I sat there for like two minutes, listening to everyone around me laughing and having a good time, and feeling my palms break into a cold sweat. I was surrounded by people—surrounded by them!—but I swear I had never felt more alone in my life. Sexy dancing! I’d been sexy dancing! With another boy!

Even Lilly had stopped filming me, finding the sight of Doo Pak tasting Cool Ranch Doritos for the first time much more interesting than my intense mortification.

J.P. was the only one who said a word to me after that—besides Tina, on the couch opposite mine, who leaned over and said, “That was a very nice dance, Mia,” like I’d been doing some kind of performance piece, or something.

“Hey,” J.P. said, coming over to where I was sitting. “I think you forgot this.”

I looked at what he was holding. My three-quarters-empty beer! The substance responsible for my having thought it might be a good idea to do a sexy dance with another boy in the first place!

“Take it away!” I moaned and buried my face in my knees.

“Oh,” J.P. said. “Sorry. Um… are you all right?”

“No,” I said to my thighs.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

“Can you create a rift in the space-time continuum so no one will remember what an ass I just made of myself?”

“Um. I don’t think so. How did you make an ass of yourself?”

Which was sweet of him—to pretend he hadn’t noticed, and all. But seriously, that just made it worse.

Which is why I did the only thing I thought I reasonably could: I gathered up my things—and my bodyguard—and left before anybody could see me cry.

Which I did all the way home.

And now all I can do is hope that J.P. was lying and that he really does know how to create a rift in the space-time continuum that will make it so that everyone who was at that party forgets I was ever there, too.

Especially Michael.

Who by now has to be way more than slightly aware that I am, in the worst sense of the word, a party girl.

Oh, God.

I think I need an aspirin.

Sunday, March 7, 9 a.m., the loft

No messages from Michael. No e-mail. No calls.

It’s official: He is disgusted to even know me.

And I don’t blame him one bit. I’d go throw myself into the East River in shame if I didn’t have rehearsal.

I just called Zabar’s and, using my mom’s credit card (um, unbeknownst to her, since she’s still sleeping, and Mr. G has taken Rocky out to go buy orange juice), ordered bagels and lox to be delivered to the Moscovitzes’ apartment, as my way of saying I’m sorry.

No one can stay mad after an everything bagel from Zabar’s.

Right?

Sexy dancing! What was I THINKING?????

Sunday, March 7, 5 p.m., the Grand Ballroom, the Plaza

We never should have worried about memorizing our lines by Monday. I know them cold already, we’ve been through this play so many times.

And my feet are killing me from all the (not sexy) dancing. Feather says we all have to get something called jazz shoes. She’s bringing a bunch for us tomorrow.

Except that by tomorrow, my feet will have fallen off.

Also, my throat is starting to hurt from all the singing. Madame Puissant has us sipping hot cups of Emergen-C.

Phil, the pianist, looks ready to drop. Even Grandmère is starting to droop. Only Señor Eduardo, dozing in his chair, looks rested. Well, Señor Eduardo and Rommel.

Oh, God. She’s making them run through, “Genovia, My Genovia” one more time. I freaking HATE this song. At least I’m not in this number. Still. Can’t she see she’s driving us past the breaking point? My God, aren’t there rules about how long you can force a child to work?

Oh, well. At least all of this is keeping my mind off last night’s humiliation. Sort of. I mean, Lilly still brings it up every chance she gets—“Oh, Mia, hey, thanks for the bagels,” and “Hey, Mia, maybe you could work that sexy dance into the scene where you murder Alboin,” and “Where’s your beret?”

Which of course has everyone who wasn’t there going, “What’s she talking about?” At which Lilly just smiles all knowingly.

And then there’s the Michael thing. Lilly says he wasn’t even there to GET the bagels I sent over this morning. He went back to his dorm room last night after the party ended because his parents were home and didn’t need him to keep Lilly out of trouble anymore.

I’ve sent him, like, three text messages apologizing for being such a weirdo.

All I got back from him was this:

WE NEED 2 TALK

Which can only mean one thing, of course. He—

Oh, wait. J.P. just passed me a note, so we won’t get yelled at for whispering, as happened earlier when he leaned over to let me know my combat boot had come untied.

