At first I was like, “No way. Lilly would never do something like that to me.”

But then I remembered the last thing she said to me during last night’s limo ride home from the Plaza:

I won’t be the person hurting him. You will. I didn’t write that story.

Oh my God! Could Tina be right? Does Lilly like J.P., but thinks he likes me? Could that really be why she was being so stubborn about pulling “No More Corn!”?

No. No, that can’t be right. Because Lilly doesn’t GET all weird and possessive about boys. She just doesn’t.

“I’m not saying she was doing it CONSCIOUSLY,” Tina said, when I mentioned this. “She probably hasn’t even admitted to HERSELF that she likes J.P. But SUBCONSCIOUSLY, this could be the reason why she refused to pull your story.”

“No,” I said. “Come on, Tina. That’s crazy.”

“Is it?” Tina wanted to know. “Think about it, Mia. What HASN’T Lilly lost to you lately? First the school presidency. Then the part of Rosagunde. Now this. I’m just saying. It would explain a lot.”

Well, it would explain a lot. If it were true. But it’s not. J.P. doesn’t like me that way, and Lilly doesn’t like HIM that way.

And even if she did, she would never do something like that to me. I mean, she’s the person I love seventh best in the whole world. And I’m sure she loves me third. Or maybe fourth. On account of her not having a boyfriend, a younger sibling, a stepparent, or any pets of her own.

Wednesday, March 10, G & T

Lilly’s back. She’s looking really pale. Apparently, Principal Gupta called her parents.

Who came in to school. For a conference.

I don’t know what they talked about. At the conference, I mean. But apparently, Lilly has to run the content of the next issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole past Ms. Martinez before she’s allowed to sell it. Because Lilly never showed Ms. Martinez her short stories.

Or mine.

Or the name of the magazine. Which is being changed to The Zine.

Just The Zine.

Which is, as I told Lilly, in an effort to be kind, kinda catchy.

Lilly didn’t say anything back to me, like, “Thanks” or “I’m sorry.”

And I’m not saying anything to her, like, “Want to talk?” or “I’m sorry.”

But I wish I could.

I’m just afraid of what she’ll say back.

Wednesday, March 10, third-floor stairwell

Today must be some kind of record for me breaking school rules. Because Kenny and I just totally skipped Earth Science, and we’re up here with Tina, going over the choreography one last time before tonight’s performance.

Kenny says he’s so nervous, he wants to throw up. Tina, too.

Me? To tell the truth—and it’s my personal mission in life to ONLY tell the truth anymore—I could vomit up my intestines, I’m so freaked out.

Because tonight I am going to have to do something I have never done before in my life. And that’s kiss a boy.

A boy other than Michael, I mean.

Well, okay, except for Josh Richter, but he doesn’t count, because that was before Michael and I started going out.

But basically, tonight I am going to cheat on my boyfriend.

And okay, I know it’s not really cheating, since it’s just a play—I mean, musical—and we are only acting a part and don’t really like each other or anything.

But still. I’ll be kissing ANOTHER MAN. A man I, only last Saturday, sexy danced with. In front of my boyfriend.

Who didn’t like it very much. So much so, in fact, that he’s apparently not speaking to me now. So if he finds out about this kissing thing, I’m REALLY going to be dead.

And even if he doesn’t find out, I WILL KNOW.

How can I help but feel like I am betraying him somehow?

Especially if—and this is what worries me most—I end up LIKING it. Kissing J.P., I mean.

Oh, God. I can’t believe I even WROTE that.

Of COURSE I won’t like it. I only love one boy, and that’s Michael. Even if he doesn’t necessarily love me back right now. I could NEVER enjoy kissing someone else. NEVER.

Oh, God. WHY WON’T HE CALL?????

Wednesday, March 10, the big performance

He still hasn’t called.

And there are so many people here.

I’m serious.

I can’t actually see who any of them are because Grandmère won’t let us peek out from behind the curtains, because she says, “If you can see the audience, they can see you.” She says it’s unprofessional to be seen in costume until after the show has started.

Considering this is an amateur production, Grandmère sure is a stickler about us all acting professional.

Still, I can see there are like twenty-five rows of chairs, with like twenty-five seats across out there, and every seat is filled. That’s like…five thousand people!

