Forever Princess

Meg Cabot

Forever Princess

For my agent, Laura Langlie, with love and many thanks for her

endless patience, kindness, and, most of all, her sense of humor!

“It’s exactly like the ones in the stories,” she wailed. “Them pore princess ones that was drove into the world.”

A LITTLE PRINCESS

Frances Hodgson Burnett

Contents

Epigraph

Begin Reading

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise

Other Books by Meg Cabot

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

teenSTYLE

EXCLUSIVE!

teenSTYLEchats with Princess Mia Thermopolis on what it means to be royal, her upcoming high school graduation and prom, and her fashion must-haves!

teenSTYLE caught up to Princess Mia this spring as she was engaged in one of her many volunteer activities—tidying up Central Park, along with the rest of her fellow Albert Einstein High School seniors, since they’ll all be taking part in commencement ceremonies there in a few weeks!

What could be less princessy than painting park benches? And yet Princess Mia managed to look entirely regal in a pair of 7 For All Mankind dark-rinse low-rise skinny jeans, a simple white crew-neck tee, and Emilio Pucci ballerina flats.

This is one royal who truly knows what it means to haveteen STYLE!

teenSTYLE: Let’s cut right to the chase. A lot of people are confused about what’s happening with the government in Genovia right now. Our readers really want to know: Are you still a princess?

Princess Mia:Yes, of course. Genovia was an absolute monarchy until I found a document last year revealing that my ancestress, Princess Amelie, had declared it a constitutional monarchy—exactly like England—four hundred years ago. That document was proven valid by the Genovian parliament last spring, and now we’re two weeks away from elections for prime minister.

teenSTYLE: But will you still rule?

Princess Mia:Much to my chagrin. I mean, yes. I will inherit the throne upon the death of my father. The people of Genovia will elect a prime minister, the same as the people of England, while still having a reigning monarch…in Genovia’s case, since we’re a principality, a prince or princess.

teenSTYLE: That’s great! So you’ll always have the tiara, the limos, the palace, the beautiful ball gowns….

Princess Mia:…And the bodyguards, the paparazzi, no private life, people like you hounding me, and my grandmother forcing me to agree to meet with you to get my name in your magazine so we can attract more tourists to Genovia? Yes. Not, of course, that we aren’t in enough magazines right now, seeing as how my dad is running for prime minister, and his own cousin, Prince René, is running against him.

teenSTYLE: And leading in the polls, according to the latest news reports. But let’s move on to your plans for after high school. You’re scheduled to graduate from Manhattan’s prestigious Albert Einstein High School on May 7. What kind of accessories do you plan on wearing to set off your mortarboard hat and gown—

Princess Mia:Although frankly, I find Prince René’s campaign platform ridiculous. He’s been quoted as saying, “You’d be surprised how many people in the world have never even heard of Genovia. Many of them believe it’s a made-up place, something out of a movie. I’m out to change all that.” But his ideas of changing Genovia for the better include generating more income from tourism. He keeps insisting Genovia could be a vacation destination spot like Miami or Las Vegas!Vegas! He wants to install restaurant chains like Applebee’s, Chili’s, and McDonald’s in order to appeal to cruise ship tourists visiting from America. Can you imagine? What could be more disastrous to Genovia’s delicate infrastructure? Some of our bridges are five centuries old! Not to mention what it would do to the environment, which has already been severely damaged by cruise ship waste dumping—

teenSTYLE: Er…we can see this is an issue about which you feel passionately. We encourage our readers to take a keen interest in current events—like your eighteenth birthday, which we know is coming up on May 1! Any truth to the rumors that your grandmother, the Dowager Princess Clarisse, has been in New York City for some time, planning a completely over-the-top eighteenth birthday celebration for you, aboard a yacht?

Princess Mia:I’m not saying there isn’t necessarily room for improvement in Genovia, but not in the way Prince René means. I believe Dad’s response—that if anything, what our citizens need right now is improvements to their daily lives—is utterly correct. My father, not Prince René, has the experience Genovia needs right now. I mean, he’s been prince there his entire life, and has ruled for the past ten years. He knows, more than anyone, what his people need and don’t need…and what they don’t need is an Applebee’s!

teenSTYLE: So…you’re planning on studying political science in college?

Princess Mia:What? Oh, no. I was thinking of majoring in journalism. With a creative writing minor.

teenSTYLE: Really? So you want to be a journalist?

Princess Mia:Actually, I’d love to be an author. I know publishing is really hard to break in to. But I’ve heard if you start by writing romance novels, you have a better chance.

teenSTYLE: Speaking of romance, you must be getting ready for something every girl in America is starting to get excited for! A little something called PROM?

Princess Mia:Oh. Um. Yeah. I guess.

teenSTYLE: Come on, you can tell us. Of course you’re going! We all know things between you and longtime steady boyfriend Michael Moscovitz ended last year when he went off to Japan. He hasn’t come back yet, right?

Princess Mia:As far as I know, he’s still in Japan. And we’re just friends.

teenSTYLE: Right! You’ve often been seen in the company of fellow AEHS senior John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy IV. That’s him painting that bench over there, isn’t it?

Princess Mia:Uh…yeah.

teenSTYLE: So…don’t keep us in suspense! Is J.P. the special guy who’ll be escorting you to Albert Einstein High’s senior prom? And what will you be wearing? You know metallics are in this season…can we count on you to glitter in gold?

Princess Mia:Oh, no! I’m so sorry! My bodyguard didn’t mean to kick that paint can over onto you. How clumsy of him! Do send me the dry-cleaning bill.

Lars:Care of the Royal Genovian press office, Fifth Avenue.

Her Royal Highness

Dowager Princess

Clarisse Marie Grimaldi Renaldo

requests the pleasure of your company at a soiree to celebrate the eighteenth birthday of

Her Royal Highness

Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo

on Monday the First of May at seven o’clock in the evening at South Street Seaport, Pier Eleven

The Royal Genovian Yacht Clarisse 3

Yale University

Dear Princess Amelia,

Congratulations on your admission to Yale College! Announcing the good news to a candidate is the absolute best part of my job, and it gives me great pleasure to send you this letter. You have every reason to feel proud of our offer of admission. I know that Yale would be an even richer and more vital place for your being here—

Princeton University

Dear Princess Amelia,

Congratulations! Your academic accomplishments, extracurricular achievements, and strong personal qualities were deemed by the admissions officers to be exceptional and ones we want here at Princeton. We are pleased to be sending you this good news and especially to be welcoming you to Princeton—

COLUMBIAUNIVERSITY

COLUMBIA COLLEGE

Dear Princess Amelia:

Congratulations! The Committee on Admissions joins me in the most rewarding part of this job—informing you that you have been selected for admission to Columbia University in the City of New York. We are fully confident that the gifts you bring to our campus will be unique and valuable and that your abilities will be challenged and developed here—

HARVARD UNIVERSITY

Dear Princess Amelia,

I am delighted to inform you that the Committee on Admissions and Financial Aid has voted to offer you a place at Harvard. Following an old Harvard tradition, a certificate of admission is enclosed. Please accept my personal congratulations for your outstanding achievements—

BROWN UNIVERSITY

Dear Princess Amelia,

Congratulations! The Brown Board of Admission has completed its evaluation of more than 19,000 applicants, and it is with great pleasure that I inform you that your application has been included among our acceptances. Your—

Daphne Delacroix

1005 Thompson Street, Apt. 4A

New York, NY 10003

Dear Ms. Delacroix,

Enclosed please find your novel,Ransom My Heart.Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read it. However, it does not suit our needs at the present time. Good luck placing it elsewhere.

Sincerely,

Ned Christiansen

Editorial Assistant

Brampft Books 520 Madison Avenue

New York, NY 10023

Dear Author,

Thank you for the submission of your book. Although it was carefully read, it is not what we are looking for here at Cambridge House. Best of luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

Cambridge House Books

Dear Ms. Delacroix,

Thank you so much for your submission,Ransom My Heart . We here at AuthorPress were highly impressed by it, and we think it shows a lot of promise! However, it’s important to keep in mind that publishing houses receive well over 20,000 submissions a year, and in order to stand out, your manuscript needs to be PERFECT. For a nominal fee ($5 per page), your manuscript,Ransom My Heart , could be on store shelves by next Christmas—

The Senior Class of

Albert Einstein High School

requests the pleasure of your company at

the senior prom

on Saturday the Sixth of May at seven o’clock in the evening at the

Waldorf-Astoria ballroom

Thursday, April 27, Gifted and Talented

Mia—We’re going shopping for prom dresses—and for something to wear to your birthday shindig—after school. Bendel’s and Barneys first, then if we strike out there, we’ll hit Jeffrey and Stella McCartney downtown. You in?—Lana

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

L—I’m sorry. I can’t. Have fun, though!—M

What do you mean, you can’t ? What else do you have to do? Don’t say princess lessons because I know your grandmother has canceled them while she gets ready for your big pahtay, and don’t say therapy either because you only have that on Fridays. So what gives? Don’t be such a byotch, we need your limo. I blew all my taxi money for the month on a new pair of D&G patent leather platform slingbacks.

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

Wow. Coming clean about Dr. Knutz to my friends was freeing and all of that, just like he said it would be.

Especially since it turns out most of them have been in therapy, too.

But some of them—such as Lana—tend to treat the subject way too casually sometimes.

I’m staying after school to help J.P. with his senior project. You know he’s putting on his final performance piece for the senior project committee next week. I promised I’d be there for him. He’s worried about some of the performances his actors are giving. He thinks Amber Cheeseman’s little sister, Stacey, doesn’t really seem to be giving it her all. And she’s the star, you know.

OMG, that play he wrote? God, what are you two, attached at the hip? You can spend ten minutes apart, you know. Now come shopping with us. Pinkberry after! My treat!

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

Lana thinks Pinkberry solves everything. Or, if not Pinkberry,Allure magazine. When Benazir Bhutto got assassinated, and I couldn’t stop crying, Lana got me a copy ofAllure magazine and told me to get in the bathtub and read it cover to cover. Lana was seriously all, “You’ll feel better in no time!”

And I’m pretty sure she really meant it.

The weird thing was, after I did what she said, I sort ofdid feel a little better.

I also knew a lot more about the dangers of SmartLipo. Still.

Lana. It’s an artistic thing. J.P.’s the writer/director. I have to be there to support him. I’m the girlfriend. Just go without me.

God, what iswith you? It’s PROM. Fine, be that way. I’ll forgive you, but only because I know you’re freaking out over this election thing of your dad’s. Oh, and where you’re going to go to school next year. God, I can’t believe you didn’t get inanywhere . I mean, evenI got into Penn. Andmy senior project was on the history of eyeliner. Good thing my dad’s a legacy, I guess.

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

Ha, yeah, well, it’s true! I got the lowest math SAT score you can get. Who’d want me? Thank God L’Université de Genoviahas to accept me, on account of my family being its founder and major benefactor, and all.

You’re so lucky! A college with beaches! Can I come over for spring break? I promise to bring plenty of Penn hotties…Oops, gotta go, Fleener is breathing down my neck. What is UP with these pinheads? Don’t they realize we only have two weeks left at this place? Like our grades even MATTER anymore!

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

Ha, I know! Pinheads! Yeah! Tell me about it!

Thursday, April 27, French

Okay, it’s been four years since I started going to this place. And it still feels like all I ever do is lie.

And I don’t just mean to Lana or my parents, either. Now I’m lying toeveryone.

You would really think, after all this time, I’d be getting better about that.

But I found out the hard way—a little less than two years ago now, actually—what happens when you tell the truth.

And even though I still think I did the right thing—I mean, it did bring democracy to a country that has never known it before, and all—I’m not making that mistake again. I hurt so many people—especially people who I really care about—because I told the truth, I really think it’s better now just…well, to lie.

Not big lies. Just little white lies, which don’t hurt anybody. It’s not like I’m lying for personal gain.

But what am I going to do,admit I got into every college I applied to?

Oh, yeah, that would go over really well. How would all the people whodidn’t get into their first-choice colleges—especially those of them who deserved to…and that would be approximately eighty percent of the current AEHS graduating senior class—feel then?

Besides, you know what they’d say.

Sure,nice people—like Tina—would say that I’m lucky.

Like luck had anything to do with it! Unless you count the “luck” where my mom ran into my dad at that off-campus party where they met, instantly hated each other, which of course led inevitably to sexual tension and then tol’amour , and one broken condom later, to me.

And—despite Principal Gupta’s insistence—I’m not convinced hard work had very much to do with me getting in everywhere, either.

Okay…I did do really well in the writing and critical reading sections of my SATs. And my college app essays were good, too. (I’m not going to lie aboutthat , at least not in my own journal. I worked my butt off on those.)

I’ll admit, when your extracurriculars are,Single-handedly brought democracy to a country that otherwise had never known it before , andWrote a four-hundred-page novel for my senior project , it does look slightly impressive.

But I can be truthful tomyself : All those colleges I applied to? They only let me in because I’m a princess.

And it’s not that I’m not grateful. I know every single one of those schools will give me a wonderful, unique educational opportunity.

It’s just…it would have been nice for justone of those places to have accepted me for…well, forme , and not the tiara. If only I could have applied under my pen name—Daphne Delacroix—to know for sure.

Whatever. I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.

Well, not bigger than where I’m going to spend the next four—or more, if I goof off and don’t declare a major right away like Mom did—years of my life.

But there’s the whole thing with Dad. What if he doesn’t win the election? The election that wouldn’t even be happening if it weren’t for me telling the truth.

And Grandmère is so upset about the fact that René, of all people, is running against Dad—plus all the rumors that have been going around ever since I made Princess Amelie’s declaration public, like that our family was purposefully hiding Amelie’s declaration all along, so that the Renaldos could stay in power—that Dad has had to banish her to Manhattan and have her plan this stupid birthday party for me just to distract her so she’ll quit driving him insane with her constant barrage of, “But does this mean we’ll have to move out of the palace?”

She—like the readers ofteenSTYLE —can’t seem to understand that the Genovian palace—and royal family—are protected under Amelie’s declaration (and besides which are a major source of tourist income, just like the British royal family). I keep explaining to her, “Grandmère, no matter what happens in the election, Dad isalways going to be HRH Prince of Genovia, you’realways going to be HRH Dowager Princess, and I’malways going to be HRH Princess of Genovia. I’m still going to have to open new wings of the hospital, I’m still going to have to wear this stupid tiara and attend state funerals and diplomatic dinners…I’m just not going to make legislation. That will be the prime minister’s job. Dad’s job, hopefully. Got it?”

Only she never does.

I guess it’s the least I can do for Dad after what I did. Dealing with her, I mean. I figured, when I spilled the beans about this whole Genovia-is-really-a-democracy thing, he’d run for prime minister unopposed. I mean, with our apathetic population, who else would be interested in running?

I never dreamed the Contessa Trevanni would put up the money for her son-in-law to campaign against him.

I should have known. It’s not like René has ever had an actual job. And now that he and Bella have a baby, he’s got to dosomething , I suppose, besides change the Luvs disposables.

ButApplebee’s ? I suppose he’s getting a kickback from them, or whatever.

What’s going to happen if Genovia is overrun by chain restaurants and—my chest seriously gets tight when I think about this—turned into another Euro Disney?

What can I do to make this not happen?

Dad says to stay out of it—that I’ve done enough…

Yeah. Like that doesn’t make me feeltoo guilty.

It’s all just so exhausting.

Not to mention all this other stuff. Like it even matters, in comparison to what’s going on with Dad and Genovia, but…well, it kind of does. I mean, Dad and Genovia are facing all these changes, and so am I.

The only difference is, they aren’tlying about it, the way I am. Well, okay, sure, Dad’s lying about why Grandmère is in New York (to plan my birthday party, when really, she’s here because he can’t stand having her around).

That’sone lie. I havemultiple lies. Lies layered upon lies.

Mia Thermopolis’s List of Big Fat Lies She’s Been Telling Everyone:

Lie Number One: Well, of course, first, there’s the lie that I didn’t get into all those colleges. (No one knows the truth but me. And Principal Gupta. And my parents, of course.)

