But Lilly pretended not to care. “Whatever. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. I don’t know if I’d have had time to memorize all those lines, anyway.”

Which is ridiculous, since Lilly practically has a photographic memory, and almost a hundred percent aural recall (which makes fighting with her super hard because sometimes she drags out stuff you said, like, five years before and have no memory of ever saying. But SHE remembers it. Perfectly).

It’s just so wrong! If anyone deserves the lead in Braid!, it’s her!

“At least by playing Alboin’s mistress,” Lilly said, all bravely, “I only have a few lines—‘Why would you marry her, who doesn’t even want you, when you could have me, who adores you?’, or whatever. So I’ll have plenty of time to work on things that REALLY matter. Like Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole.”

And okay, I feel really bad for Lilly, because she totally deserves the part of Rosagunde, and all.

BUT I STILL HATE THAT NAME!!!

Friday, March 5, later during Lunch

So everyone is freaked out because on the way back to our table from the jet line I stopped by where J.P. was sitting by himself and asked him if he wanted to join us.

I don’t know what the big deal is. I mean, it’s not like I suddenly whipped off my clothes and started doing the hula in front of everyone. I just told a guy we know, who some of us may be spending a lot of time with in the near future, that he can come sit with us, if he wants to.

And he said thanks.

And next thing I knew, John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth was sliding his tray down next to mine.

“Oh, hi, J.P.,” Tina said. She shot a warning look at Boris, since he was the one who’d objected so strongly when I’d suggested inviting J.P. to join us, back when we’d only known him as the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili.

But Boris wisely refrained from saying anything about not wanting to eat with a corn hater.

“Thanks,” J.P. said, squeezing into the spot we made for him at our table. Not that he’s fat. He’s just… big. You know, really tall, and everything.

“So what do you think of the falafel?” J.P. asked Lilly, who looked startled at being spoken to by a guy who for, the past two years, we’ve sort of mocked.

She looked even more startled when she realized they both had the exact same things on their trays: falafel, salad, and Yoo-hoo chocolate drink.

“It’s good,” she said, staring at him with kind of a funny look on her face. “If you put enough tahini on it.”

“Anything’s good,” J.P. said, “if you put enough tahini on it.”

THIS IS SO TRUE!!!!!

Trust Boris to go, “Even corn?” all mock-innocently.

Tina shot him another warning look…

…but it was too late. The damage was done. Boris was clearly unable to restrain himself. He started smirking into a napkin, while pretending to be blowing his nose.

“Well,” J.P. said, cheerfully falling for the bait. “I don’t know about that. But maybe, like, erasers.”

Perin brightened at this statement.

“I’ve always thought erasers would taste good fried,” she said. “I mean, sometimes, when I have calamari, that’s what it reminds me of. Fried erasers. So I bet they’d taste good with tahini on them, too.”

“Oh, sure,” J.P. said. “Fry anything, it’d taste good. I’d eat one of these napkins, if it was fried.”

Tina, Lilly, and I exchanged surprised looks. J.P., it turns out, is kind of… funny.

Like, in a humorous, not strange, way.

“My grandmother makes fried grasshoppers sometimes,” Ling Su volunteered. “They’re pretty good.”

“See,” J.P. said. “Told you.” Then, looking at me, he went, “What’re you working on so diligently over there, Mia? Something due next period?”

“Don’t mind her,” Lilly said with a snort. “She’s just writing in her journal. As usual.”

“Is that what that is?” J.P. said. “I always kinda wondered.” Then, when I threw him a questioning look, he went, “Well, every time I see you, you’ve got your nose buried in that notebook.”

Which can mean only one thing: The whole time we’ve been watching the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili, he’s been watching us right back!

Even freakier, he opened his backpack and pulled out a Mead wide-ruled composition notebook with a black marbled cover with KEEP OUT! PRIVATE! written all over it.

JUST LIKE MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“I, too, am a fan of the Mead Composition notebook,” he explained. “Only I don’t keep a journal in mine.”

“What’s in it, then?” Lilly, always ready to ask prying questions, inquired.

J.P. looked slightly embarrassed.

“Oh, I just do some creative writing from time to time. Well, I mean, I don’t know how creative it is. But, you know. Whatever. I try.”

