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“So,” J.P. said. “That was my dad.”
“He seems to really love you,” I said diplomatically. Because it wouldn’t have been nice to say God, you were right! He IS super embarrassing! “In spite of the corn thing.”
“Yeah,” J.P. said. “I guess. Anyway. Mad at me?”
“Mad at you?” I cried. “Why are you always asking if I’m mad at you? I think you’re the greatest guy I ever met!”
“Except Michael,” J.P. reminded me, glancing over to where Michael stood, having a heart-to-heart with Bob Dylan…not far, actually, from where Lana Weinberger and Trish Hayes were being ignored by Colin Farrell. And pouting because of it.
“Well, of course,” I said to J.P. “Seriously, that was SO SWEET, what you did for me…and for Michael. I honestly can’t thank you enough. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”
“Oh,” J.P. said with a smile. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
“I do have one question, though,” I said, finally getting the guts to ask him something that had been bothering me for a while. “If you hate corn so much, why do you even GET the chili? I mean, in the caf.”
J.P. blinked at me. “Well, because I hate corn. But I love chili.”
“Oh. Okay. See you tomorrow,” I said, and gave him a little wave good-bye. Even though I didn’t understand at all.
But, you know, I’ve pretty much come to the conclusion that I only understand about 15 percent of what people are saying to me anyway. Like what Amber Cheeseman said to me a little while ago, over by the caviar bar: “You know, Mia, you’re really fun in person. After all the stuff I’ve read about you, I expected you to be sort of a stick in the mud. But you’re a real party girl after all!”
So, I guess the definition of “party girl” sort of varies, depending on who, you know, is doing the talking.
A second later, Lilly sidled up to me. If I hadn’t known the truth—you know, about her parents—I might have been all, “Lilly! What are you doing, sidling up to people? You don’t sidle.”
But it was obvious from the sidle that she knew the truth about them now—so all I said was, “Hey.”
“Hey.” Lilly was gazing across the room at Boris, who was pumping Joshua Bell’s hand so hard, it was clear he might actually break it. Behind him stood two people who could only be Mr. and Mrs. Pelkowski, both beaming shyly at their son’s hero, while behind THEM, my mom and Mr. Gianini, and Lilly’s parents, were listening intently to something Leonard Nimoy was telling them. “How’s it going?”
“All right,” I said. “Did you get to talk to Benazir?”
“She didn’t show,” Lilly said. “I had a nice chat with Colin Farrell, though.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You did?”
“Yeah,” Lilly said. “He agrees with me that the IRA needed to disarm, but has some pretty radical ideas on how they ought to have gone about it. Oh, and then I had a long talk with Paris Hilton.”
“What did you and Paris Hilton talk about?”
“Mostly the peace process in the Middle East. Though she did say she thought my shoes were hot,” Lilly said.
And we both looked down at Lilly’s black Converse high-tops, the ones she’d drawn silver Stars of David all over, in order to celebrate her Jewish heritage, and which she’d donned especially for tonight’s occasion.
“They are nice,” I admitted. “Listen, Lilly. Thanks. For helping to straighten out things between me and Michael, I mean.”
“What are friends for?” Lilly asked with a shrug. “And don’t worry. I didn’t tell Michael about that kiss you gave J.P.”
“It didn’t mean anything!” I cried.
“Whatever,” Lilly said.
“It didn’t,” I insisted. And then, because it seemed like the right thing to do, I added, “Look. I’m really sorry about your parents.”
“I know,” Lilly said. “I should have—I mean, I’ve known for a while things weren’t going so well for them. Morty’s been moving away from the neopsychoanalytical school of psychiatry ever since he left grad school. He and Ruth have been fighting over this for years, but it all came to a head with a recent article in Psychoanalysis Today, blasting the Jungians for essentialism. Ruth feels Morty’s attitude toward the neopsychoanalysis movement is merely a symptom of a midlife crisis, and that next thing you know, Morty’ll be buying a Ferrari and vacationing in the Hamptons. But Morty insists he’s on the verge of an important breakthrough. Neither of them will back off. So Ruth asked Morty to move out until he gets his priorities back in order. Or publishes. Whichever comes first.”
“Oh,” I said. Because I couldn’t figure out how else to respond. I mean, do couples really split up over things like this? I’ve heard about people getting divorced because one person keeps on losing the cap to the toothpaste.
But to break up over methodological differences?