Lie Number Two: Then there’s the lie about my senior project. I mean, that it wasn’tactually on the history of Genovian olive oil pressing, circa 1254–1650, which is what I’ve told everyone (except Ms. Martinez, of course, who was my advisor, and who actually read it…or at least the first eighty pages of it, since I noticed she stopped correcting my punctuation after that. Of course Dr. K knows the truth, but he doesn’t count).

No one else even asked to read it, because who’d want to read a four-hundred-page paper on the history of Genovian olive oil pressing, circa 1254–1650?

Well, except for one person.

But I don’t want to talk about that right now.

Lie Number Three: Then there’s the lie that I just told Lana, about how I can’t go prom dress shopping with her because I’m busy hanging out with John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy IV after school today, when the truth is—Well. That’s not theonly reason why I’m not going prom dress shopping with her. I don’t want to get into it with her, because I know what she’ll say. And I just don’t feel like dealing with La Lana right now.

Only Dr. Knutz knows the exact extent of my lies. He says he’s prepared to clear his schedule for the day when they all blow up in my face, as he’s warned me is inevitably going to happen.

And he says I better do it soon, because next week is our last session.

He’s mentioned it would be far better if I just came clean—confess the truth about having been admitted to every college to which I applied (for some reason, he thinks itisn’t necessarily just because I’m a princess), tell everyone what my senior project isreally about, including the one person who wants to read it…even fess up about the prom.

If you ask me, a good place for me to start telling the truth would be in Dr. K’s office—with telling Dr. K that I thinkhe ’s the one in need of therapy. Yeah, he pretty much came to the rescue when I was going through one of the darkest periods of my life (though he made me do all the real work to climb out of that black hole myself).

But he has to be nuts to think I’m simply going to start blurting out the cold hard truth to everyone like that.

It’s just thatso many people would beso hurt if I suddenly started telling the truth. Dr. K was there when the fallout happened after the Princess Amelie revelation. My dad and Grandmère were in his office forhours afterward. It wasawful . I don’t want that to happen again.

Not that my friends would end up in my therapist’s office. But Kenny Showalter—oh, sorry,Kenneth , as he wants to be known now—wanted to go to Columbia more than anything, but instead got into his second-choice school of MIT. MIT is a fantastic school, but try telling Kenny—I mean, Kenneth—that. I guess the fact that he’ll be separated from his one true love, Lilly—whowill be going to Columbia, just like her brother—is what’s bothering him about MIT, which is in Massachusetts.

And then there’s Tina, who didn’t get intoher first choice of Harvard—butdid get into NYU. So she’s kind of happy, because Boris didn’t get into his first choice of Berklee, which is in Boston. Instead, he got into Juilliard, which is in New York City. So that means Tina and Boris will at least be going to colleges in the same city. Even if they aren’t their first-choice colleges.

Oh, and Trisha is going to Duke. And Perin is going to Dartmouth. And Ling Su is going to Parsons. And Shameeka is going to Princeton.

Still. None of them is their first-choice college. (Lilly wanted to go to Harvard.) And no one who wanted to go to school together got into the same place!

Including me and J.P. Well, except that we did. But he doesn’t know that. Because I told him I didn’t.

I couldn’t help it! When everyone was checking online, and all the envelopes were coming, and no one was getting into their first-choice schools and everyone was finding out they were going to be one or even two states apart, and they were all crying and carrying on, I just…I don’t know what came over me. I felt so badly about getting in everywhere, I blurted out, “I didn’t get in anywhere, either!”

It was just easier that way than telling the truth, and having someone get their feelings hurt. Even though my lie made J.P. turn pale and swallow resolutely and put his arm around me, and say, “It’s all right, Mia. We’ll get through this. Somehow.”

So, yes. I suck.

But it wasn’t like my lie was all that unbelievable. With my math SAT score? Ishouldn’t have gotten in anywhere.

And, honestly? How can I tell anyone the truthnow ? I can’t. I just can’t.

Dr. K says this is the cowardly way of dealing with things. He says that I’m a brave woman, just like Eleanor Roosevelt and Princess Amelie, and that I can easily surmount these obstacles (such as having lied to everyone).

But there are just ten more days of school to go! Anyone can fake anything for ten days. Grandmère’s faked having eyebrows for the entire time I’ve known her—

Mia! You’re writing in your journal! I haven’t seen you do that inages !

Oh. Hi, Tina. Yeah. Well, yeah, I told you. I was busy with my senior project.

I’ll say. You’ve been working on it for the pasttwo years , almost! I had no idea the history of Genovian olive oil pressing was that fascinating.

It is, believe me! As the main export of Genovia, olive oil and its manufacture is an extremely interesting subject.

I can’t believe myself. Listen to me! How sad can I sound???As the main export of Genovia, olive oil and its manufacture is an extremely interesting subject ?

If only Tina knew what my book was really about! Tina woulddie if she knew I’d written a four-hundred-page historical romance…Tinaadores romances!

But I can’t tell her. I mean, it obviously isn’t any good if I can’t get it published.

If only she had asked to read it…but who’dwant to read about olive oil and its manufacture?

Okay, well,one person.

But he was just being nice. Honestly. That’s the only reason.

And I can’t actually send him a copy. Because then he’ll see what it’sreally about.

And I’ll die.

Mia. Are you all right?

Of course! Why do you ask?

I don’t know. Because you’ve been acting sort of…funny the closer we’ve gotten to graduation. And as your best friend, I just thought I’d ask. I know you didn’t get into any of the colleges you applied to, but surely your dad can pull a few strings, right? I mean, he’s still a prince—not to mention, soon to be the prime minister! Well, hopefully. He’s sure to beat that jerk, Prince René. I just know your dad could get you into NYU…and then we could be roomies!

Well…we’ll see! I’m trying not to worry about it too much.

You? Not worry? I’m surprised you haven’t had your nose stuck in that journal for the past six months. Anyway, what’s this Lana tells me about you not wanting to go prom dress shopping with us this afternoon? She says you’re going to J.P.’s play rehearsal?

Wow, news travels fast around this place. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like any of us seniors is actually going to do any work the last two weeks of school.

Uh-huh. Gotta support my man!

Right. Except didn’t J.P. forbid you from attending all rehearsals of his play, because he wants you to be completely surprised by the show when you see it opening night? So…what’sreally going on, Mia?

Great. Dr. K was right. It’s all blowing up in my face. Or starting to, at least.

Well, all right. If I’m going to start telling people the truth I might as well begin with Tina…sweet, nonjudgmental, always-there-for-me Tina, my best friend and total confidante.

Right?

Actually, I’m not sure I’m going to the prom.

WHAT? Why? Mia, are you taking some kind of feminist stand against dances? Did Lilly put you up to this? I thought you guys still weren’t even speaking.

We’re speaking! You know we’re speaking. We’re…civil to each other. I mean, we have to be, since she’s the editor for theAtom this year. And no one has updated ihatemiathermopolis.com in almost two years. You know I think she still feels kind of bad about all that. Maybe.

Well—I guess so. I mean, she never did update it again after that day she was so awful to you in the caf. Maybe, whatever it was Lilly was so mad at you about, she got it out of her system that day.

Right. Either that, or she’s just totally preoccupied with theAtom . And Kenny, of course. I mean, Kenneth.

I know! It’s sweet Lilly’s managed to stick with one guy for so long. But I honestly wish they wouldn’t make out in front of me in Advanced Bio. I don’t want to see that much of anyone’s tongue. Especially now that she’s pierced it. But none of this explains why you’re not going to the prom!

Well, the truth is…J.P. hasn’t actually asked me to go. And I’m fine with that because I don’t want to go.

Is that all? Oh, Mia! Of course J.P. is going to ask you! I’m sure he’s just been so busy with his play—and figuring out what FANTASTIC thing he’s going to give you for your birthday—he hasn’t gotten around to thinking about the prom yet. Do you want me to have Boris say something to him about it?

Ack! Ack, ack, ack, ack.

Also, why me?

Oh, yes, Tina, yes, I do. Yes, I want you to have your boyfriend remind my boyfriend to ask me to the prom. Because that’s super romantic, and just how I always envisioned getting my invitation to the senior prom—via someone else’s boyfriend.

I see what you mean. Oh, dear, what a mess. And this was supposed to be our special time—youknow.

Wait…

Can Tina actually be talking about…

She is. She actuallyis .

She’s referring to that thing we used to talk about during our sophomore year.

You know, that losing-our-virginity-on-prom-night thing.

Doesn’t Tina realize a lot of time has passed—and a lot of water gone under the bridge—since we sat in class when we were in tenth grade and fantasized about our perfect prom nights?

She can’t possibly think I still feel the same way about it that I did back then.

I’m not the same person I was back then.

And I’m certainly notwith the same person I was then. I mean, I’m with J.P. now—

And J.P. and I…

It’s too late now for J.P. to make reservations for a room for after-prom at the Waldorf. Last I heard, they had no rooms left.

Oh my God! She’s serious!

It’s official: I’m freaking out now.

But he can probably get a room somewhere else. I hear the W is really nice. I just can’t believe he hasn’t asked you! What’swrong with him? This just isn’t like him, you know. Is everything all right between you two? You didn’t have a fight or anything, did you?

I seriously can’t believe this is happening. This isway too weird.

Should I tell her?

I can’t tell her. Can I?

…No.

No, no fight. There’s just been a lot of stuff going on with finals coming up and our projects and graduation and the election and my birthday and all. I think he really just forgot. And didn’t you read my earlier text, Tina? I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THE PROM.

Don’t be silly, of course you do. Who doesn’t want to go to her senior prom? And why didn’tyou askhim ? This isn’t the 1800s. Girls can ask guys to the prom, you know. I know it’s not the same, but you two have been going out for, like, forever! You’re a little more than just friends, even if you still haven’t…well,you know …yet. I mean…you haven’t…have you?

Awwww…she still calls itYou Know ! That’s so cute I could die.

Still. Tina brings up some good points. Whydidn’t I ask him? When the ads for the prom started appearing in theAtom , why didn’t I clip one out and stick it on J.P.’s locker door withAre we going to this? written on it?

Why didn’t I just ask him, point-blank, if we were going to the prom, when everybody else was talking about it at lunch? It’s true J.P.’s been distracted with his play and Stacey Cheeseman sucking so majorly in it (it would probably help if he weren’t always rewriting it and giving her new lines to memorize).

I easily could have gotten a yes or no answer out of him.

And, of course, because he’s J.P., it would have been a yes.

Because J.P., unlike my last boyfriend, has nothing against the prom.

The thing is, I don’t need to check in with Dr. K to figure out why I didn’t ask J.P. about the prom. It isn’t exactly a mystery. To Tina, maybe, but not to me.

But I don’t want to get into that right now.

You know, prom’s not that big a deal to me anymore, T. It’s really kind of lame. I actually wouldn’t mind blowing it off. So why waste time shopping for some dress I might not ever wear? You guys have fun shopping without me. I have stuff to do anyway.

Stuff. When am I going to stop calling my novel “stuff”? Seriously, if there’s one person in the world I can be honest about it with, it’s Tina. Tina wouldn’t laugh if I told her I’d written a novel…especially aromance novel. Tina is the person who introduced me to romance novels, who got me to appreciate them and realize how fabulously cool they are, not just as an introduction into the publishing world (although more of them are published than any other genre, so your chances of getting published are statistically higher if you write a romance as opposed to, say, a science fiction novel), but because they’re the perfect story. You have a strong female protagonist, a compelling male lead, a conflict that keeps them apart, and then, after a lot of nail-biting, a satisfying conclusion…the ultimate happy ending.

Why would anyone want to write anything else, really?

If Tina knew I wrote a romance, she’d ask to read it—especially if she knew it was about somethingother than the history of Genovian olive oil presses, a subject no rational person would want to read about….

Well, except one person.

Which, really, every time I think about it, I want to start crying, because it’s just about the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Or e-mailed me, actually, because that’s how Michael sent it to me…his request to read my senior project, I mean. We only randomly e-mail a couple of times a month, anyway, keeping it strictly light and impersonal, like that first message I sent him after he broke up with me: “Hi, how are you? Things are fine, it’s snowing here, isn’t that weird? Well, I have to go, bye.”

I’d been shocked when he’d been all, “Your senior project’s on the history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650? Cool, Thermopolis. Can I read it?”

You could have knocked me over with one of Lana’s pom-poms. Becauseno one had asked to read my senior project. No one. Not even Mom. I thought I’d picked such a safe subject, I was safe fromanybody asking to read it.

Ever.

And here was Michael Moscovitz, all the way in Japan (where he’s been for the past two years, slaving away on his robotic arm—which I’m so sure is never going to get done, I’ve given up asking about it, since it doesn’t seem polite to bring it up anymore, since he barely acknowledges the question), asking to read it.

I told him it was four hundred pages long.

He said he didn’t care.

I told him it was single-spaced and in 9-point font.

He said he’d enlarge it when it came.

I told him it was really boring.

And he said he didn’t believe anything I wrote could be boring.

That’s when I stopped e-mailing him back.

What else could I do? I couldn’t send it to him! Yeah, I can send it to publishers I’ve never even met before. But not my ex-boyfriend! Not Michael! I mean…it’s gotsex in it!

It’s just…how could hesay that? That he didn’t believe anything I wrote could be boring? What was hetalking about? Ofcourse something I wrote could be boring! The history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650. That’s boring! That’s really, really boring!

And okay, that’s not what my book is really about.

But still! He doesn’t know that.

How could hesay something like that? Howcould he? That’s not the kind of thing exes—or even mere friends—say to each other.

And that’s all we’re supposed to be now.

Anyway. Whatever.

It’s not like I can show it to Tina, either, and she’s mybest friend. Although I don’t know what I’m so embarrassed about, really. There are people who slap their novels all over the Internet, begging other people to read them.

But I can’t do that. I don’t know why. Except…

Well, Iknow why: I’m afraid Tina—not to mention Michael, or J.P., orwho ever, really—might not like it.

Just like every single publisher I’ve sent it to hasn’t liked it. Well, except AuthorPress.

But they want me to pay THEM to publish it! REAL publishers are supposed to pay YOU!!

Of course, Ms. Martinez claimed to like it.

But I’m not convinced she even read the whole thing.

The thing is, what if I’m wrong, and I’m a terrible writer? What if I just wasted almost two years of my life? I know everybodythinks I did, writing about Genovian olive oil presses.

But what if Ireally did?

Oh, no. Tina is still texting me about the prom!

Mia! Prom isn’t lame! What’s wrong with you? You’re not going through a depression thingie again, are you?

“Depression thingie.” Great.

Okay. I can’t fight Tina. I can’t. She’s a force too strong for me.

No! No depression thingie. Tina, I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Senioritis, I guess—the same thing that’s keeping all of us from paying attention in class. I just meant—forget it. I’ll talk to J.P. about the prom.

Do you mean it???? You really will????? You’re not just saying that????

Yes, I’ll ask him. I’m sorry. I just have a lot of stuff on my mind.

And you’ll go shopping with us today after school?

Oh, man. I so don’t want to go shopping with them today after school. Anything but that. I’d takeprincess lessons over that.

Wow. I can’t believe I just wrote that.

Yeah. Sure. Why not.

YAY! We’re going to have so much fun! Don’t worry, we’ll make you forget ALL about what’s going on with your dad—eep!

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Wow. Madame Wheeton has been on thewarpath this month.

I swear they’re going to take away all our iPhones and Sidekicks one of these days.

Except, if you ask me, the teachers all have senioritis, too, because they’ve been threatening for weeks, and so far nobody’s actually carried out that threat.

Thursday, April 27, Psychology

Okay! So I told someone the truth about something…

And nothing earth-shattering happened (well, except that Madame Wheeton flipped out over finding us texting each other while she was trying to do her review session for the final).

I told Tina the truth about J.P. not having asked me to the prom…and my not really wanting to go anyway. And nothing earth-shattering happened. Tina didn’t faint dead away.

