night’s rehearsal to go all night long, if necessary.
Still, Grandmère’s speech WAS pretty inspiring. We really CAN’T let the evildoers win.
Even if the evildoers happen to be…well, ourselves.
Which is why I’ve just told Hans to take me to Engle Hall, the dorm where Michael lives at Columbia. I am going to get him to forgive me if I have to grovel on the floor like Rommel when he realizes it’s bath time.
Monday, March 8, the limo home from Michael’s dorm
Wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow.
That is all I can think of to say.
Also: I’m such an idiot.
Seriously. I mean, all the clues were there, and I just didn’t put them together.
Okay, maybe if I write it all down in a lucid manner, I’ll be able to process it.
So I walked into Engle Hall, where Michael lives, and buzzed his room from the lobby. He was actually home for a change—thank God. He seemed kind of surprised when he heard my voice on the intercom, but he said he’d be right down, because campus security officers guard the doors to the hall, and won’t let anybody past the lobby and into the building unless they’re escorted by a resident. Not even princesses and their bodyguards. The resident has to come down and sign them in, and the guests have to leave ID, and stuff.
I took the fact that Michael was willing even to come down and sign me in as a good sign.
Until I saw him.
Then I realized there was nothing good about it at all.
Because Michael looked REALLY sad about something. I mean, REALLY sad.
And I started getting a very bad feeling.
Because, you know, I know he has midterms this week, and all. Which would be enough to depress anyone.
But Michael didn’t look midterm-depressed.
He looked more I-just-found-out-my-girlfriend-is-a-stark-raving-lunatic-and-I-have-to-break-up-with-her-now depressed.
But I thought maybe I was just, you know. Projecting, or whatever.
Still, the whole way up to his room, in the elevator, I was rehearsing in my mind what to say. You know, how I should act when he brought up the Sexy Dance. And the beer. I was thinking it shouldn’t be too hard for me to convince him that I had been suffering from a temporary hormonal imbalance at the time, on account of how I should be used to acting by now, since I’ve been doing it all week.
Plus, you know, I’m the world’s biggest liar.
But the J.P. thing. That was going to be harder to explain. Because I wasn’t sure I even understood it myself.
