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But it was like there was some kind of crazy little mean elf inside me, making me say it, anyway.
“Don’t you think you’re underestimating J. P.?” I asked. “I mean, he is not like a typical boy. Does a typical boy know the score to Avenue Q by heart? Who isn’t gay, I mean?”
“No,” Lilly said hesitantly.
“Does a typical boy write poems about the school administration and his desire to bring it down?”
“Um,” Lilly said. “I guess not.”
“And does a typical boy pick all the corn out of his chili?”
“Okay,” Lilly said. “Granted, J. P. is not a typical boy. But, Mia, what you’re asking me to do…tell him that I love him…it could permanently damage—or end—my relationship with him.”
“Or,” I said, “it could unloose the lava flow of passion that you and I both know is bubbling just underneath the surface of J. P.’s cool exterior.”
Lilly blinked at me. “Have you been reading Tina’s romance novels?” she wanted to know.
I ignored that. Or the mean little elf did, really.
“If you really and truly want me to forgive you for all those times you ruined my parties,” I said, “you will tell J. P. you love him.”
Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe I was saying them. I don’t even know why I was saying them. What did I care whether or not Lilly told J. P. she loved him?
Although it would definitely cut down on her whining about his not using the L word. And I was kind of interested to see what he’d do in response. You know, in a fun, social-experiment kind of way.
Lilly didn’t look like she agreed with me, though. About it being a fun social experiment to tell J. P. she loved him. In fact, she kind of looked like she wanted to barf.
Which prompted me to ask, “You do love him, don’t you? I mean, you’ve only been going on about how great he is for the past month and a half.”
“Of course I love him,” Lilly said. “I’m crazy about him. Who wouldn’t be? He’s, like, the world’s most perfect guy—smart, funny, sensitive, hot, tall, not gay, and yet still obsessed with Wicked, Everwood, and Gilmore Girls…. That’s why I don’t want to ruin it—what I have with him!”
Which was when I heard myself say, “It’s the only thing I want for my birthday. Besides world peace. Your telling J. P. that you love him, I mean.”
What was WRONG with me? That wasn’t ME talking. It was the mean little elf inside my mouth, making it move and say things I didn’t actually mean.
Maybe this is what happens when you turn sixteen. A mean little elf moves inside your body and starts controlling your words and actions. Funny how they’ve never mentioned anything about THAT on My Super Sweet Sixteen. Or on Dr. Phil.
“This is just like when Henry II asked his knights to kill the Archbishop of Canterbu
ry,” Lilly said in a small voice.
“Or when Rachel asked Ross to drink the glass of leftover fat in order to prove his love on Friends,” I said. Because I wasn’t talking about murdering J. P., for crying out loud.
But was Lilly going to drink the fat?
That was the question she seemed to be struggling with as she murmured, “I have to go to the office to get something photocopied,” and wandered from the G and T room in a sort of daze.
“Mia,” Boris—who had just been headed into the supply closet to practice his latest piece when Lilly and I had started fighting, and so of course he’d stopped to watch (though he’d pretended to be listening to his iPod)—said. “What are you doing?”
Even though Boris is already sixteen, he apparently hasn’t met his mean little elf. Maybe boys don’t get them when they turn sixteen.
Still, I can’t say I appreciated his tone. I mean, he knows from firsthand experience how difficult Lilly can be to deal with sometimes.
Really, Lilly should be grateful he hasn’t said anything to J. P. about the details surrounding their breakup. I don’t think even the Beast would have appreciated hearing about how Belle played Seven Minutes in Heaven with a guy who wasn’t her boyfriend right in front of said boyfriend.
I’m just saying.
Friday, April 30, the Plaza