She did try to convince me I’m wrong, of course.

But what else did I expect? Tina is such a romantic, of course she thinks the prom is the height of teen l’amour.

I know there was a time when I thought so, too. All I have to do is look through the pages of my old journals. I used to becrazy for the prom. I would sooner have DIED than missed it.

I guess in a way I wish I could recapture that old excitement.

But we all have to grow up one day.

And the truth is, I really don’t see what the big deal is about going to a dinner (rubbery chicken and wilted lettuce under disgusting dressing) and dance (to bad music) at the Waldorf (which I’ve been to a million times before anyway, most notably last time where I gave a speech that may have ruined my family’s reputation, not to mention my native country, for all time).

I just wish—

AHHHHH!!!! God, Ihave to get used to that thing vibrating in my pocket….

Ameliaaaaaaa—I need an updated guesssssst list from you for Mondayyyyyy. I’m quite put outtttttttt.Everyone I’ve invited has RSVP’d yesssssss, according to Vigo. Even your cousin Hankkkkkkkkkkkk is coming in from the Milan shows to attend. And I just heard from your motherrrrrrrr that your dreadful grandparents from Indianaaaaaaaaaa will be flying into town for the event. I am most upset about thisssssssss. Of course they had to be invited, but I never expected them actually to sayyesssssssssssss . It’s all most disturbing…I may need for you to disinvite a few of your guests. You know the yacht only holds three hundred comfortably. Call me immediately.—Clarisse, your grandmotherrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

God! Why did Dad get Grandmère a BlackBerry? Is he trying to ruin my life? And who, exactly, was stupid enough to show her how touse it? I could kill Vigo.

Bystander effect—a psychological phenomenon in which someone is less likely to intervene in an emergency situation when other people are present and able to help than when he or she is alone. See Kitty Genovese case, in which a young woman was brutally attacked within hearing of a dozen neighbors, but none of them called the police, each thinking someone else would do it.

HOMEWORK

World History: Whatever

English Lit: Bite me

Trig: God, I hate this class

G&T: I know Boris is playing at Carnegie Hall for his senior project, but WHY WON’T HE STOP ALREADY WITH THE CHOPIN?????

French:J’ai mal à la tête

Psychology II: I can’t believe I even bother taking notes in this class. I have lived this class.

Thursday, April 27, Jeffrey

Great.

J.P. saw us in the hallway heading out toward the limo and was all, “Where are you girls going, looking so happy?” and Lars went, before I could stop him, “Prom dress shopping.”

And then Lana and Tina and Shameeka and Trisha looked at J.P. expectantly with their eyebrows raised, like,Hello? Prom? Remember? Did you forget something? Would you like to ask your girlfriend to go with you?

I guess news travels fast. The part about J.P. not having asked me to the prom, I mean. Thanks, Tina!

Not that she doesn’t mean well.

Of course J.P. just smiled at us tolerantly and went, “Well, have fun, girls, Lars.” Then he kept walking toward the auditorium, where he was holding play rehearsal.

They were all totally flabbergasted—Lana and those guys, I mean. That he didn’t smack himself in the forehead and go, “D’oh! Prom! Of course!” Then drop to one knee and take my hands tenderly in his and ask me to forgive him for being a churlish lout and beg me to go with him.

But I told them they shouldn’t be so shocked. I don’t take it personally. J.P. can’t think aboutanything but his play,A Prince Among Men.

Which I totally understand, because when I was writing my book, I felt the same way. I couldn’t think aboutanything else. Every chance I got, I just curled up in bed with my laptop and with Fat Louie at my side (he proved to besuch an excellent writing cat) andwrote.

I mean, that’s why I didn’t keep up with my journal, or anything, not for almost two whole years. It’s hard, when you’re really concentrating on a creative project, to keep your mind on anything else.

Or at least it was for me.

Which, in a way, I guess, was why Dr. K suggested it. That I write a book. To get my mind off…well, other things.

Or other people.

And it wasn’t like I had anythingelse to do, since my parents took away my TV, and it was really hard to watch my shows out in the living room. It’s kind of embarrassing to veg out in front ofToo Young to Be So Fat: The Shocking Truth when people know you’re watching it.

Anyway, writing my book was great therapy, because it really worked. I didn’t feel like writing in my journal once while I was writing and researching it. Everything just went intoRansom My Heart .

Now that the book’s done, of course (and getting rejected everywhere), I suddenly find myself wanting to write in my journal again.

Is that a good thing? I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe I should write another book instead.

So I’m just saying I understand J.P.’s preoccupation with his play.

The thing is, unlike me, J.P. has a solid chance of actually gettingPrince produced, at least off-Broadway, because his dad is such a mover and shaker in the theater world, and all.

And Stacey Cheeseman has done all those Gap Kids commercials, and had that part in that Sean Penn movie. J.P.’s even got Andrew Lowenstein, Brad Pitt’s third cousin’s nephew, playing the part of the male lead. The thing is bound to be HUGE. I hear, from people who’ve seen it, it might even have Hollywood potential.

But, back to the whole prom thing: It’s not like I don’t know J.P. loves me. He tells me so, like, ten times a day—

Oh, God, I forgot how annoyed everyone gets when I start writing in my journal instead of paying attention to what’s going on. Lana is making me try on a strapless Badgley Mischka now.

Look, I get the fashion thing now. I do. How you look on the outside is a reflection of how you feel about yourself on the inside. If you let yourself go—not washing your hair, wearing the same clothes you slept in all day or clothes that don’t fit or are out of style—that says, “I do not care about myself. And you shouldn’t care about me either.”

You have to Make An Effort, because that says to other people I Am Worth Getting To Know. Your clothes don’t have to beexpensive . You just have to look good in them.

I realize that now, and acknowledge that in the past, I may have slacked off in that area (although I still wear my overalls at home on the weekends when no one is around).

And since I’ve stopped binge eating, my weight has stopped fluctuating, and I’m back down to a B cup.

So I get the fashion thing. I do.

But honestly—why does Lana think I look good in purple? Just because it’s the color of royalty doesn’t mean it looks good on every royal! Not to be mean, but has anyone taken a good look at Queen Elizabeth lately? She so needs neutral colors.

An excerpt fromRansom My Heart by Daphne Delacroix

Shropshire, England, 1291

Hugo stared down at the lovely apparition swimming naked below him, his thoughts a jumble in his head. Foremost amongst them was the question,Who is she?,though he knew the answer to that. Finnula Crais, the miller’s daughter. There had been a family of that name in villenage to his father, Hugo remembered.

This, then, must be one of their offspring. But what was this miller about, allowing a defenseless maid to roam the countryside unescorted and dressed in such provocative garb—or completely undressed, as the case now stood?

As soon as Hugo arrived at Stephensgate Manor, he would send for the miller, and see to it that the girl was better protected in the future. Did the man not ken the riffraff that traveled the roads these days, the footpads and cutthroats and despoilers of young women such as the one below him?

So fixed was Hugo upon his musings that for a moment, he did not realize that the maid had paddled out of view. Where the waterfall cascaded, the pool below was out of his line of vision, being blocked off by the rock outcropping on which he lay. He assumed that the girl had ducked beneath the waterfall, perhaps to rinse her hair.

Hugo waited, pleasantly anticipating the girl’s reappearance. He wondered to himself whether the chivalrous thing to do was to creep away now, without drawing attention to himself, then meet up with her again upon the road, as if by accident, and offer her escort home to the Stephensgate.

It was as he was deciding that he heard a soft sound behind him, and then suddenly, something very sharp was at his throat, and someone very light was astride his back.

It was with an effort that Hugo controlled his soldierly instinct to strike first and question later.

But he had never before felt so slim an arm circle his neck, nor such slight thighs straddle his back. Nor had his head ever been jerked against such a temptingly soft cushion.

“Stay perfectly still,” advised his captor, and Hugo, enjoying the warmth from her thighs and, more particularly, the softness of the hollow between her breasts, where she kept the back of his head firmly anchored, was happy to oblige her.

“I’ve a knife at your throat,” the maid informed him in her boyishly throaty voice, “but I won’t use it unless I have to. If you do as I say, you shan’t be harmed. Do you understand?”

Thursday, April 27, 7 p.m., the loft

Daphne Delacroix

1005 Thompson Street, Apt. 4A

New York, NY 10003

Dear Author,

Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your manuscript. However, it does not suit our needs at the present time.

Not even a signature! Thanks for nothing.

I just walked in the door and Mom wants to know why someone named Daphne Delacroix keeps getting all this mail from publishing houses addressed to our apartment.

Busted!

I thought about lying to her, too, but there’s no point, really. She’s going to catch me eventually, especially ifRansom My Heart does get published someday, and I build my own wing onto the Royal Genovian Hospital, or whatever.

Okay, well, I have no idea how much published novelists get paid, but I heard the forensic mystery writer Patricia Cornwell bought a helicopter with her book money.

Not that I need a helicopter, because I have my own jet (well, Dad does).

So I was just like, “I sent out my book under a fake name just to see if I could get it published.”

My mom already suspects what I wrote wasn’t a really long history paper. I couldn’t lie toher about it. She saw me in my room, listening to theMarie Antoinette movie sound-track with my headphones on and Fat Louie by my side, typing away all the time…well, whenever I wasn’t at school, princess lessons, therapy, or out with Tina or J.P.

I know it’s bad to lie to your own mother. But if I told her what my book wasreally about, she’d want to read it.

And there’sno way I want Helen Thermopolis reading what I actually wrote. I mean, sex scenes and your mother? No, thank you.

“Well,” Mom said, pointing to my letter. “What did they say?”

“Oh,” I said. “Not interested.”

“Hmmm,” Mom said. “It’s a tough market these days. Especially for a history on Genovian olive oil presses.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

God, what if TMZ got hold of the truth about me? What a liar I am, I mean? What kind of role model am I? I make Vanessa Hudgens look like Mother Freaking Teresa. Minus the whole nudity thing. Because I’m not about to take naked photos of myself and send them to my boyfriend.

Thankfully it was kind of hard to have a conversation with Mom because Mr. G was practicing his drums, with Rocky banging along on his toy drum set.

When he saw me, Rocky dropped his drumsticks and ran over to throw his arms around my knees, screaming, “Meeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh!”

It’s nice to be able to come home to someone who’s always happy to see you, even if it’s an almost three-year-old.

“Yeah, hi, I’m home,” I said. It’s no joke trying to walk with a toddler attached to you. “What’s for dinner?”

“It’s two-for-one pizza night at Tre Giovanni,” Mr. Gianini said, hanging up his sticks. “How can you even ask?”

“Where were you?” Rocky wanted to know.

“I had to go shopping with my friends,” I said.

“But you din’t buy anything,” Rocky said, looking at my empty hands.

“I know,” I explained, heading to the kitchen drawer where we keep the silverware with him still attached to me. It’s my job to set the table. I may be a princess, but I still have chores. That’s one thing we established during family sessions with Dr. K. “That’s because we went prom dress shopping, and I’m not going to the prom, because it’s lame.”

“Since when is the prom lame?” Mr. Gianini wanted to know, wrapping a towel around his neck. Drumming can make you sweaty, as I know all too well, from the small damp person attached to my legs.

“Since she became a bitingly sarcastic, soon-to-be college girl,” Mom said, pointing at me. “Speaking of which, family meeting after dinner. Oh, hello.”

She said this last part into the phone, then gave Tre our standard order of two medium pies, one all meat for herself and Mr. G, and one all cheese, for Rocky and me. I’m back on the vegetarian bandwagon. Well, I’m really more of a flexatarian…I don’t order meat for myself except in times of extreme stress when I need a quick source of high protein, such as beef tacos (so irresistible, though I try to abstain). But when someone else serves meat to me—for instance, at last week’s meeting of the Domina Rei—I’ll eat it to be polite.

“Family meeting about what?” I demanded, when Mom hung up.

“You,” she said. “Your father’s scheduled a conference call.”

Great. There’s really nothing I look forward to more than a nice call from my dad in Genovia in the evening. That’s always a big guarantee a good time will be had by all. Not.

“What did I do now?” I wanted to know. Because, seriously, I haven’t done anything (except lie to everyone I know about…well, everything). But other than that, I’m always home by curfew, and it isn’t even because I have a bodyguard who basically ensures it, either. My boyfriend is way conscientious. J.P. doesn’t want to get on the bad side of my father (or mother or stepfather), and when we get together, he freaks if I’m not on my way home a half hour before I’m supposed to be, and so he literally hurls me into Lars’s arms every time.

So whatever Dad’s calling about—I didn’t do it.

Not this time, anyway.

I went to my room to visit Fat Louie before the pizzas came. I worry about him so much. Because let’s just say I do choose to make everyone I know furious with me, and go to a college in the U.S. instead of L’Université de Genovia, which really no one but the sons and daughters of celebrity plastic surgeons and dentists who couldn’t get in anywhere else attends. (Spencer Pratt fromThe Hills probably would have gone there, if he hadn’t leached his way on to his girlfriend’s ex-friend’s TV show.Lana probably would have had to go there, if I hadn’t forced her to make studying, not getting onto lastnightsparty.com, a priority her junior year.)

The thing is, none of the colleges I got into has dorms that let you bring your cat. Which means if I go there and I want to bring Fat Louie, I’ll have to live off-campus. So I won’t meet anyone, and I’ll be a bigger social leper than I would be otherwise.

But how can I leave Fat Louie behind? He’s afraid of Rocky…understandably, because Rocky adores Fat Louie and every time he sees him he runs and tries to grab him and pick him up and squeeze him, which has given Fat Louie, of course, a complex, because he doesn’t like being grabbed and squeezed.

So now Fat Louie just stays in my room (which Rocky is forbidden from entering because he messes with my Buffy the Vampire Slayer action figures) when I’m not around to protect him.

And if I go off to college, that means Fat Louie’ll just be hiding in my room for four years with no one to sleep with him and scratch him under the ears the way he likes.

That’s just wrong.

Oh, sure, Momsays that he can move into her room (which Rocky is also forbidden from entering—unsupervised, anyway—because he’s obsessed with her makeup and once ate one of her entire Lancome Au Currant Velvet lipsticks, so she had to put one of those slippy things on her doorknob, too).

But I don’t know if Fat Louie will really like sleeping with Mr. G, who snores.

My phone! It’s J.P.

Thursday, April 27, 7:30 p.m., the loft

J.P. wanted to know how prom dress shopping went. I lied to him, of course. I was like, “Great!”

Our conversation slipped into the Twilight Zone from there.

“Did you get anything?” he wanted to know.

I couldn’t believe he was asking. I was truly shocked. You know, what with the wholehis having neglected to ask me to the prom thing, and all. Silly me, to assume we weren’t going.

I said, “No…”

My shock grew beyond all bounds when he then went on to say, “Well, when you do, you have to let me know what color it is, so I’ll know what color corsage to get you.”

Hello?

“Wait,” I said. “So…we’regoing to the prom?” J.P. actually laughed. “Of course!” he said. “I’ve had the tickets for weeks now.”

!!!!!!!!!

Then, when I didn’t laugh along with him, he stopped laughing, and said, “Wait. Weare going, aren’t we, Mia?”

I was so stunned, I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I—

I love J.P. I do!

It’s just that for some reason, I don’t love the idea of going to the prom with J.P.

Only I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to explain that to him without hurting his feelings. Telling him that I thought the prom was lame, like I’d said to Tina, didn’t seem like it was going to cut it.

Especially since he’d just admitted he’d had the tickets for weeks. And those things aren’t cheap.

Instead I heard myself muttering, “I don’t know. You…you never asked.”

Which istrue . I mean, I was telling thetruth . Dr. K would have been proud of me.

But all J.P. said to this was, “Mia! We’ve been going out for almost two years. I didn’t think I had to ask.”

I didn’t think I had to ask?

I couldn’t believe he said this. Even if it’s true, well…a girl still wants to be asked! Right?

