I told him that was still pretty impressive—I mean, that he’d met almost everybody else in Hollywood.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you know, when it comes down to it, celebrities are just people, like you and me. Well, I mean, like me, anyway. You—well, you’re a celebrity. You must get that a lot. You know, people thinking you’re—I don’t know. This one thing. When really, you’re not. That’s just the public’s perception of you. That must be really hard.”

Were truer words ever spoken? I mean, look at what I’m dealing with right now: this perception that I’m not a party girl. When I most certainly AM. I mean, I’m going to a party tonight, right?

And okay, I’m totally dreading it and had to ask advice about it from the meanest girl in my whole school.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not a party girl.

Anyway, in addition to having met every single celebrity in the world except David Mamet, J.P. has been to every single play ever put on, including—and I couldn’t believe this—Beauty and the Beast.

And get this: It’s one of his all-time favorites, too.

I can’t believe that for all this time, I’ve been seeing him as the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili—you know, just this freak in the cafeteria—when underneath he’s, like, this really cool, funny guy who writes poems about Principal Gupta and likes Beauty and the Beast and would like to meet David Mamet (whoever that is).

But I guess that’s just a reflection of how the educational system today, being so overcrowded and impersonal, makes it so hard for adolescents to break through our preconceived notions of one another, and get to know the real person underneath the label they’re given, be it Princess, Brainiac, Drama Geek, Jock, Cheerleader, or Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili.

Oops. Chorus rehearsal is over. Grandmère’s calling for the principal characters now.

Which means J.P and me. We sure have a lot of scenes together. Especially seeing as how up until I read Braid!, I never even knew my ancestress Rosagunde HAD a boyfriend.

Saturday, March 6, 6 p.m., limo on the way home from the Plaza

Oh my God, I’m soooo tired, I can barely keep my eyes open. Acting is SO HARD. Who knew? I mean, those kids on Degrassi make it look so easy. But they’re going to school and everything the whole time they’re filming that show. How do they DO it?

Of course, they don’t have to sing, except for those episodes where there’s like a band audition or whatever. Singing is even harder than ACTING, it turns out. And I thought that was the thing I’d have the least trouble with, because of my intensive self-training in the event I have to perform karaoke on a road trip to make food money like Britney in Crossroads.

Well, let me just say that I have a newfound respect for Kelis because to get that one perfect version of “Milkshake” on her album, she had to have rehearsed it five thousand times. Madame Puissant made me rehearse “Rosagunde’s Song” at LEAST that many times.

And when my voice started to get scratchy and I couldn’t hit the high notes, she made me grab the bottom of the baby grand piano Phil was accompanying me on, and LIFT!

“Sing from the diaphragm, Princess,” was what Madame Puissant kept yelling. “No breathing from the chest. From the DIAPHRAGM! No chest voice! SING FROM THE DIAPHRAGM! LIFT!!! LIFT!!!!”

I was just glad I’d put clear polish on all my nails the other day (so I’d be less tempted to bite them). At least she couldn’t yell at me about THAT.

And choreography? Forget about it. Some people look down on cheerleaders (okay, me included, except for Shameeka—up until now), but that stuff is HARD!!! Remembering all those steps??? Oh my God! It’s like, “Take my chi already, Feather! I can’t step-ball-change anymore!”

But Feather didn’t have the least bit of sympathy for me—and she had even LESS for Kenny, who can’t step-ball-change to save his life.

And guess what? We’re all expected to show up at ten tomorrow morning for more of the same.

Boris said tonight, as we were all leaving, “This is the hardest I have ever had to work for a hundred extra credit points.”

Which is a totally good point. But, as Ling Su mentioned to him, it beats selling candles door-to-door.

After which I had to shush her, because Amber Cheeseman had been standing nearby!

Except of course J.P. overheard me shushing Ling Su, and was like, “What? What’s the big secret? What are you guys talking about? You can tell me, I swear I’ll take it to the grave.”

The thing is, when you are thrown together for so many hours, the way we’ve all been since rehearsals started, you sort of… bond. I mean, you can’t help it. You’re just in each other’s company SO MUCH. Even Lilly, who has markedly antisocial tendencies, yelled, as we were all putting on our coats, “Hey, you guys, I almost forgot! Party tonight at my place! You should totally come, my parents are out of town!”

