Not that anyone has really ADMITTED that’s what we do. Try to see who can make J. P. laugh the hardest, that is.

But we totally do.

At least, I do.

Anyway, I was telling everyone about Lewis-with-the-scissor-handle glasses, and Janine-of-the-purple-hair, and they were laughing—especially J. P., particularly when I got to the part about the sex-segregated shopping for girls and jet-skiing for boys—when Lilly put down her chicken parm on a roll and was like, “Frankly, Mia, I think it was extremely uncool of you to turn down your grandmother’s generous offer to throw you such a fantastic party.”

I just stared at her with my mouth open, the way I’d stared at Grandmère and Lewis the night before.

“I do think it would be kind of neat to fly to Genovia for the weekend,” Perin said softly, from the other side of the table.

“I could totally use a Louis Vuitton violin case,” Boris said.

“But only the girls would be allowed to shop,” I pointed out to him. “You’d have to be jet-skiing with the boys. And you know how you get that allergic reaction to sand-flea bites.”

“Yeah,” Boris grumbled. “But Tina could have bought one for me.”

“You guys,” I said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Hello. Have you ever even seen that show, My Super Sweet Sixteen? They totally try to make the people on it look bad! On purpose. That’s the POINT of the series.”

“Not necessarily,” Lilly said. “I think the point of the series is to show how some American young people choose to celebrate their coming-of-age—which in this country is at sixteen—and to convey to audiences what a difficult and yet joyous time it can be, as sweet sixteens struggle on the threshold of adulthood, not quite a child anymore, not yet a man or woman….”

Everyone stared at her. J. P. was the one who finally said, “Um, I always thought the point of the series was to show stupid people spending way too much money on something that ultimately has no meaning.”

“TOTALLY!” I burst out. I couldn’t believe J. P. had put it so exactly right. Well, I could, of course, because J. P. is a wordsmith, like me, and aspires to a literary career of some sort, just like I do.

But I also couldn’t because, well, he’s a guy, and most of the time, guys just don’t GET stuff like that.

“Lilly,” I said, “don’t you remember that episode where those girls invited five hundred of their closest friends to that rock concert they gave for themselves at that night club, and they made that big deal out of not letting freshmen come, and had the ones who crashed thrown out by bouncers? Oh, and charged their friends admission to get in? To their own birthday party?”

“And then gave the money to charity,” Lilly pointed out.

“But still!” I said. “What about that girl who had herself carried into her party on a bed held on the shoulders of eight guys from the local crew team, then forced all her friends to watch a fashion show with herself as the only model?”