I don’t think I’m the girliest girl in the world—I don’t have fake nails (anymore) and I don’t diet or anything, even though I’m far from the skinniest girl for my height in our class. I’m WAY less girlie than Lana. And I’m aprincess.

But still. If a guy wants to take a girl to the prom, he shouldask her…

…even if they have been dating exclusively for almost two years.

Because she might not want to go.

Really, is it me? Am I asking too much? I don’t think so.

But maybe I am. Maybe expecting to be asked to the prom, rather than just assuming I’m going, is too much.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore, I guess. J.P. must have realized from my silence that he’d said the wrong thing. Because finally, he said, “Wait…Are you saying that Ido have to ask?”

I said, “Um.” Because I didn’t know what to say! A part of me was like,Yeah! Yeah, you should have asked! But another part of me was like,You know what, Mia? Don’t rock the boat.You’re graduating in ten days. TEN DAYS. Just let it go.

On the other hand, Dr. K told me to start telling the truth. I’d already not lied to Tina today. I figured I might as well stop lying to my boyfriend, too. So…

“It’d have been nice if you’d asked,” I heard myself say, to my own horror.

J.P. did the strangest thing then:

He laughed!

Really. Like he thought that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“Isthat how it is?” he asked.

What wasthat supposed to mean?

I had no idea what he was talking about. He sounded a little bit crazy, which wasn’t at all like J.P. I mean, true, he does make me sit through a lot of Sean Penn films, because Sean Penn is his new favorite actor/director.

I have nothing against Sean Penn. I don’t even mind that he ended up divorcing Madonna. I mean, I still like Shia LaBeouf even though he chose to star inTransformers, which turned out to be a movie about robots from space.

That talk.

Which is just as bad as choosing to divorce Madonna, if you ask me.

Still. That doesn’t mean J.P. is crazy. Even though he was laughing like that.

“I know you bought tickets,” I said, going on as if I didn’t actually suspect him of a cognitive imbalance. “So I’ll pay you back for mine. Unless you want to take someone else.”

“Mia!” J.P. stopped laughing all of a sudden. “I don’t want to take anyone but you! Who else would I want to take?”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just saying. It’s your senior prom, too. You should ask who you want.”

“I’m askingyou ,” J.P. said, sounding grumbly, which he used to do sometimes when he felt like going out, and I felt like staying in and writing. Only I couldn’t tell him that’s what I was doing, because of course he didn’t know I was writing a real book, and not just a paper for my senior project.

“Are you?” I asked, a little surprised. “You’re asking me right now?”

“Well, not right this minute,” J.P. said quickly. “I realize I may have fallen down in the romantic prom invitation department. I plan to do it right. So expect an invitation soon. A real invitation that you won’t be able to resist.”

I have to admit, my heart kind of sped up when I heard this. And not in a happy, oh-he’s-so-sweet kind of way, either. More in like a oh-no-what’s-he-going-to-do sort of way. Because I honestly couldn’t think of any way J.P. could ask me to the prom that could make dry chicken and bad music at the Waldorf at all appealing.

“Um,” I said. “You’re not going to do something that’s going to embarrass me in front of the whole school, are you?”

“No,” J.P. said, sounding taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“Well,” I said. I knew I probably sounded insane, but I had to say it. So I said it fast, to get it out. “I saw this Lifetime movie once where to make a grand romantic gesture this guy wearing a full suit of armor rode up to this woman’s office building to propose to her on a white horse. You know, because he wanted to be her knight in shining armor? You aren’t going to ride up to Albert Einstein High wearing a suit of armor on a white horse and ask me to the prom, are you? Because that would truly be about nineteen levels of wrong. Oh, and the guy couldn’t find a white horse so he painted a brown one white, which is cruelty to animals and also, the white paint rubbed off on the inside of his jeans, so when he got off the horse to kneel down to propose, he looked really dumb.”

“Mia,” J.P. said, sounding annoyed. Which, really, I guess I couldn’t blame him. “I’m not going to ride up to Albert Einstein High in a suit of armor on a horse painted white to ask you to the prom. I think I can manage to think of something a little more romantic thanthat .”

For some reason this assertion didn’t make me feel any better, though.

“You know, J.P.,” I said. “Prom is pretty lame. I mean, it’s just dancing at the Waldorf. We can do that anytime.”

“Not with all our friends,” J.P. pointed out. “Right before we all graduate and go off to different colleges and possibly never see one another ever again.”

“But we’re going to do that,” I reminded him, “at my birthday blowout on the Royal Genovian yacht Monday night.”

“True,” J.P. said. “But that won’t be the same. All your relatives are going to be there. And it’s not like we’ll really get a chance to be alone afterward.”

What was he talking about?

Oh…right. The paparazzi.

Wow. J.P.really wants to go to the prom. And do all the after-prom stuff, it sounds like.

I guess I can’t really blame him. Itis the last event we’ll ever attend as AEHS students, besides graduation, which the administration has cleverly scheduled for the next day, in order to avoid what happened last year, when a few seniors got so drunk at a downtown club they had to be admitted to St. Vincent’s for alcohol poisoning, after spray painting “The WMDs were hidden in my vagina” all over Washington Square Park. Principal Gupta seems to feel that if people know they have graduation the next day, they won’t let themselves getquite that intoxicated this year.

So I said, “Okay. Well, I look forward to the invitation.” Then I thought it might be better to change the subject, since we both seemed to be getting a little irritated with each other. “So. How did play rehearsal go?”

Then J.P. complained about Stacey Cheeseman’s inability to remember her lines for about five minutes until I said I had to go because the pizzas had come. But that was a lie (Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Four), since the pizzas hadn’t come.

The truth is, I’m scared. I know he’s not going to ride up to the school in a full suit of armor on a horse painted white in order to ask me to the prom, because he said he wouldn’t.

But he might do something equally embarrassing.

I love J.P.—I know I keep writing that, but it’s because I do. I don’t love himthe same way I loved Michael, it’s true, but I still love him. J.P. and I have so much in common with the writing thing, and we’re the same age, and Grandmère loves him and most of my friends (except Boris, for some reason) do too.

But sometimes I wish…God, I can’t believe I’m even writing this—but sometimes…

Well. I worry that my mom might be right. She’s the one who pointed out the fact that if I say I want to do something, J.P.always wants to do it, too. And if I say I don’t want to do something, healways agrees he doesn’t want to do it either.

The only time he hasn’t agreed with me, in fact, was when I used to say I didn’t want to hang out with him back when I was working on my book.

But that was just because he couldn’t be with me. It was so romantic, really. All the girls said so. Especially Tina, who would know. I mean, what girl wouldn’t want a boyfriend who wanted to be with herall the time, and always do whatever she wanted to do?

Mom was the only one who noticed this and asked me if it didn’t drive me crazy. And when I asked her what she meant, she said, “Dating a chameleon. Does he evenhave his own personality, or is it all about accommodating yours?”

That’s when we got into a huge argument about it. So huge we had to have an emergency therapy session with Dr. K.

She promised to keep her opinions about my love life to herself after that, since I pointed out I’ve never mentioned how I feel about hers. (Although, the truth is, I like Mr. G. Without him I wouldn’t have Rocky.)

I’ve totally never brought upthe other thing about J.P., though. Not to Dr. K, and certainly not to my mom.

For one thing, it would probably make my mom happy. And for another…well, no relationship is perfect, anyway. Look at Tina and Boris. Hestill tucks his sweaters into his pants, despite her repeated requests that he not do so. But they’re happy together. And Mr. G snores, but Mom solved that by wearing earplugs and using a white-noise machine.

I can deal with the fact that my boyfriend likes all the same things that I do and always wants to do everything that I do all the time.

It’s theother thing about him I’m not sure I can deal with….

And now the pizzas reallyare here so I have to go.

Friday, April 28, midnight, the loft

Okay. Deep breath. Calming down. It’s going to be fine.

Just fine. I’m sure of it! More than sure. A hundred percent positive everything is going to be—

Oh, God. Who am I kidding? I’m a wreck!

So…the family meeting turned out to be about a little more than just the election and Dad nagging me about which college I’m going to go to—in other words: It was a disaster.

It started out with Dad trying to give me a deadline: Election day. I’ve got until ED (also known as the prom) to decide where I’m going to spend the next four years of my life.

Then I’ve got to make a decision.

You’d think Dad would have more important things to worry about, what with René breathing down his neck in the polls.

Grandmère conferenced herself in, of course, and was giving her two cents (she wants me to go to Sarah Lawrence. Because that’s where she would have gone, back in the age of drawn-on pantyhose, if she’d gone to college instead of marrying Grandpère). We all tried to ignore her, just like in family therapy, but it’s impossible with Rocky around, because for some reason he loves Grandmère, even the sound of her voice (question: WHY?), and ran over to the phone and kept yelling, “Gwanmare, Gwanmare, you come over soon? Give Wocky big kiss?”

Can you imaginewanting that big wonk looming over you? She’s not even technically related to him (lucky kid).

Anyway, yeah. That’s what the big meeting was about—or at least, what itstarted off being about. Me deciding where I was going to go to school in eight days.

Thanks, guys! No pressure!

Dadsays he doesn’t care where I go, so long as I’m happy. But he’s made it more than clear that if I don’t go to an Ivy or Sarah Lawrence or one of the Seven Sisters, I might as well be committing hari-kari.

“Why don’t you go to Yale?” he kept saying. “Isn’t that where J.P. wants to go? You could go with him.”

Of course Yale is where J.P. wants to go, because they have the fantastic drama department.

Except I can’t go to Yale. It’s too far from Manhattan. What if something were to happen to Rocky or Fat Louie—a freak flash fire or building collapse?—and I had to get back to the loft fast?

Besides, J.P. thinks I’m going to L’Université de Genovia, and has already applied and resigned himself to going there with me. Even though L’Université de Genovia has no drama department and I explained to him that by going there he’s shooting all his own career aspirations in the foot. He said it didn’t matter, so long as we can be together.

I guess it actuallydoesn’t matter, since his dad will always be able to get his plays produced.

But anyway, none of that is what I’m freaking out about. It’s what happenedafterward.

It was after Grandmère had harangued me some more about the invitation list to my party—and said to Mr. G, “Do your niece and nephewhave to attend? Because you know if I could scratch them off I could make room for the Beckhams”—and then finally hung up that Dad said, “I think you ought to show it to her now,” and Mom said, “Really, Phillipe, I think you’re being just a tad dramatic, there’s no need for you to stay on the phone, I’ll give it to her later,” and Dad said, “I’m part of this family, too, and I want to be here to support her, even if I can’t actually be there in the flesh,” and Mom said, “You’re overreacting. But if you insist,” and she got up and went into her room.

And I went, starting to feel a bit nervous, “What’s going on?”

And Mr. G said, “Oh, nothing. Your dad just e-mailed something he saw on international business CNN.”

“And I want you to see it, Mia,” Dad said, through the speakerphone, “before someone tells you about it at school.”

And my heart sank, because I figured it was some new scheme of René’s to junk up Genovia in order to get more tourists to go there. Maybe he was going to put a Hard Rock Cafe in there, and try to get Clay Aiken to come and play at its grand opening.

Only it wasn’t. When Mom came out of her bedroom with a printout of what Dad e-mailed her, I saw that it had nothing to do with René at all.

It was this:

NEW YORK (AP)—Robotic arms are the future for surgery, and one in particular, dubbed the CardioArm, will be revolutionizing cardiac surgery, already making its creator—Michael Moscovitz, 21, of Manhattan—a very wealthy man.

His invention is being billed as the first surgical robot compatible with advanced imaging technology. Moscovitz spent two years leading a team of Japanese scientists designing CardioArm for his small company, Pavlov Surgical.

The stock of Pavlov Surgical, Moscovitz’s high-tech company with a monopoly on selling robotic surgical arms in the United States, has surged nearly 500 percent over the last year. Analysts believe that the rally is far from over.

That’s because demand for Moscovitz’s product is growing, and so far his small company has the market all to itself.

The surgical arm, which is controlled remotely by surgeons, was approved by the Food and Drug Administration for general surgery last year.

The CardioArm system is considered to be more precise and less invasive than traditional surgical tools that include small handheld surgical cameras inserted into the body during surgery. Recovery from surgery performed by the CardioArm system is considerably faster than recovery from traditional surgery.

“What you can do with the robotic arm—with the capabilities in manipulation and visualization—you just can’t do any other way,” said Dr. Arthur Ward, head of cardiology at Columbia University Medical Center.

There are already 50 CardioArms operating in American hospitals, with a waiting list of hundreds more, but with a price tag ranging from $1 million to $1.5 million, the systems don’t come cheap. Moscovitz has donated several CardioArm systems to children’s hospitals nationwide, and will be donating a new one to Columbia University Medical Center this weekend, a fact for which the university, his alma mater, is grateful.

“This is a highly perfected, highly sought-after, very unique technology,” said Ward. “In terms of robotics, CardioArm is the clear leader. Moscovitz has done something extraordinary for the field of surgical medicine.”

!!!!!!!!!!

Wow. The ex-girlfriend is always the last to know.

But whatever. It’s not like this changes anything.

I mean, so what? So Michael’s genius is universally acknowledged, the way it always should have been. He deserves all the money and acclaim. He worked really hard for it. I knew he was going to save children’s lives, and now he’s doing it.

I just…I guess I just…

Well, I just can’t believe he didn’t tell me!

On the other hand, what was he going to say in his last e-mail, exactly? “Oh, by the way, my robotic surgical arm is a huge success, it’s saving lives nationwide, and my company has the fastest-trading stock on Wall Street?”

Oh, no, that wouldn’t be too braggy.

And anyway,I’m the one who freaked out and stopped e-mailing him when he asked if he could read my senior project. For all I know, maybe hewas going to mention that his CardioArm is selling for $1.5 million a pop and has a stronghold on the robotic-surgical-arm market.

Or, “I’m coming back to America and donating one of my robotic surgical arms to Columbia University Medical Center on Saturday, so maybe I’ll see you.”

I just never gave him the chance, being the super rude one who never wrote back after the last time we corresponded.

And for all I know, Michael’s been back to America a dozen times since we broke up, to visit his family and whatnot. Why would he mention it to me? It’s not like we’re going to get together for coffee or anything. We’re broken up.

And hello, I already have a boyfriend.

It’s just…in the article, it said, Michael Moscovitz, 21, ofManhattan. Not Tsukuba, Japan.

So. He’s obviously living here now. He’shere . He asked to read my senior project, and he’shere.

Panic attack.

I mean, before, when he was in Japan, and he asked to see my senior project, I could have been like, “Oh, I sent it to you, didn’t you get it? No? That’s so weird. Let me try sending it again.”

But now, if I see him, and he asks…

Oh my God. What am I going to do?????

Wait…Whatever. It’s not like he’s asked to see me! I mean, he’s here, isn’t he? And has he called? No.

E-mailed? No.

Of course…I’m the one who owes him an e-mail. He’s politely observed e-mail etiquette and waited for me to e-mail him back. What must he think, since I totally stopped communicating when he asked to read my book? He must think I’m the biggest byotch, as Lana would say. Here he made the nicest offer—an offer my own boyfriend has never made, by the way—and I totally went missing in action….

God, remember that weird thing where I used to want to smell his neck all the time? It’s like I couldn’t feel calm or happy or something unless I smelled his neck. That was so…geek, as Lana would say.

Of course…if I remember correctly, Michael alwaysdid smell a lot better than J.P., who continues to smell like dry cleaning. I tried buying him some cologne for his birthday, like Lana suggested—

It didn’t work. He wears it, but now he just smells like cologne. Over dry-cleaning fluid.

I just can’t believe Michael’s been back in town and I didn’t even know it! I’m so glad Dad told me! I could have run into him at Bigelow’s or Forbidden Planet and without having any advanced warning he was back, I might have done something incredibly stupid when I saw him. Such as pee myself. Or blurt out, “You lookincredible !”

Providing he does look incredible, which I’m guessing he probably does. That would have beenawful (although peeing myself would be worse).