Oh no, wait. Boris says it’s only six hundred and twenty-five.

Still. That is a LOT of people. Not ALL of them can be related to us, you know? I mean, obviously, there are CELEBRITIES out there. According to Netscape, which I checked just before I left for the Plaza, Grandmère’s Aide de Ferme benefit is sold out—donations for the Genovian olive growers have been pouring in all week from movie stars and rock musicians alike. Apparently, Grandmère’s benefit—with its musical tribute to Genovian history—is THE place to be tonight.

I could be totally wrong, but I think I saw Prince—the artist formerly known as Prince, I mean—demanding an aisle seat just now.

And what about the REPORTERS? There are a ton of them, crouched down behind the orchestra, their cameras poised to photograph us the minute the curtains go up. I can just see tomorrow’s headline emblazoned across the Post: PRINCESS PLAYS A PRINCESS. Or worse, PRINCESS TAKES A BOW.

Shudder.

With my luck, they’ll get a picture of J.P. and me kissing, and THAT will be the photo they pick for the front page.

And Michael will see it.

And then he’ll TOTALLY break up with me.

Okay, I am such a shallow person, worrying about my boyfriend breaking up with me, when he is currently going through what is probably the most painful personal crisis of his life and so clearly has way bigger things to be concerned about than his dumb high school girlfriend.

And why am I even worrying about this when I am supposed to be focusing on my performance? According to Grandmère, anyway.

Everyone backstage is REALLY nervous. Amber Cheeseman is in the corner, doing some hapkido warm-up moves to calm down. Ling Su is doing breathing exercises she learned in her yoga class at the Y. Kenny is pacing around, muttering, “Step-ball-change. Step-ball-change. Jazz-hands, jazz-hands, jazz-hands. Step-ball-change.” Tina is helping Boris run through his lines. Lilly is just sitting quietly by herself, trying not to mess up her costume’s long white train.

Even Grandmère has broken her own rules again and is smoking, despite the fact that her last meal was hours ago.

Only Señor Eduardo seems calm. That’s because he’s asleep in a chair in the front row, with his equally ancient wife dozing beside him. They were the only two people I recognized before Grandmère caught me peeking.

Two minutes until the curtain goes up.

Grandmère has just called us over to her. She puts out her cigarette and says, “Well, children. This is it. The moment of truth. Everything you’ve worked so hard for this week has all been leading up to this. Will you succeed? Or will you fall on your faces and make fools of yourselves in front of your parents and friends, not to mention any number of celebrities? Only you can decide. It’s entirely up to you. But I’ve done all I can for you. I’ve written what is, perhaps, one of the finest musicals of all time. You can’t blame the material. Only yourselves, from this point on. Now it’s your turn, children. Your turn to spread your wings, as I have—and fly! Fly, children! FLY!”

Then she says, into the walkie-talkie none of us has noticed she’s carrying until that very moment, “For God’s sake, it’s seven o’clock, start the overture already.”

And the music begins…

Wednesday, March 10, the big performance

Oh my God, they LOVE it! Seriously! They’re eating it up! I’ve never heard a crowd applaud so hard! They are going NUTS! And we haven’t even gotten to the finale yet!

Everybody is doing SO well! Boris hasn’t forgotten any of his lines—he sang the Warlord song perfectly—

Going out to kill and slay

Is what I do every single day

No other job would I request

Marauding is what I do best!

Chorus:

Riding through forests in the night

When I emerge it’s quite a sight

In villagers’ eyes, it’s fear I see

Oh, what a blast it is to be me!

And Kenny hasn’t messed up any of the choreography. Well, okay, he has, but not enough so as anyone would really notice.

And you could have heard a pin drop when Lilly sang the mistress’s song!

How was I to know

When to him my mother sold

Me, that one day I would grow

To love him so?

Though all he does is rape and plunder

To me it’s always been a wonder

That when he’s done with pillaging

It’s me he turns to for his loving.

She held that crowd in the palm of her hand! Her voice THROBBED with poignancy, just like Madame Puissant taught her! And she remembered to use only one hand while lifting up her train to climb the stairs.

And J.P. practically got a standing ovation for his smith song.