Lilly asked him immediately if he had anything he’d like to contribute to the first issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. He flipped through a couple of pages, and then asked, “How about this?” and read aloud:

Silent Movie

by

J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV

All the time we’re being seen

By Gupta’s silent surveillance machine.

What type of fly needs so many eyes?

Every turn of a hallway another surprise.

Gupta’s security is not so secure

since we know it’s based on nothing but fear.

If I had my way, I would not be here

Except that my tuition’s paid to the end of the year.

Wow. I mean… WOW. That was, like… totally good. I don’t really get it, but I think it’s about, like, the security cameras, and how Principal Gupta thinks she knows everything about us, but she doesn’t. Or something.

Actually, I don’t know what it’s about. But it must be good, because even Lilly seemed really impressed. She tried to get J.P. to submit it to Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. She thinks it might bring down the entire administration.

God. It’s not often you meet a boy who can write poetry. Or can even read anything. Beyond the instructions on an Xbox, I mean.

How weird to think that the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili is a writer like me. What if the whole time I’ve been writing short stories about J.P., he’s been writing short stories about ME? Like, what if HE’s written a story called “No More Beef!” about the time they put meat in the vegetarian lasagna and I accidentally ate some and threw that giant fit?

God. That would kind of… suck.

Friday, March 5, G & T

Grandmère called back right as the bell signaling the end of lunch started ringing.

“Amelia,” she said prissily. “You wanted me for something?”

“Grandmère, what are you doing, casting me in your musical?” I demanded. “You know I don’t want to be in it. I didn’t fill out the audition form, remember?”

“Is that all?” Grandmère seemed disappointed. “I thought you were only supposed to use your mobile in cases of emergency. I hardly think this constitutes an emergency, Amelia.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” I informed her. “This IS an emergency. An emergency crisis in our relationship—yours and mine.”

Grandmère seemed to find this statement totally hilarious.

“Amelia,” she said. “What is the one thing you have been complaining about most since the day you discovered you were, in reality, a princess?”

I had to think about this one.

“Having a bodyguard follow me around?” I asked, in a whisper, so Lars wouldn’t overhear and get his feelings hurt.

“What else?”

“Not being able to go anywhere without the paparazzi stalking me?”

“Think again.”

“The fact I have to spend my summers attending meetings of Parliament instead of going to camp like my friends?”

“Princess lessons, Amelia,” Grandmère says, into the phone. “You loathe and despise them. Well, guess what?”

“What?”

“Princess lessons are canceled for the duration of rehearsals for Braid! What do you think of that?”

You could almost hear the smug satisfaction in her voice. She totally thought she’d pulled one over on me.

Little did she know that my loyalty to my friends is stronger than my hatred for princess lessons!

“Nice try,” I informed her. “But I’d rather have to learn to say ‘Please pass the butter’ in fifty thousand languages than see Lilly not get the part she deserves.”

“Lilly is unhappy with the part she received?” Grandmère asked.

“Yes! She’s the best actress of all of us, she should have had the lead! But you gave her the stupid part of Alboin’s mistress, and she only has, like, two lines!”

“There are no small parts in the theater, Amelia,” Grandmère said. “Only small actors.”

WHAT? I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Whatever, Grandmère,” I said. “If you don’t want your show to suck, you should have cast Lilly in the lead. She—”

“Did I mention,” Grandmère interrupted, “how much I enjoyed meeting your friend Amber Cheeseman?”

My blood literally ran cold, and I froze in front of the G & T room, my phone clutched to my face.

“Wh-what?”

“I wonder what Amber would say,” Grandmère went on, “if I happened to mention to her how you’d squandered the money for her commencement ceremony on recycling bins.”

I was too shocked to speak. I just stood there, while Boris tried to edge past me with his violin case, going, “Um, excuse me, Mia.”

“Grandmère,” I said, barely able to speak because my throat had gone so dry. “You wouldn’t.”

Her reply rocked me to my very core:

“Oh, I would.”

GRANDMÈRE, I wanted to scream. YOU CAN’T GO AROUND THREATENING YOUR ONLY GRANDDAUGHTER!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??????