No, actually, showing up at either place and bumping into him without any makeup on and my hair a big mess would be worse…except I have to say my hair is looking better than it ever has now that Paolo has layered it and it’s grown out and I’ve got a real proper hairstyle that I can actually tuck behind my ears and give a sexy side part to and put up in a hair band and all. EventeenSTYLE agreed aboutthat in their year-end fashion Hot and Not columns. (I was in the Hot columns for once instead of the Not. I so owe Lana.)

Which isn’t why Dad told me about Michael coming back, of course (so I can make sure I look Hot at all times now, in case I run into my ex).

Dad says he told me so I wouldn’t be caught off guard if the paparazzi asked me about it.

Which, now that there’s been this press release, is bound to happen.

And there was no need to provide that quote for me from the Genovian press office—that I’m truly happy for Mr. Moscovitz and so glad to see that he’s moved on, like I have. I can make up my own quotes for the press, thank you very much.

It’s fine. He’s back in Manhattan, and I’m totally okay with that. I’mmore than okay with that. I’m happy for him. He’s probably forgotten all about me, much less about asking to read my book. I mean, senior project. Now that he’s a bazillionaire robot-arm inventor, I’m sure a silly e-mail exchange with a high school girl he used to date is the last thing Michael is thinking about.

Honestly, I don’t care if I ever see him again. I have a boyfriend. A perfectly wonderful boyfriend who is, even now, planning a completely romantic way to ask me to the prom that won’t involve painting a brown horse white. Probably.

I’m going to bed now, and I’m going to go to sleep right away, and NOT lie awake half the night thinking about Michael being back in Manhattan and having asked to read my book.

I’mnot.

Watch me.

Friday, April 28, Homeroom

Uck, I feel awful, and I look terrible, I was up all night freaking out about Michael being back in town!

And, to make things worse, I skipped theAtom staff meeting this morning before school. I know Dr. K would highly disapprove, because a brave woman, such as Eleanor Roosevelt, would have gone.

But I didn’t feel very Eleanor Roosevelt this morning. I just didn’t know if Lilly was going to assign someone to cover Michael’s donation of one of his CardioArm’s to the Columbia University Medical Center or not. It seems like she would. I mean, he’s an AEHS grad. An AEHS grad inventing something that’s saving children’s lives and then donating it to a major local university would constitute news….

I couldn’t run the risk that Lilly might assignme to be the person to cover the story in the last issue. Lilly isn’t actively doing stuff to antagonize me—we’re totally staying out of each other’s way.

But she might have done it anyway, just out of a perverse sense of irony.

And I do notwant to see Michael. I mean, not as a high school reporter covering the story of his brilliant comeback. That would probably kill me.

Plus, what if he asks about my senior project?????

I know it’s highly unlikely he remembers. But it could happen.

Plus, my hair is doing that weird flippy thing in the back this morning. I totally ran out of phytodefrisant.

No, the next time I see Michael, I want my hair to look good, and I want to be a published author. Oh, please, God, make both these things happen!

And I know, okay, I already helped a small European country achieve democracy. And that is amajor accomplishment. It’s ridiculous of me to want to be a published author by the age of eighteen (which gives me approximately three days, a totally unrealistic goal), as well.

But I worked so hard on that book! I poured almost two years of my life into that book! I mean, first there was all the research—I had to read, like, five hundred romance novels, so I’d know how to write one myself.

Then I had to read fifty billion books on medieval England, so I could get the setting and at least some of the dialogue and stuff right in mine.

Then I had to actually write it.

And Iknow one small historical romance novel isn’t going to change the world.

But it would be lovely if it made a few people as happy reading it as it made me when I was writing it.

Oh, God, why am I obsessing about this when I don’t even care? I’ve already got a wonderful boyfriend who tells me constantly that he loves me and takes me out all the time and who everyone in the entire universe says is perfect for me.

And, all right, he forgot to ask me to the prom. And then there’s thatother thing .

But I don’t even want to go to the prom anyway, because the prom is for children, which I’m not, I’ll be eighteen in three days, at which point I’ll legally be an adult….

Okay. I need to get a grip.

Maybe Hans can go get me another chai latte. I don’t think my first one took this morning. Except Dad says I have to stop sending my limo driver out on personal errands. But what else am I supposed to do? Lars totally refuses to duck out and get me hot foamy drinks, even though I’ve explained to him it’shighly unlikely anyone is going to kidnap me between the time he leaves for Starbucks and the time he gets back.

No one has mentioned the CardioArm story yet, and I’ve seen Tina, Shameeka, Perin, and, of course, J.P.

Maybe it hasn’t broken anywhere but international business CNN.com.

Please, God, let it not break anywhere else.

Friday, April 28, third-floor stairwell

I just got a 911 text from Tina telling me to grab a bathroom pass and meet her here!

I can’t imagine what could have happened! It has to be serious because we’ve really been good about not skipping lately, considering the fact that we’ve all gotten into college and there’s basically no reason to attend classes anymore, except to admire what kind of shoes we’re buying to wear for commencement.

I really hope she and Boris haven’t had a fight. They’re so cute together. He does get on my nerves sometimes, but you can tell he just adores T. And he asked her to the prom in the cutest way, by presenting her with a prom ticket attached to a single half-blown red rose with a Tiffany’s box dangling from it.

Yes! It wasn’t even from Kay Jewelers, which has always been Tina’s favorite. Boris decided to upgrade. (Good for him. Her attachment to Kay’s was starting to get kind of sad.)

And inside the box was another box, a velvet ring box. (Tina said she nearly had a heart attack when she saw it.)

And inside that was the most gorgeous emerald ring (apromise ring, not an engagement ring, Boris hastened to assure her). And inside the band of the ring were Tina’s and Boris’s initials entwined, and the date of the prom.

Tina said she’d have nearly thrown up a lung if such a thing were physically possible, she was that excited. She came into school on Monday and showed the ring to all of us. (Boris gave it to her at dinner at Per Se, which is, like, the most expensive restaurant in New York right now. But he can afford it because he’s recording an album, just like his idol, Joshua Bell. His ego hasn’t beentoo inflated ever since. Especially since he also got asked to play a gig at Carnegie Hall next week, which is going to be his senior project. We’re all invited. J.P. and I are going as a date. Except I’m bringing my iPod. I’ve already heard everything in Boris’s repertoire, like, nine hundred million times, thanks to his playing it in the supply closet in the Gifted and Talented room. I can’t believe anyone would paymoney to hear him, to be honest, but whatever.)

Tina’s dad wasn’t too thrilled about the ring. But he was plenty thrilled about the shipment of frozen Omaha steaks Boris had sent to him. (That part wasmy suggestion. Boris so owes me.)

So Mr. Hakim Baba might even come around to the idea of Boris being part of the family one day. (Poor man. I feel so bad for him. He’ll have to listen to that mouth breathing every time he sits down with his daughter and her boyfriend for a meal.)

Oh, here she comes—she’s not crying, so maybe it’s—

Friday, April 28, Trig

Yeah. Okay. So it wasn’t about Boris.

It was about Michael.

I should have known.

Tina has her phone set to receive Google alerts about me. So this morning she got one when theNew York Post ran an item about Michael’s donation to the Columbia University Medical Center (only, because it was thePost and not CNN international business news, the primary focus of the story was that Michael used to go out with me).

Tina’s so sweet. She wanted me to know that he was back in town before someone else told me. She was afraid I might hear it from a paparazzo, just like my dad was.

I let her know I already knew.

This was a mistake.

“Youknew ?” Tina cried. “And didn’t tell me right away? Mia, how could you?”

See? I can’t do anything right anymore. Every time I tell the truth, I get in trouble!

“I just found out myself,” I assured her. “Last night. And I’m okay with it. Really. I’m over Michael. I’m with J.P. now. It’s completely cool with me that Michael’s back.”

God, I’m such aliar.

And not even a very good one. At least not about this. Because Tina didn’t look very convinced.

“And he didn’t tell you?” Tina demanded. “Michael didn’t say anything in any of his e-mails about how he was coming back?”

Of course I couldn’t tell her the truth. About how Michael offered to read my senior project and that freaked me out so much I stopped e-mailing him.

Because then Tina would want to know why that freaked me out. And then I’d have to explain that my senior project is actually a romance novel I’m trying to get published.

And I’m just not ready to hear the amount of shrieking this response would elicit from Tina. Not to mention her demand to read the book.

And when she gets to the sex scene—okay, sexscenes —I think there’s a good chance Tina’s head might actually explode.

“No,” I said, in response to Tina’s question, instead.

“That’s just weird,” Tina said flatly. “I mean, you guys are friends now. At least, that’s what you keep telling me. That you’re friends, just like you used to be. Friends tell each other if one of them is moving back to the same country—the samecity —as the other. Thathas to mean something that he didn’t say anything.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said quickly. “It probably happened really fast. He just didn’t have time to tell me—”

“To send you a text message? ‘Mia, I’m moving back to Manhattan.’ How long does that take? No.” Tina shook her head, her long dark hair swinging past her shoulders. “Something else is going on.” She narrowed her eyes. “And I think I know what it is.”

I love Tina so much. I’m going to miss her when I go away to college. (Noway am I going to NYU with her, even though I got in there. NYU just seems way too high-pressure for me. Tina wants to be a thoracic surgeon, so odds are, with all the premed classes she’ll be taking, I’d hardly ever see her anyway.)

But I really wasn’t in the mood to hear another one of her wacky theories. It’s true sometimes they’re right. I mean, she was right about J.P. being in love with me.

But whatever she was going to say about Michael—I just didn’t want to hear it. So much so, I actually put my hand over her mouth.

“No,” I said.

Tina blinked at me with her big brown eyes, looking very surprised.

“Wha?” she said, from behind my hand.

“Don’t say it,” I said. “Whatever it is you’re about to say.”

“It’s nofing bad,” Tina said against my palm.

“I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it. Do you promise not to say it?”

Tina nodded. I dropped my hand.

“Do you need a tissue?” Tina asked, nodding at my hand. Because, of course, my fingers were covered in lip gloss.

It was my turn to nod. Tina handed me a tissue from her bag. I wiped off my hand, purposefully not acknowledging the fact that Tina looked as if she were literally dying to tell me what she wanted to tell me.

Well, okay, maybe notliterally dying. But metaphorically.

Finally Tina said, “So. What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean, what am I going to do?” I asked. I couldn’t help feeling this total sense of impending doom…not unlike what I felt concerning J.P.’s forthcoming prom invitation. Well, I guess that wasn’t as much doom as it was dread. “I’m not going todo anything.”

“But, Mia—” Tina appeared to be choosing her words with care. “I know you and J.P. are totally and blissfully happy. But aren’t you the least bitcurious to see Michael? After all this time?”

Fortunately it was right then that the bell rang and we had to grab our stuff and “skeedaddle,” as Rocky is fond of saying. (I have no idea where he picked up the word “skeedaddle,” much less “skeedaddling shoes,” which are what he calls his sneakers. Oh, God, how am I going to go away to college for four whole years and miss out on all his formative development…not to mention, his cuteness? I know I’ll be back for holidays—the ones I don’t spend in Genovia—but it won’t be the same!)

So I didn’t have to answer Tina’s question.

I sort of wish now that I hadn’t stopped Tina from telling me her theory. I mean, now that my heart rate has slowed down. (It was totally pounding back there in the stairwell for some reason. I have no idea why.)

I bet, whatever it was, it would have made me laugh.

Oh, well. I’ll ask her about it later.

Or not.

Actually, probably not.

Friday, April 28, G&T

Okay. They’ve descended into madness.

I guess some of them (namely Lana, Trisha, Shameeka, and Tina) didn’t have that far to go, anyway.

But I think they’ve taken the word “senioritis” to new extremes.

So Tina and I were out in the hallway just before lunch when we ran into Lana, Trisha, and Shameeka, and Tina yelled, over the din of everyone passing by, “Did you guys hear? Michael is back! And his robotic arm is a huge success! And he’s a millionaire!”

Lana and Trisha, as one might predict, both let out shrieks that I swear could have burst the glass in all the emergency fire pulls nearby. Shameeka was more subdued, but even she got a crazed look in her eyes.

Then, when we got into the jet line to get our yogurts and salads (well, those guys. They’re all trying to lose five pounds before the prom. I was getting a tofurkey burger), Tina started telling them about Michael’s donating a CardioArm to the Columbia University Medical Center, and Lana went, “Oh my God, when is that, tomorrow? We are so going.”

“Uh,” I said, my heart sliding up into my throat. “No,we aren’t.”

“Seriously,” Trisha said, agreeing with me. (I could have kissed her.) “I’ve got a tanning appointment. I’m totally building up a golden glow for prom next weekend. I’m wearing white, you know.”

“Whatever,” Lana said, picking out diet sodas for all of us. “You can tan after.”

“But we’ve got Mia’s party Monday,” Trisha said. “There’re going to be celebrities there. I don’t want to look pasty in front of celebrities.”

“Trisha really has her priorities straight,” I pointed out. “Not looking pasty in front of celebrities comes before stalking my ex-boyfriends.”

“I don’t want to stalk Michael,” Shameeka said. “But I agree with Lana that we should at least check out this event. I want to see how Michael looks. Aren’t you curious, Mia?”

“No,” I said firmly. “And besides, I’m sure we won’t be able to get in. It’s probably closed to everyone but invited guests and press.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Lana said. “You can get us in. You’re a princess. And besides, even if you can’t—you’re on the staff of theAtom . Get us press passes. Just ask Lilly.”

Lifting up my lunch tray, I shot her a very sarcastic look. It took Lana a second or two to realize what she’d said. Then, when she finally did, she went, “Oh. Yeah. He’s her brother. And she was really mad at you for dumping him last year, or something. Right?”

“Let’s just drop it,” I said. I swear, I wasn’t even hungry anymore. My tofurkey burger, sitting on its plate in front of me, looked completely unappetizing. I thought about ditching it for tacos. If ever there’d been a day I could have used some spicy beef, it seemed like today.

“Isn’t your little sister writing for theAtom this year?” Shameeka asked Lana.

Lana looked over at her little sister Gretchen, who was sitting with the other cheerleaders at a table by the door.

“Oooh,” Lana said. “Good suggestion. She’s such a little butt kisser, trying to get extracurriculars for college, she’ll have been to theAtom meeting this morning for sure. Let me go check and see if she got assigned to the Michael story.”

I could have stabbed them both with my spork.

“I am going to go sit down now,” I said from between gritted teeth. “With my boyfriend. You guys can come sit with me, but if you do, I don’t want you to be talking about this.In front of my boyfriend. Do you understand? Good.”

I kept my gaze locked on J.P. as I made my way across the caf to our table, determined not to glance in Lana’s direction. J.P., chatting with Boris, Perin, and Ling Su, noticed me coming, looked up, and smiled. I smiled back.

Still, out of the corner of my eye, I managed to see Lana hit her sister on the back of the head, grab her Miu Miu purse, and dig around in it.

Great. That could only mean one thing. Gretchen had press passes to tomorrow’s event.

“How’s it going?” J.P. asked me as I sat down.

“Great,” I lied.

Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Five.

“Fantastic,” J.P. said. “Hey, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

I froze with my tofurkey burger halfway to my lips. Oh, God. Here?Now? He was going to ask me to the prom in the cafeteria, in front of everybody? This was J.P.’s idea of romantic?

No. It couldn’t be. Because J.P.’s made me dinner at his apartment before when his parents were out of town, and he’s pulled out all the stops…candles, jazz on the stereo, delicious fettuccini Alfredo, chocolate mousse for dessert. The guy knows romantic.

And he’s no slouch on Valentine’s Day, either. He got me a beautiful heart locket (from Tiffany, of course) with our initials entwined on it for our first, and a diamond journey necklace (to show how far we’d come from that first kiss outside my building) for our second.

Surely he wasn’t going to ask me to the prom as I was biting into a tofurkey burger in the cafeteria.