Which I thought was kind of bold of her—it’s Michael’s party, really, not hers, and I don’t know how thrilled he’ll be if a bunch of high school kids show up (besides me, of course).

But, you know. It’s an example of how close we all feel to one another.

And also why I felt forced to tell J.P. the truth—that the student government had run a little short on cash to pay for the seniors’ commencement ceremony, and that was why we were putting on Braid! in the first place.

J.P. seemed surprised to hear this—but not, as I first thought, because he was shocked to learn I’d messed up the budget.

“Really?” he said. “And here I was thinking that this whole thing was just an elaborate ruse by your grandmother to sucker my dad into giving up his bid on the faux island of Genovia.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I just stared at him with my mouth hanging open until he laughed and said, “Mia, don’t worry. I won’t tell. About the money for commencement OR your grandmother’s scheme.”

But then I got all curious, and was like, “Why does your dad want to buy the faux island of Genovia, anyway, J.P.?”

“Because he can,” J.P. said, not looking jokey at all—which, for him, was a first. He almost never seems to look upset or worried about anything—except corn, of course.

I could see right away that John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Third was a sore subject to John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth. So I dropped it. That’s the kind of thing you learn when you’re training to be a princess. How to drop subjects that suddenly seem to turn uncomfortable.

“Well, see you tomorrow,” I said to J.P..

“Are you going to Lilly’s party?” he wanted to know.

“Oh,” I said. “Yes.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there, then,” J.P. said.

Which is sweet. You know, that J.P. feels comfortable enough with us to want to come to Lilly’s party. Even if he doesn’t know it’s Michael’s party and not Lilly’s.

Anyway, I’ve got more important things to worry about right now than J.P. and Lilly and Grandmère and her diabolical schemes for faux island domination.

Because I’ve got a scheme of my own to put into action….

Sunday, March 7, 1 a.m., the loft

I’m so embarrassed. Seriously. I’m MORTIFIED. This is probably the most embarrassed I have ever been in my entire life.

And I know I’ve said that before, but this time, I really mean it.

I really thought, for a while there, that it might have been working. My plan to prove to Michael that I really am a party girl, I mean.

I don’t understand exactly what went wrong. I had it ALL planned out. I did EXACTLY what Lana said. As soon as I got to Lilly and Michael’s apartment, I changed out of my rehearsal clothes into my party clothes:

—Black tights

—My black velvet skirt (transformed into a mini—the edges were kind of raggedy because Fat Louie kept batting at the scissors as I was cutting, but whatever, it still looked okay)

—My black Docs

—A black leotard left over from that Halloween I dressed as a cat, and Ronnie from next door said I looked like a flat-chested Playboy bunny so I never wore it again

—A black beret my mom used to wear when she was performing acts of civil disobedience with her fellow Guerrilla Girls

—And the water bra. Which I didn’t even fill up all that much, because, you know, I was scared of leaks.

Plus I put on red lipstick and tousled my hair all sexily, like Lindsay Lohan’s when she’s coming out of New York clubs like Butter after just narrowly having missed running into her ex, Wilmer.

But instead of being all, “That’s hot,” about my new look, Michael—who was answering the door as the first of his guests began to arrive, just raised his eyebrows at me like he was kind of alarmed about something.

And Lars actually looked up from his Sidekick as I walked by and started to say something, but then apparently thought better of it, since he went back to leaning against the wall and looking up stuff on the Web.

And then Lilly, who was busy getting her camera ready to film the festivities for a piece she’s doing for Lilly Tells It Like It Is on male-female dynamics in a modern urban setting, was like, “What are you supposed to be? A mime?”

But instead of getting mad at her, I tossed my head, the way Lana does, and was like, “Aren’t you funny?”

Because I was trying to act mature in front of Michael’s friends, who were coming in just then.

And I guess I succeeded, because Trevor and Felix were like, “Mia?” as if they didn’t recognize me. Even Paul was all, “Nice sticks,” which I guess was a compliment about my legs, which look quite long when I wear a short skirt.