I'm not talking about the Oscars, silly. Who wants to sit for four-plus hours in a stuffy auditorium as part of a live audience? Can you say boooring? I'm talking about the Vanity Fair party at Morton's in West Hollywood. And this year I have my own invite, which means I can share the dish as it unfolds in front of me. Here we go ...

"We're minutes from talking to George Clooney!" Matty sounds hoarse. "Julia Roberts! Maybe Robert Redford. I can't breathe."

I fan his neck with my small clutch.

"Matty, you've got to calm down," I tell my brother as our limo inches closer to the Vanity Fair party. Yes, Matty is my date tonight. With Austin and Liz out of town, Matty seemed like the next best option. Needless to say he was really excited. Mom was a bit unsure, though. She and Laney seemed concerned about me bringing my brother as my date to the biggest party of the year. They went over the pluses and minuses of taking Matty for an hour, until finally Matty and I broke in and told them that we were going together whether they liked it or not. Geez. It's not like they had to worry about us going all Angelina Jolie and her brother on them. Eww.

It's been a week since my fight with Liz at the Cheesecake Factory and thankfully all the Oscar parties and preparations have kept my mind off the fact that my best friend and I aren't speaking. I want to call, but I'm still so hurt. How could she say I haven't been there for her? She hasn't been there for me either. My life is one big stress ball. I'm still not sleeping that well, and I haven't told anyone this yet, but I think I've developed some sort of hearing problem. Whenever I think about all I have on my plate -- Seth hasn't heard back from the Manolos director, Mom and Dad are grilling me about choosing a different project, the SATs are in a few weeks, I'm freaking out about my future without FA -- I feel like I'm going to hyperventilate and I hear a whooshing sound in my ears.

"I don't know if I'm ready for this," Matty tells me. Now he's hyperventilating. "Rodney, turn the car around! I can't go through with this!" The invite says black tie, so Matty is wearing a black Armani tux. His shirt, tie, and jacket look crisp, but his face is a mess. He's red and sweating and if he doesn't stop it soon, his perfectly gelled hair is going to frizz. "Kates, I can't," he tells me, breathing heavily. "David Beckham is here! And Clooney! And Angelina! Kates, Angelina's here. I can't make small talk with Angelina and Clooney. I'm not even sure where Darfur is."

I shake him. "Get it together," I practically shout. "You can do this." I've never seen Matty this vulnerable. Usually he's Mr. Suave (or at least trying to be), but today, he's all worked up. Mom and Dad didn't help matters. They were so nervous for us, they didn't eat all day. Mom just followed us around the house as Tina styled our outfits and Paul and Shelley did our hair and my makeup. It's been twenty-four hours of primping -- Mom made me hit the sauna and get a facial yesterday, and then we went airbrush tanning together at our usual place with our girl, Eva.