Then again…he thought he didn’t have to bother asking me to the prom at all. So…

Tina, overhearing J.P.’s question as she slid her tray down next to Boris’s, gasped.

Well, let’s face it. She would. This is another reason I can never tell her aboutRansom My Heart . She’d never be able to keep it to herself. Especially the steamier parts. She’d want to know how I researched them.

Then she recovered herself and said, “Oh? You have a question for Mia, J.P.?”

“Uh,” J.P. said. “Yeah…”

“How nice.” Tina tried not to look as smug as if she were about to give birth to the twentieth Duggar sibling. “Everybody? J.P. wants to ask Mia something.”

“Uh,” J.P. said, a light pink shade tingeing his cheeks as a hush fell over the cafeteria table and everyone looked at him expectantly. “I just wanted to ask what you were getting Principal Gupta and the rest of them as thank-you gifts for writing your letters of recommendation?”

Oh. Also, phew.

“I’m getting them each a set of six hand-blown Genovian crystal water goblets,” I said. “With the royal Genovian crest on them.”

“Oh,” he said, gulping. “I think my mom’s just going to get them each a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble.”

“I’m sure they’ll like that much better,” I said, feeling bad. Grandmère was always so over-the-top with her gift-giving.

“We’re giving them Swarovski crystal apples,” Ling Su and Perin said at the same time. This made them sound nerdier than they are; which they so totally aren’t. Well, anymore. They’d actually completely given up sitting with the Backpack Patrol, as J.P. refers to Kenny’s—I mean, Kenneth’s—gang, across the caf, who’d taken to traveling everywhere with their giant backpacks of books, even this late in the school year, knowing full well they’d already gotten into their colleges of choice (well, second choice). Some of them had so many books, in fact, they used wheelie suitcases to cart them around. It was like they’d never heard of using their lockers.

Lilly, who used to sit among them—untilLilly Tells It Like It Is took off and her lunch hour became too busy for her to spend it in the caf—with her multiple piercings and often variantly colored hair, looked like an exotic flower. I think they were all pretty sorry to see her go—although I’m not sure any of them but Kenny really noticed, seeing as how their heads were all buried in their Advanced Chem books.

“Well, that’s taken care of,” Lana announced, setting her tray down. “Two o’clock tomorrow, geek.”

She was addressing me. Geek is Lana’s pet name for me. I’ve learned she means it as a term of endearment.

“What’s at two o’clock tomorrow?” J.P. wanted to know.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, just as Shameeka slid her tray down, too, and said, covering for me, “Mani-pedi appointments. Who’s got the Diet Cokes? Oh, thanks, Mia.”

“This is so lame.” Trisha took one of the Diet Cokes I’d bought, too. “Did I mention how lame this is? Ihave to tan.”

“What are they talking about?” J.P. asked Boris.

“Don’t ask,” Boris advised him. “Just ignore them, and maybe they’ll go away.”

And that was that. It was decided—sort of nonverbally, but more verbally after lunch was over and we were all walking to class and the guys were gone. Lana got press passes (two of them, one for a reporter, and one for a photographer) from her sister Gretchen for Michael’s donation of one of his CardioArms to Columbia.

Apparently they all think we’re going tomorrow (to them, two press passes = permission for the five of us to enter, in Lana Fantasy Land).

But the REAL fantasy is that they think I’m actually going to go, because no way am I setting foot anywhere near that place. I mean, nothing has changed—I still don’t want to see Michael—I stillcan’t see Michael…not sneaking in to see him on Lana Weinberger’s little sister’s high school newspaper’s press pass. I mean, that is insane. That’s like something out of a book—something that’s just not going to happen.

Ever.

God, Boris is really scraping away on that thing!

And Lilly isn’t even here. Which is no big surprise, she hasn’t been in G&T since her show got picked up by a television network in Seoul. She tapes every day during lunch and fifth period. They actually let her out of school to do this, and give her class credit and everything.

Which is cool. I guess she’s a huge star in Korea.

Well, I always knew she’d be a star.

For some reason I just always thought I’d be friends with her when it happened.

Well, things change, I guess.

Friday, April 28, French

Tina won’t stop texting me, even though I’m not texting back. (I don’t need a repeat performance of yesterday’s debacle.)

She wants to know what I’m going to wear tomorrow when we go to see Michael donate a CardioArm to Columbia’s Medical Center.

I wonder what it’s like to live in Tinaville.

I get the feeling it’s very shiny there.

Friday, April 28, Psychology

I finally texted Tina back that I’m not going tomorrow.

There has been radio silence ever since, so I’m just slightly suspicious about what’s going on between her and the rest of the gang.

It’s slightly restful, however, not to have my phone buzzing every five seconds.

Amelia—I still haven’t had your answerrrrrrr. I need you to disinvite twenty-ffiveeeee people to your party. The captain is telling me we won’t be able to set saillllllll with three hundred. Weeeeeeeeee need to cut it down to two seventy-five max. I think Nathan and Claire, Frank’s niece and nephew, can go, obviously. What about your mother? You don’t need her there, do you? She’ll understandddddd. And Frank, tooooooo. I’ll be waiting for your call. Clarisse, your grandmotherrrrrrr

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

Oh myGod.

Major histocompatibility complex—MHC: Gene family found in most mammals. Believed to play an important role in mate selection through olfactory (scent) recognition. In studies, female college students asked to smell the unwashed T-shirts worn by male college students invariably chose ones worn by males possessing MHC that was entirely dissimilar to their own. This is believed to be due to the fact these males would make the most genetically desirable mates (pairing opposite MHC genes would create offspring with the strongest immune systems). The more geneticallydissimilar mates are to each other, the stronger the immune system of the offspring, a fact believed detected through the olfactory senses of the female of the species.

HOMEWORK

World History: Study for final

English Lit: Ditto

Trig: Ditto

G&T: Ugh, I’m so SICK of Chopin

French: Final

Psychology II: Final

Friday, April 28, Dr. Knutz’s waiting room

Great, I walked in here today for my next-to-last session and who should be sitting here but none other than the dowager princess of Genovia herself.

I was like, “What the—” but fortunately managed to control myself at the last minute.

“Oh, Amelia, there you are,” she said, like we were meeting for tea at the Carlyle, or whatever. “Why haven’t you phoned back?”

I just stared at her in horror. “Grandmère,” I said. “This is mytherapy session .”

“Well, I know that, Amelia.” She smiled at the receptionist, as if to apologize for my idiocy. “I’m not slow, you know. But how else am I supposed to get you to communicate with me, when you won’t return my calls and you refuse to write back to my e-mails, which is the method of communication Ithought was all the rage with you young people today? Really, I had no choice but to hunt you down here.”

“Grandmère.” I was seriously about to bubble over with rage. “If this is about my party, I am NOT disinviting my own mother and stepfather to make room for your society friends. Disinvite Nathan and Claire if you want, I don’t care. And can I just add, it is totally inappropriate of you to show up at therapy to talk to me about this. I realize we’ve had joint therapy sessions in the past, but those were scheduled beforehand. You can’t just show up at therapy and expect me to—”

“Oh, that.” Grandmère made a little waving motion in the air, the sapphire cocktail ring the Shah of Iran had given her sparkling as she did so. “Please. Vigo has straightened out the difficulties with the invitation list. And don’t worry, your mother is safe. Though I wouldn’t say the same for her parents. I hope they’ll enjoy the view of the party from the steering deck. No, no, I’m here aboutThat Boy .”

I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about at first. “J.P.?” She never calls J.P.That Boy . Grandmère loves J.P. I mean seriously loves him. When the two of them get together, they talk about old Broadway shows I’ve never even heard of until I practically have to drag J.P. away. Grandmère is more than a little convinced she could have had a great career on the stage if she hadn’t chosen to marry my grandfather and been the princess of a small European country instead of a huge Broadway star à la that girl who stars inLegally Blonde , the musical. Only, of course, in Grandmère’s mind, she’s better than her.

“Not John Paul,” Grandmère said, looking shocked at the very idea. “The other one. And this…thing he’s invented.”

Michael?Grandmère had invited herself to my therapy session to talk to me aboutMichael ?

Also, great. Thanks, Vigo. Had he set her BlackBerry to receive Google alerts about me, too?

“Are you serious?” I swear at this point I had no idea what she was up to. I really hadn’t put two and two together. I still thought she was worried about the party. “You want to invite Michael, now, too? Well, sorry, Grandmère, but no. Just because he’s a famous millionaire inventor now doesn’t mean I want him at my party. If you invite him, I swear I’ll—”

“No. Amelia.” Grandmère reached out and grabbed my hand. It wasn’t one of her usual grasping, needy grabs, where she tries to force me to give her sciatica a massage. It was as if she was taking my hand to…well, tohold it.

I was so surprised, I actually sank down onto the leather couch and looked at her, like,What? What’s going on?

“The arm,” Grandmère said. Like a normal person, and not like she was telling me not to lift my pinky up when I drank my tea, or anything. “The robot arm he’s made.”

I blinked at her.“What?”

“We need one,” she said. “For the hospital. You have to get us one.”

I blinked even harder. I’ve suspected Grandmère might be losing her mind for…well, the entire time I’ve known her, actually.

But now it was clear she’d gone completely around the bend.

“Grandmère.” I discreetly felt for her pulse. “Have you been taking your heart medication?”

“Not a donation,” Grandmère hastened to explain, sounding more like her usual self. “Tell him we’ll pay. But, Amelia, you do know if we had something like that in our hospital in Genovia, we’d…well, it would improve the state of care we’re able to give our own citizens to such an incredible degree. They wouldn’t have to go to Paris or Switzerland for heart surgery. Surely you see what a—”

I ripped my hand out from hers. Suddenly I saw that she wasn’t crazy at all. Or suffering from a stroke or heart attack. Her pulse had been strong and steady.

“Oh my God!” I cried.“Grandmère!”

“What?” Grandmère looked bewildered by my outburst. “What is the matter? I’m asking you to ask Michael for one of his machines. Not donate it. I said we’d pay—”

“But you want me to use my relationship with him,” I cried, “so Dad can gain an edge over René in the election!”

Grandmère’s drawn-on eyebrows furrowed.

“I never said a word about the election!” she declared, in her most imperious voice. “But I did think, Amelia, if you were to go to this event at Columbia tomorrow—”

“Grandmère!” I sprang up from the couch. “You’re horrible! Do you really think the people of Genovia would be more likely to vote for Dad because he managed to buy them a CardioArm, as opposed to René, who’s only managed to promise them an Applebee’s?”

Grandmère looked at me blankly.

“Well,” she said. “Yes. Which would you rather have? Easy access to heart surgery, or a bloomin’ onion?”

“That’s Outback,” I informed her acidly. “And the point of a democracy is that no one’s vote can be bought!”

“Oh, Amelia,” Grandmère said with a snort. “Don’t be naïve. Everyone can be bought. And anyway, how would you feel if I told you at my recent visit to the royal physician, he told me my heart condition has gotten more serious, and that I might need bypass surgery?”

I hesitated. She looked totally sincere.

“D-do you?” I stammered.

“Well,” Grandmère said. “Not yet. But he did tell me I have to cut back to three Sidecars a week!”

I should have known.

“Grandmère,” I said. “Leave. Now.”

Grandmère frowned at me.

“You know, Amelia,” she said. “If your father loses this election, it will kill him. I know he’ll still be prince of Genovia and all of that, but he won’t rule it, and that, young lady, will be no one’s fault but your own.”

I groaned in frustration and said, “GET OUT!”

Which she did, muttering very darkly to Lars and to the receptionist, both of whom had watched our entire exchange with a great deal of amusement.

But honestly, I don’t see what’s so funny about it.

I guess to Grandmère, using an ex-boyfriend to jump to the head of the waiting list (as if Michael would even consider such a thing) to get a million-dollar piece of medical equipment is just a normal day’s work.

But though we may share the same gene pool, I am nothing like my grandmother.

NOTHING.

Friday, April 28, the limo home from

Dr. Knutz’s office

Dr. K, as usual, was less than sympathetic to my problems. He seems to feel I’ve brought them all down upon myself.

Why can’t I have a nice, normal therapist, who asks me, “And how do you feel about that?” and hands me anti-anxiety medication, like everyone else I go to school with?

Oh, no. I have to have the one therapist in all of Manhattan who doesn’t believe in psychopharmaceuticals. And who thinks every crummy thing that happens to me (lately, anyway) is my own fault for not being emotionally honest with myself.

“How is my boyfriend not asking me to our senior prom my fault for not being honest with my emotions?” I asked him at one point.

“When he asks you,” Dr. Knutz said, countering my question with another question, in classic psychotherapist style, “are you going to say yes?”

“Well,” I said, feeling uncomfortable. (Yes! I am honest enough with myself to admit I felt uncomfortable at that question!) “I really don’t want to go to the prom.”

“I think you’ve answered your own question,” he said, a self-satisfied gleam shining behind the lenses of his glasses.

What is that even supposed tomean ? How does that help me?

I’ll tell you: It doesn’t.

And you know what else? I’m just going to say it:

Therapy doesn’t help me anymore.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. There was a time when it did, when Dr. K’s long rambling stories about the many horses he’d owned really helped me through my depression and what was going on with my dad and Genovia and the rumors about him and our family having known about Princess Amelie’s declaration all along—not to mention getting me through the SATs and the college application process and losing Michael and Lilly and all of that.

Maybe since I’m not depressed anymore and the pressure’s off (somewhat) and he’s a child psychologist and I’m not really a kid anymore—or won’t be after Monday—I’m just ready to cut the cord now. Which is why our last therapy session is next week.

Anyway.

I tried to ask him what I should do about choosing a college, and the thing Grandmère had brought up, about getting Michael to sell one of his CardioArms to Genovia in time for Dad’s election, and if I should just tell people the truth aboutRansom My Heart .

Instead of offering constructive advice, Dr. K started telling me this long story about a mare he’d once had named Sugar, this thoroughbred he’d bought from a dealer who everyone said was such a great horse, and he knew was a great horse, too.

On paper.

Even thoughon paper Sugar was this fantastic horse, Dr. Knutz could just never find his place in the saddle with her, and their rides were totally uncomfortable, and eventually he had to sell her, because it wasn’t fair to Sugar, as he’d started avoiding her, and riding all his other horses instead.

Seriously. What does this story have to do with me?

Plus, I’m so sick of horse stories I could scream.

And I still don’t know where I’m going to go to college, what I’m going to do about J.P. (or Michael), or how I’m going to stop lying to everyone.

Maybe I should just tell people I want to be a romance writer? I mean, I know everyone laughs at romance writers (until they actually read a romance). But what do I care? Everyone laughs at princesses, too. I’m pretty much used to it by now.

But…what if people read my book and think it’s about…I don’t know.

Me?

Because it’s so not. I don’t even know how to shoot a bow and arrow (despite the erroneous movies made of my life).

Who would even name a horse Sugar? That’s a little bit cliché, right?

Friday, April 28, 7 p.m., the loft

Dear Ms. Delacroix,

Thank you for your submission. After a great deal of consideration, we have decidedRansom My Heart is not right for us at this time.

Sincerely,

Pembroke Publishing

Rejected again!

Seriously, is the entire publishing world on crack? How can no one want to publish my novel? I mean, I know it’s notWar and Peace , but I’ve seen way worse out there. My book is better than that! I mean, at least my book doesn’t have spanking sex robots in it or anything.

Maybe if I’d put spanking sex robots in it, someone would want to publish it. But I can’t put spanking sex robots in it now. It’s too late, and besides, that wouldn’t be historically accurate.

Anyway.

Things are insane here with preparations for arrivals for the birthday extravaganza. Mamaw and Papaw will be staying at the Tribeca Grand this time, and every effort is being undertaken to see that Mom and Mr. G have as little one-on-one time with them as possible. They’re being sent on tours of Ellis Island, Liberty Island, Little Italy, Harlem, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Madame Tussaud’s wax museum, Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, and M&M’s World (the last three at their request).