J.P.:

Hey. You aren’t mad at me, are you?

Me:

Why would I be mad at you?

J.P.:

For dancing with you.

Me:

Why would I be mad at you for DANCING with me?

J.P.:

Well, if it got you in trouble with your boyfriend, or anything.

It was looking more and more like it totally had. But that wasn’t anybody’s fault but mine… and certainly not J.P.’s.

Me:

No. That was totally NICE of you. It helped me not look like the biggest freak in the universe. I’m so STUPID. I can’t believe I had that beer. I was just so nervous, you know. Of not being enough of a party girl.

J.P.:

Well, you looked like you were having a great time, if it’s any consolation. Not like today. Today you look—well, that’s why I thought you might be mad at me. Either because of last night, or maybe because of that thing I said the other day, about knowing you’re a vegetarian because of that fit you had in the caf that one time.

Me:

No. Why would that make me mad? It’s true. I DID have a fit when I found out they put meat in the lasagna. I mean, it was supposed to be vegetarian.

J.P.:

I know. They screw EVERYTHING up in that cafeteria. Have you seen what they do to the chili?

Me:

You mean how they put corn in it sometimes?

J.P.:

Yeah, exactly. That is just wrong. There shouldn’t be corn in chili. It’s unnatural. Don’t you think?

Me:

Well, I never really thought about it before. I mean, I like corn.

J.P.:

Well, I don’t. I never have. Not since—whatever. Never mind.

Me:

Not since what?

J.P.:

No, it’s nothing. Really. Never mind.

But, of course, now I HAD to know.

Me:

No, really. It’s okay. You can tell me. I won’t say a word to anyone. I swear.

J.P.:

Well, it’s just…you know how I told you the only celebrity I’d most like to meet is David Mamet?

Me:

Yeah…

J.P.:

Well, my parents have actually met him. They went to his house for a dinner party once about four years ago. And I was so excited when I found out, I was like—in that way you do, when you’re twelve, you know, and you think the world revolves around you—“Did you tell him about me, Dad? Did you tell him I’m his biggest fan?”

Me:

Yeah. And what did your dad say?

J.P.:

He said, “Yes, son, as a matter of fact, your name did come up.” Turns out Dad had told him about me, all right. He told him about the first time they ever fed me corn as a baby.

Me:

Yeah?

J.P.:

And how amazed they were the next morning when they found it in whole pieces in my diaper. The corn, I mean.

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

Actually, this happened the first—and only time—we fed corn to Rocky. So I know PRECISELY how gross it really is.

Me:

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! Oops, I mean. Sorry. That must have been very embarrassing. I mean, for you. That they told your idol something like that about you. Even if you WERE just a baby at the time that it happened.

J.P.:

Embarrassing? I was mortified! I haven’t been able to stand the sight of corn since!

Me:

Well. That explains it, then.

J.P.:

Explains what?

Me:

Nothing. Your aversion to corn, I mean.

J.P.:

Yeah. Parents. They mess you up, you know?

Me:

Tell me about it.

J.P.:

Can’t live with them. Can’t afford to live without them. Speaking of which, what do you think of this poem:

They pay for your food,

And lodging and school.

All they ask in return

Is that you follow their rules.

You have no control

Your destiny’s not your own

At least till you’re eighteen

And you can finally leave home.

Me:

Whoa. That is good! You should submit it to Lilly’s magazine!

J.P.:

Thanks. I might submit it—along with the Principal Gupta poem. Are you going to have anything in it? Lilly’s ’zine, I mean?

Me:

No.

Because of course the only thing I’ve written lately (besides journal entries) is “No More Corn!” And I already told Lilly she can’t publish it. Something I’m especially glad of now, because I really don’t think, considering the story J.P. just told me about WHY he hates corn, that he would think it’s funny. My short story about him, I mean.

Oh, God. Grandmère wants me for the strangulation scene.

I wish someone would strangle ME. Because then Michael and I wouldn’t NEED 2 TALK. Because I’d just be dead.

Sunday, March 7, 9 p.m., the loft

I can’t believe this. Why does everything have to go from bad to worse? First of all, I still haven’t been able to reach Michael. He’s not answering his cell and he’s not online, and Doo Pak says he’s not in their room and that he has no idea where “Mike” might be.