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I saw Trisha and Lana exchange glances. Then Lana rolled her eyes.
“Not the neck thing again,” she said. “I told you, just buy J.P. some cologne.”
“I did,” I said. “It’s not that—Look, forget it, okay? You guys all have sex on the brain, anyway. There’s more to a relationship than sex, you know.”
This caused all the ladies who were doing our feet to start giggling hysterically.
“Well,” I said to them. “Isn’t there?”
“Oh, yes,” they all said. “Your Highness.”
Why did I get the feeling that they were making fun of me? That they were ALL making fun of me? Look, I knew from my vast romance reading that sex was fun.
But I ALSO knew from my vast romance reading that there were some things more important than sex.
LOVE, MICHAEL.
“Besides,” I added desperately, “just because I think Michael smells better than J.P. doesn’t mean I’m still in love with him or anything.”
“Okay,” Lana said. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “Except for the part where it totally does.”
“Oh my God, love triangle!” Trisha squealed, and the two of them started laughing so hard that they splashed the water in their foot basins, causing their pedicure specialists to have to ask them to please control themselves.
It was at that moment Grandmère hobbled back into the room, wearing her robe and flip-flops and looking particularly frightening because she’d also just had a facial and so all of her pores were still open and her face was devoid of makeup and very shiny and she was wearing an expression of extreme surprise….
But not, it turned out (much to my relief), because she’d overheard us.
It was because no one had drawn her eyebrows back on.
Monday, May 1, 7 p.m., the Royal Genovian Yacht Clarisse 3, master suite
I have never seen so much pre-party psychosis in my life. And I’ve been to a lot of parties.
The florist brought the wrong floral arrangements—whites roses and purple lilies, not pink—and the caterer’s crispy seafood spring rolls came with a peanut sauce instead of an orange sauce (I don’t care, but there’s some speculation that Princess Aiko of Japan has a peanut allergy).
Grandmère and Vigo are having CORONARIES about it. You would think somebody had forgotten to polish the silver, or something.
Don’t even get me started on the aneurysm they had when I suggested we use the helicopter landing pad as a dance floor.
Whatever! It’s not like anybody’s going to be landing the helicopter on it!
At least my dress arrived safely. I’ve been stuffed into it (it’s silver and sparkly and formfitting and what can I say? It was made especially for me, and you can tell. There’s not a whole lot left to the imagination), and my hair is all twisted up and tucked into my tiara, and I’ve been ordered to sit here quietly out of everyone’s way, and not move until it’s time to make my grand entrance, once all the guests have arrived.
Like I’m all that jazzed to go anywhere, seeing as how what awaits me out there are my twin “surprises”—one from J.P., and the other from Lilly.
I’m sure I’m overreacting. I’m sure whatever J.P. got me, I’m going to like it. Right? I mean, he’s my boyfriend. He’s not going to do anything to embarrass me in front of my family and friends. The whole thing with the guy who dressed up like the knight and rode up on the horse painted white—I mean, I explained that already. He got the message. I know he got the message.
So…why do I feel so sick to my stomach?
Because he called me a little while ago to see how I was. (I’m actually feeling a little better about some things now that I’ve shared my “secret” with all the girls. The one about my book AND the one about my being the last unicorn in the Albert Einstein High senior class—besides J.P.
, I mean. The fact that they didn’t seem to think it was such a big deal was a pretty big relief. I mean, not that it IS a big deal, because it’s not. It’s just…well, it’s good to know they don’t think it’s a big deal. Although I wish Lana would quit texting me with alternative titles for my book. I don’t actually think Put It in My Candyhole is that good a name for a novel.)
J.P. also wanted to ask if I was “ready” for my birthday surprise.
Ready for my birthday surprise? What is he talking about? Is he trying to freak me out on purpose? Seriously, between him and Lilly—with her talk of how she can only give me my present tonight—I’m going to go mental. I really am.
I don’t know how anyone can expect me to sit still, either. In fact, I haven’t been sitting. I’ve been looking out one of the portholes, at all the people coming up the gangplank. (I’m trying to keep myself hidden behind the curtains so no one can see me, keeping in mind Grandmère’s golden rule: If you can see them, they can see you.)