Of course, they want to visit with me and Rocky (mostly Rocky), but Mom keeps saying, “Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for that.” They’re only staying for three days. How there’ll be time for visiting and all that touring, as well as the party, is a secret known only to Mom.

Uh-oh, an IM from Tina:

ILUVROMANCE: So we’re meeting on Broadway and 168th Street tomorrow at 1:30 p.m. The dedication ceremony or whatever it is starts at 2 so that should give us plenty of time to get good seats so we can see Michael up close.

What is it going to take to get through to these girls that I am NOT going to this thing?

FTLOUIE: Sounds good!

“Sounds good” isn’t a lie. I mean, what she said doessound good.

It’ll be sad and all when they’re standing on the corner of Broadway and 168th all by themselves. But no one said life was fair.

ILUVROMANCE: Wait…Mia, youare coming, right? Crud.

Whoa. How did she guess????

FTLOUIE: No. I told you I wasn’t.

ILUVROMANCE: Mia, you HAVE to come! The whole thing is for nothing if you’re not there! I mean, aren’t you the least bit curious about how Michael looks after all this time? And whether or not—be serious, now—he cares? You know, in THAT way?

Oh, God. Shewould have to play the “If he still cares” card.

FTLOUIE: Tina, I already have a boyfriend who loves me and whom I love back. And anyway, how am I going to be able to tell if Michael still cares “in THAT way” just by seeing him at some public event?

ILUVROMANCE: You’ll be able to tell. You just will. Your eyes will meet across the room and you’llknow . So. What are you going to wear????

Fortunately I just got a call from J.P. He’s done with rehearsal for the day and wants to grab some sushi at Blue Ribbon. Using his dad’s producer connections, he’s gotten a table for two (virtually impossible at a place like that on a Friday night). He wants to know if I can join him for some crispy salmon skin and dragon rolls.

My other choice for dinner is leftover pizza from last night, or two nights’ old Number One Noodle Son cold sesame noodles.

Or I could shoot up to Grandmère’s newly renovated condo at the Plaza and join her and Vigo for salads as they strategize for my party.

Hmmm, what to choose, what to choose? It’s sohard.

And, okay, J.P.might use the opportunity to ask me to the prom…like, maybe he’ll slip a written invitation into an oyster shell or under a piece of unagi or something.

But I’m willing to risk it only if I can end this conversation.

FTLOUIE: Sorry, T, going out with J.P. I’ll text you later!

Saturday, April 29, midnight, the loft

It turns out I needn’t have worried about J.P. asking me to the prom at dinner tonight. He was too exhausted from rehearsal—and frustrated: He spent almost the whole time complaining about Stacey—even to be thinking about it, apparently.

And then after dinner, we had other concerns. It’s so weird how everywhere I go with J.P., the paparazzi seem to show up. Thisnever happened when I dated Michael.

I guess that’s the difference between going out with a lowly college student (which Michael was at the time), and a rich theater producer’s son like J.P.

Anyway, as we were coming out of Blue Ribbon, the paps were out in full force. I thought at first Drew Barrymore must have been in there with her latest boy toy or whatever, and I was looking around for her.

But it turned out they were all trying to get pictures of ME.

At first it was fine, just…whatever. I had on my new Christian Louboutin boots so I was feeling okay about it. It’s like Lana says…if you have on your CLs, nothing bad can happen to you (shallow…but true).

But then one of them yelled, “Hey, Princess, how does it feel to know your father is going to lose the election…and to your cousin René, who’s never run so much as a Laundromat, let alone a whole country?”

I haven’t had nearly four years of princess lessons (well, on and off) for nothing. It wasn’t like I was unprepared for this. I just said, “No comment.”

Except that might have been a mistake, because, of course, if you sayanything , that just baits them to ask you more, and even though J.P. and Lars and I were trying to walk back to the loft (it’s literally, like, two blocks from the restaurant, so we hadn’t bothered with the limo), the paps crowded all around us, and we couldn’t walk fast enough, especially since my CLs have, like, four-inch heels and I haven’t really practiced walking in them enough and I was kind of teetering in them (just a little) like Big Bird.

So the reporters were totally able to keep up even though I had Lars on one side and J.P. on the other, hustling me along.

“But your dad is losing in the polls,” the “journalist” said. “Come on. That’s gotta hurt. Especially since if you had just kept your mouth shut, none of this would be happening.”

Man! These guys are brutal. Also, their grasp on politics is somewhat lacking.

“I did what was right for the people of Genovia,” I said, trying to keep a pleasant smile plastered across my face, the way Grandmère had taught me. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re just trying to get home—”

“Yeah, guys,” J.P. said, while Lars was opening his coat to make sure his gun showed. Not that this ever scared the paps, because they knew good and well he couldn’t shoot them (although he had, upon occasion, shoulder rolled a few of them). “Just leave her alone, will you?”

“You’re the boyfriend, right?” one of the paps wanted to know. “Is that Abernathy-Reynolds, or Reynolds-Abernathy?”

“Reynolds-Abernathy,” J.P. said. “And quit pushing!”

“The people of Genovia sure do seem to want bloomin’ onions,” another of the paparazzi pointed out. “Don’t they, Princess? How does that make you feel?”

“I’ve been trained in a special technique that can send your nasal cartilage into your brain using only the heel of my hand,” Lars informed the pap. “How does that make YOU feel?”

I know I should be used to this stuff by now. Really, there are other people who have it so much worse than me. I mean, at least the “press” lets me go to and from school in relative anonymity.

Still. Sometimes…

“Is it true Sir Paul McCartney is bringing Denise Richards to your birthday party Monday night, Princess?” one of the reporters yelled.

“Is it true Prince William will be there?” yelled another.

“What about your ex-boyfriend?” yelled a third. “Now that he’s back in—”

That was the exact moment when Lars physically threw me into an empty cab he’d signaled to pull over, and commanded it to take us around SoHo a few times until he was sure we’d shaken off all the reporters (who’ve given up staking out the loft due to the fact that all the residents, including Mom, Mr. G, and me routinely water-balloon-bomb them from above).

All I can say is, thank God J.P. is so busy with his play that he had no idea what that last reporter had been talking about. He no sooner checks the Internet for Google alerts on me (or Michael Moscovitz) than he remembers to eat breakfast. That’s how crazed he is right now.

Anyway, when we got back to the loft, there was no sign of any reporters lurking around (thanks to their having gotten soaked one too many times due to Mom’s expert aim).

That was when J.P. asked if he could come up.

I knew what he wanted, of course. I also knew Mom and Mr. G would be asleep, because they always crash early on Fridays after a long work week.

Really, the last thing I felt like doing after the paparazzi incident was to mess around in my room with my boyfriend.

But as he pointed out (beneath his breath, so Lars couldn’t overhear), it had been ages since we’d been alone together, what with his rehearsal schedule and my princess stuff.

So I said good-bye to Lars at the vestibule and let J.P. come up. I mean, he WAS sweet, defending me from the paparazzi like that.

And he let me have that extra piece of crispy salmon skin, even though I know he wanted it.

I feel terrible about all the lies I’ve told him. Really, I do.

An excerpt fromRansom My Heart by Daphne Delacroix

“I told you not to move!” said the diminutive captor astride Hugo’s back.

Hugo, admiring the slim arch of the foot, the only part of her that he could actually see, decided he ought to apologize now. Surely the girl had a right to be angry; in all innocence, she had come to the spring to bathe, not to be spied upon. And while he was greatly enjoying the feel of her nubile body against him, he was not enjoying her wrath. Better that he calm the spirited wench, and see her back on the road to Stephensgate, where he could make sure that she was kept from straddling other men’s backs, and thereby getting herself into mischief.

“I earnestly beg your pardon, demoiselle,” he began, in what he hoped was a contrite tone, though it was difficult for him to speak without laughing. “I stumbled upon you in your most private hour, and for that, I must ask your forgiveness—”

“I took you for simple, but not completely stupid” was the girl’s surprising reply. Hugo was amazed to hear that her own voice was as rich with amusement as his own.

“I meant for you to stumble upon me, of course,” she elaborated. Quick as lightning, the knife left his throat, and the maid seized both of his wrists and had them trussed behind him before he was even aware of what was happening.

“You’re my prisoner now,” Finnula Crais said, with evident satisfaction at a job well done. “To gain your freedom, you’ll have to pay for it. Handsomely.”

Saturday, April 29, 10 a.m., the loft

Ever since I’ve woken up, all I can think about is what that reporter said…about Dad losing in the polls and it being all my fault.

I know it’s not true. I mean, yes, it’s true we’re having an election.

But the fact that Dad is losing isn’t my fault.

And then, naturally, my mind keeps turning back to what Grandmère said, back in Dr. Knutz’s office. About how if we could get our hands on one of Michael’s CardioArms, Dad might stand a better chance against René.

Except I know how wrong it is to think that way. The reason we need a CardioArm is because it would make the lives of the citizens of Genovia so much easier.

A CardioArm at the Royal Genovian Hospital wouldn’t stimulate the economy or bring tourists to Genovia or even help Dad in the polls or anything like that, like Grandmère seems to believe.

But itwould help Genovians who are sick not to have to travel to hospitals outside of our country to get medical care, because instead, they could easily get noninvasive heart surgery right inside our own borders. They’d save time and expense.

Plus, like the article said, they’d heal faster, because of the CardioArm’s precision.

I’mnot saying if we got one, people would be more likely to vote for Dad. I’m just saying, getting one would be the right thing to do—the princessy thing to do—for my own people.

And I’mnot saying by going to the thing today, I want to get back together with Michael. I mean, if he’d even have me, which he fully wouldn’t, because he’s moved on, as is illustrated by the fact that clearly, he’s been in Manhattan for a while now, and hasn’t even so much as called. Or e-mailed.

I’m just saying obviously Ishould go to the thing at Columbia today. Because it’s what a true princess would do for her people. Get them the most up-to-date medical technology available.

Just how I’m going to do that without looking like the world’s biggest tool, I have no idea. I mean, I can’t go, “Um, Michael, due to the fact that we used to date, even though I treated you horribly, can you jump Genovia to the top of the waiting list and get us a CardioArm right away? Here’s a check.”

But I think that’s pretty much the way it’s going to go. Part of being a princess means swallowing your pride and doing the right thing for your people, no matter how personally humiliating it might be.

And anyway, he still owes me for the Judith Gershner thing. I understand now that the reason Michael didn’t tell me about how he had sex with her before he and I started going out was because he knew I wasn’t mature enough at the time to handle the information.

He was right: I wasn’t.

And though it might be really manipulative and awful of me to use my past romantic relationship with Michael to try to get him to let us jump to the head of the CardioArm waiting list, this isGenovia we’re talking about.

And it’s my royal duty to do whatever I have to do for my country.

I haven’t spent the past four years with the combs of a tiara digging into my head for nothing, you know.

I guess I didn’tjust learn which one was the soup spoon from Grandmère, after all.

I better go call Tina.

Saturday, April 29, 1:45 p.m., Columbia

University Medical Center, Simon and Louise

Templeman Patient Care Pavilion

This. Was. The. Worst. Idea. Ever.

I know this morning when I woke up I had some big noble idea that I was doing something way important for the people of Genovia.

And—okay, I’ll admit it, maybe in some twisted way, I guess, for my dad.

But in actuality, this is just insane. I mean, Michael’s entire family is here.All the Moscovitzes! Even hisgrandma ! Yes! Nana Moscovitz is here!

I’m so embarrassed I could die.

And, okay, I’ve made us all sit in the very back row (security here is very lax: They let us all in, even though we only had the two passes), where, thank God, it doesn’t appear there’s any chance any of them is going to see us (but Lars and Wahim, Tina’s bodyguard, are so tall, what are the chances of them not being noticed? I’ve made them wait outside. They’re so mad at me. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t risk the chance of Lilly seeing them).

And I know the whole point of this was my actually speaking to Michael.

But I didn’t knowLilly was going to be here! Which was incredibly stupid of me. I should have assumed, of course. I mean, that Michael’s family (including his sister, who brought Kenny, I mean Kenneth, who is wearing a SUIT. And Lilly is wearing a dress…and she’s taken out all her piercings. I barely recognized her) would, of course, be at such an important and prestigious event.

How can I go up and talk to Michael in front of her? It’s true Lilly and I are not exactly at each other’s throats anymore, but we’re definitely notfriends , either. The last thing I need right now is her revving up ihatemiathermopolis.com again.

Which I could totally see her doing if she suspected I was trying to use her brother to, oh, I don’t know, get a CardioArm for my country, or something.

Lana says it’s no big deal and I should just go up to the Drs. Moscovitz and say hi. Lana says she’s totally on friendly terms with all her exes’ parents (which, considering it’s Lana, is, like, half of the population of the Upper East Side), even though she’s used most of their sons for sex, and even worse things (…such as? What is worse than using a boy for sex? I don’t even want to know. Lana took Tina and me to the Pink Pussycat Boutique last year because she said we needed educating in that department, and while I did make a purchase, it was only a Hello Kitty personal massager. But you don’t even want to know what Lana bought).

But Lana’s never dated any guy for as long as Michael and I dated. And she wasn’t best friends with any of those guys’ sisters, or made them as mad at her as Lilly was mad at me. So going up to them at public events and being all, “Hey, how’s it going?” is no big deal forLana .

I, on the other hand, cannot go up to the Drs. Moscovitz and go, “Oh, hey, hi, Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz. How youdoing ? Remember me? The girl who acted like a total byotch to your son and who used to be best friends with your daughter? Oh, and hey, Nana Moscovitz. How’s that rugelach you used to make? Yum, I used to love that stuff! Good times.”

Anyway. This donation thing is turning out to be a huge event (fortunately, because there are a ton of people I can slouch behind and remain unseen). There’s press fromeverywhere ,Anesthesia magazine toPC World . They’ve got hors d’oeuvres and stuff, too, and a lot of model-looking types slinking around in tight red dresses, passing around flutes of champagne.

There’s no sign of Michael so far, though. He’s probably in a green room somewhere, getting a massage from one of those slinky-dress girls. That’s what bazillionaire robotic-arm inventors do before giving away major donations to their alma maters. I’m just guessing.

Tina says I should stop writing in my journal and pay attention in case Michael comes in (she doesn’t believe my slinky-model-massage theory). Also, she thinks the dark sunglasses and beret I’m wearing are only drawing attention to myself, not serving as a good disguise.

But what does Tina know? This has never happened to her before. She—

Oh.

My.

God.

Michael just walked in….

I can’t breathe.

Saturday, April 29, 3:00 p.m., Columbia

University Medical Center, ladies’ room

Okay. I messed up.

Really,really messed up.

It’s just…he looks so incredibly good.

I don’t know what he’s been doing to work out while he was overseas…fighting monks in the Himalayas like Christian Bale in theBatman movies is what Lana thinks. Trisha says plain old weight lifting, while Shameeka says probably a combination of lifting and cardio.

Tina thinks he just “got hit with a stick of pure awesomeness.”

But whatever it was, he’s almost as wide in the shoulders now as Lars, and I highly doubt it’s because he’s wearing an actual shoulder holster under his Hugo Boss suit coat, which Lana suggested.

And he’s got a real haircut, like a grown-up man, and his hands look huge for some reason, and he didn’t seem at all nervous coming out onto that stage and shaking Dr. Arthur Ward’s hand. He was totally at ease, like he comes out and speaks in front of hundreds of people all the time!

And that’s because he probably does.

And he was smiling, and looking all the audience members in the eye, just like Grandmère always tells me to do, and he didn’t need note cards to give his speech, he had the whole thing memorized (just like Grandmèrealso always tells me to do).

And he was funny and smart and I sat up and took my beret off and also my sunglasses so I could see him better and all of my insides melted in on themselves and I knew I had made the worst mistake coming here.Ever.

Because all it did was make me realize all over again how much I wish we hadn’t broken up.

I’m not saying I don’t love J.P. and all of that.

I just wish…I…

I don’t even know.

But I do know I wish I hadn’t come here! And I knew for sure, the minute Michael started speaking, and thanking everyone for having him and describing how he’d come up with the idea for Pavlov Surgical (which I already knew, of course—he’d named it for his dog, Pavlov, which is the most adorable thing, ever), that there was no way I was going to go up to him afterward. Even if Lilly and his parents and Nana Moscovitz hadn’t been there.

Not even for the people of Genovia. No way. Not ever.

I just couldn’t trust myself to go up and speak to him and not throw my arms around his neck and plunge my tongue down his throat, like Finnula does to Hugo inRansom My Heart .

I know! And I have a boyfriend! A boyfriend I love! Even if—well. There’s thatOther Thing.

So I was like,It’s fine, we’re in the last row, we’ll just sneak out when he’s done talking.

I really thought it wouldn’t be any big deal. Lars was still out in the hallway with Wahim, even though I could see him peeking in at me and giving me the evil eye (which he completely learned from Grandmère). There was no chance of us getting busted unless Lana or Trisha began making out with one of the other members of the press who was sitting around us, none of whom was cute, anyway, so that seemed pretty unlikely.

But then Michael started introducing the other members of the CardioArm team—you know, who’d helped him invent it or make it or market it or whatever?

And one of them was this totally cute girl named Midori, and when she came out on the stage she gave Michael this big hug, and I could tell…I mean, I could just tell…

Well, anyway, that’s when I knew they were a couple and also when I could feel the oatmeal with raisins I’d had for breakfast almost coming up into my throat. Which made no sense because we’re broken up and, oh, yeah, as mentioned previously, I HAVE A BOYFRIEND.

Anyway, Tina saw the hug, too, and leaned over to whisper, “I’m sure they’re just friends and they work together. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

To which I whispered back, “Yeah, right. Because all guys just ignore the girl in the micromini at work.”

Which, of course, Tina had no reply for. Because Midori’s micromini looked as super cute as she did. And every guy in the room was ignoring it. NOT.

And then Michael presented his CardioArm—which was way bigger than I thought it would be—and everyone clapped, and he ducked his dark head and looked adorably modest.

And then Dr. Arthur Ward surprised him by giving him an honorary master’s degree in science. Just, you know, as one does.

So then everyone clapped some more, and the Drs. Moscovitz came up on stage with Nana and Lilly (Kenny—I mean, Kenneth—hung back, until Lilly finally signaled for him to join them, which he did, after a lot of hesitation and her waving at him, and finally stamping her foot kind of imperiously, which was very Lilly-like, and made people laugh, even people who didn’t know her) and the whole family hugged, and I just…

I started bawling. Really.

Not because Michael has a new girlfriend now, or anything lame like that.

But because it was just so sweet, to see them all up there hugging like that, a family that I personally know, and who has been through so much, what with Michael and Lilly’s parents’ almost-divorce and now their getting back together and Lilly’s general psychoness and Michael’s going off to Japan and working so hard, and…

…and they were all just so happy. It was just so…nice. It was this wonderful moment of success and triumph andwonderfulness.

And there I was,spying on them. Because I wanted to use Michael, to get something that, yes, my country needs, but I don’t in any way deserve. I mean, we can wait, like everybody else.

Basically, I felt like I was totally invading their privacy, and that I had no right to be there. Because I didn’t. I was there on false pretenses.

And it was time to leave.

So I looked at all the other girls—as best I could see them through my tears—and I was like, “Let’s go.”

“But you haven’t even talked to him!” Tina cried.

“And I’m not going to,” I said. I knew as I said it thatthis was the princessy thing to do. To leave Michael alone. He was happy now. He didn’t need crazy, neurotic me messing up his life anymore. He had sweet, smart Micromini Midori—or if not her, someone like her. The last thing he needed was lying, romance-writing Princess Mia.

Who, by the way, already had a boyfriend.

“Let’s sneak out one at a time,” I said. “I’ll go first, I have to stop in the bathroom.” I knew I had to write all this down while it was still fresh in my mind. Besides which, I had to reapply my eyeliner and mascara, since I’d just cried it all off. “I’ll meet you guys back at Broadway and One-sixty-eighth.”

“This blows,” Lana said. She is very in touch with her feelings.

“The limo’s waiting there,” I said. “I’ll take you to Pinkberry. My treat.”

“Pinkberry, my butt,” Lana said. “You’re taking us to Nobu.”

“Fine,” I said.

So I snuck in here. Where I’ve reapplied my makeup, and I’m writing this.

Really, it’s better this way. To let him go. Not that I ever really had him, or could have, really, but…well,’tis a far, far better thing I do , and all of that. I’m sure Grandmère wouldn’t think so. But this really is the more princessy thing to do. The Moscovitzes looked sohappy. Even Lilly.

And she’snever happy.

Okay, I better go meet those guys. I think Lars might actually shoot me if I make him wait any longer. I—

Hey, those shoes look really familiar.

Oh,no.

Saturday, April 29, 4:00 p.m., limo home

Oh,yes.

Lilly. It wasLilly.

In the stall next to mine.

She totally recognized my platform Mary Janes. My new Prada ones, not the old ones I had from two years ago, which she so mercilessly savaged on her website.

She was like, “Mia? Is that you in there? I thought I saw Lars in the hallway….”

What could I do? I couldn’t say it wasn’t me. Obviously.

So I came out and there she was, looking totally confused, like,What are youdoing here?

Fortunately the whole time I was sitting in the audience I’d totally had a chance to make up a story for what I would say if this happened.

Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Six.

“Oh, hi, Lilly.” I was so Ms. Casual. Even though I had given myself a complete MAC makeover and blowout and was in my best Nanette Lepore top and black lace-trimmed leggings, I acted like the whole thing was no big deal. “Gretchen Weinberger couldn’t make it today so she gave me her press pass and asked me to cover the story of Michael’s donation for her.” I even pulled Gretchen’s press pass out of my bag to prove my colossal lie. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

Lilly just stared at the press pass. Then she looked up at me (because I still tower over her by about six inches, especially in my platforms, even though she was wearing heels).

Honestly, I didn’t like the way she was looking at me. Like she didn’t believe me.

Too late, I remembered the way Lilly could always tell when I was lying (because my nostrils flare).

However, I’ve been practicing lying in front of the mirror, and also in front of Grandmère, to stop this from happening, because people being able to tell you’re lying is a total detriment to one’s future career as a princess, or whatever you want to be, really, as white lies are really crucial to all professions (“Oh, no, you have much longer than six months to live, actually”).

And Grandmère says I’ve gotten much better about it (J.P., too. Well, obviously. Otherwise he’d have known when I said I hadn’t gotten into any of the colleges I said I hadn’t gotten into. Not to mention any of the other multiple lies I’ve told him. I couldkill Lilly for having told him about the nostril thing. Sometimes I wonder if there’s anythingelse she told him about me that he hasn’t told me she told him).

I was pretty sure Lilly couldn’t tell I was lying. But just to be sure, I added, “I hope you don’t mind I’m here. I tried to stay out of your way and in the background as much as possible. I know this is a special day for you and your family, and I…I think it’s really great about Michael.”

This last part wasn’t a lie, so I didn’t need to worry about my nostrils. Not even a little bit.

Lilly narrowed her eyes at me. For once she hadn’t smeared them all over with black kohl. I knew she’d done this out of deference for Nana Moscovitz, who thinks kohl is slutty.

I thought she was going to hit me. I really did.

“You’re really here to cover the story for theAtom ?” she asked, in a hard voice.

I have never concentrated on my nostrils more in my entire life.

“Yes,” I said. And anyway, it isn’t a lie, because I plan on going home now and writing a four-hundred-word story about this whole thing and submitting it Monday morning. After throwing up about nine hundred times.

Lilly’s mean-eyed gaze didn’t change.

“And did you really mean that about my brother, Mia?” she asked.

“Of course I do,” I said.

This, too, was the truth.

Just as I’d suspected, Lilly was totally staring at my nose. When she didn’t see my nostrils move, she seemed to relax a little.

What she said next shocked me so much, I momentarily lost the ability to speak.

“It was really great of you to come. In Gretchen’s place, I mean,” she said, sounding a hundred percent sincere. “And I know the fact that you came will mean a lot to Michael. And since you’re here, you can’t leave without coming to say hi to him.”

That’s when I nearly threw up my oatmeal again.What?

“Uh,” I said, backing up so fast, I almost collided with this old lady who was coming out of another bathroom stall. “No, thanks. That’s okay! I think I have enough for the story for theAtom . This is family time for you guys. I don’t want to intrude. In fact, my ride is waiting, so I have to go.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Lilly said, reaching out and grabbing my wrist. Not in a nice, friendly,Come on kind of way. But in aYou’re busted, and you’re coming with me, young lady kind of way. I’ll admit it. I was a little scared. “You’re a princess, remember? You can tell your ride when it’s time to go. As your editor, I’m telling you, you need a direct quote from Michael for the paper. And he’d be hurt if he found out you were here and didn’t say hi. And,” she said, giving my wrist an ominous squeeze, along with a glare that could have frozen molten lava, “you’re not hurting him again, Mia. Not on my watch.”

Me, hurthim ? Hello? Did I need to remind her that her brother was the one who dumpedme ?

And okay, I acted like a complete jackass and completely deserved to be dumped. But still.

What was going on here, anyway? Was this some kind of continuation of the revenge for whatever it was I did to her last year? Was she going to drag me into that room and then do or say something horrible to humiliate me in front of everyone—especially her brother?

If so, it wasn’t like I had any choice but to let her pull me back into the crowded pavilion. Her grip on my wrist was like iron.

But…what if thiswasn’t about revenge? What if Lilly was over whatever it was she’d been so mad at me about for two years? Maybe it was worth the risk.

Because in spite of everything—even ihatemiathermopolis.com—I missed having Lilly as a friend. At least, when she wasn’t trying to get revenge on me for things I’d supposedly done to her.

I saw Lars look up in surprise as we came out of the ladies’ room together, and his eyes widen—he knows perfectly well Lilly and I aren’t exactly bosom buddies anymore. And I guess seeing the way she had hold of my wrist was probably a bit of a tip-off to him that I wasn’t exactly going with her of my own volition.

Still, I shook my head at him to let him know he shouldn’t go for his taser. This was my own mess, and I was going to take care of it. Somehow.

I also saw Tina down the hall notice us, and throw us a startled look. Lilly, thank God, didn’t see her. Tina’s jaw dropped when she spied the way Lilly’s hand was clamped over my wrist, which I suppose did not look exactly friendly-ish. Tina thrust her cell phone to her ear and mouthed, “Call me!”

I nodded. Oh, I was going to call Tina, all right.

Call her and give her a piece of my mind for getting me into this mess in the first place (though I suppose it was my big plan to Do The Princessy Thing that got me here, really).

The next thing I knew, Lilly was dragging me across the Simon and Louise Templeman Patient Care Pavilion toward the stage where Michael and their parents and Nana Moscovitz and Kenny—I mean, Kenneth—and the other employees of Pavlov Surgical were still standing, drinking champagne.

I felt like I was going to die. I really did.

But then I remembered something Grandmère had once assured me of: No one has ever died of embarrassment—never, not once in the whole history of time.

Which I am living proof of, having a grandmother like mine.

So at least I had the assurance I would escape from all of this with my life.

“Michael,” Lilly started bellowing, when we were halfway across the stage. She’d dropped my wrist and taken my hand—which felt so weird. Lilly and I used to hold hands all the time when we were crossing the street together back when we were kids, because our mothers made us, thinking somehow this would ensure we wouldn’t get run over by an M1 bus (instead, it basically meant we’dboth get plowed down). Lilly’s hand had always been sweaty and sticky with candy back then.

Now it felt smooth and cool. A grown-up’s hand, really. It was strange.

Michael was busy talking to a whole group of people—in Japanese. Lilly had to say his name two more times before he finally looked over and saw us.

I wish I could say when Michael’s dark eyes met mine, I was completely cool and collected about seeing him again after all this time, and that I laughed airily and said all the right things. I wish I could say after having pretty much single-handedly brought democracy to a country I happen to be princess of, and written a four-hundred-page romance novel, and gotten into every college to which I applied (even if it’s just because I’m a princess), that I handled meeting Michael for the first time again after throwing my snowflake necklace in his face almost two years ago with total grace and aplomb.

But I totally didn’t. I could feel my whole face start to heat up when his gaze met mine. Also, my hands began to sweat right away. And I was pretty sure the floor was going to come swinging up and smack me in the face, I suddenly felt so light-headed and dizzy.

“Mia,” Michael said, in his deep Michael-y voice, after excusing himself from the people he’d been talking to. Then he smiled, and my light-headedness increased by about ten million percent. I was positive I was going to pass out.

“Um,” I said. I think I smiled back. I have no idea. “Hi.”

“Mia’s here representing theAtom ,” Lilly explained to Michael, when I didn’t say anything more. Icouldn’t say anything more. It was all I could do just to keep from falling over like a tree that had been gnawed on by a beaver. “She’s doing a story on you, Michael. Aren’t you, Mia?”

I nodded. Story?Atom? What was she talking about?

Oh, right. The school paper.

“How are you doing?” Michael asked me. He was talking to me. He was talking to me in a friendly, nonconfrontational manner.

And yet no words would formulate in my head, much less come out of my mouth. I was mute, just like Rob Lowe’s character in the TV movie of Stephen King’sThe Stand . Only I wasn’t as good-looking.

“Why don’t you ask Michael a question for your story, Mia?” Lilly poked me.Poked me. In the shoulder. And it didn’t not hurt.

“Ow,” I said.

Wow! A word!

“Where’s Lars?” Michael asked, with a laugh. “You better watch out, Lil. She generally travels with an armed escort.”

“He’s around here somewhere,” I managed to get out. Finally! A sentence. Accompanied by a shaky laugh. “And I’m fine, thanks for asking before. How are you doing, Michael?”

Yes! It speaks!

“I’m great,” Michael said.

Right then his mother came up and said, “Honey, this man over here is withThe New York Times . He wants to talk to you. Can you just—” Then she saw me, and her eyes went totally huge. “Oh.Mia. ”

Yeah. As in: Oh.It’s You. The Girl Who Ruined Both My Children’s Lives.

I seriously don’t think it was my imagination, either. I mean, it would take an imagination the size of Tina’s to turn it into:Oh. It’s You. The Girl for Whom My Son Has Secretly Been Pining Away the Past Two Years.

Which, having seen Micromini Midori, I knew wasn’t the case.

“Hi, Dr. Moscovitz,” I said, in the world’s smallest voice. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” Dr. Moscovitz said, smiling and leaning over to kiss my cheek. “I haven’t seen you in so long. It’s lovely you were able to come.”

“I’m covering the event for the school paper,” I explained hastily, knowing even as I said it how incredibly stupid it sounded. But I didn’t want her to think I’d come for any of the real reasons I’d actually come. “But I know he’s busy. Michael, go talk to theTimes —”

“No,” Michael said. “That’s okay. There’s plenty of time for that.”

“Are you kidding me?” I would have liked to have reached out and pushed him toward the reporter, but we’re not going out anymore, so touching isn’t allowed. Even though I really would have liked to put my hand on that suit coat sleeve, and felt what was underneath it. Which is really shocking, because I have a boyfriend. “It’s theTimes !”

“Maybe you two could get together for coffee or something tomorrow,” Lilly said casually, just as Kenneth—ha! I finally remembered!—came sauntering up. “For, like, a private interview.”

What was shedoing ? What was shesaying ? It was like Lilly had suddenly forgotten how much she hated me. Or Evil Lilly had been replaced, when no one was looking, by Good Lilly.

“Hey,” Michael said, brightening. “That’s a good idea. What do you say, Mia? Are you around tomorrow? Want to meet at Caffe Dante, say, around one?”

Before I knew what I was doing, buoyed by popular sentiment, I was nodding, and saying, “Yes, one tomorrow is fine. Okay, great, see you then.”

And then Michael was walking away…only to turn at the last minute and say, “Oh, and bring that senior project of yours. I still can’t wait to read it!”

Oh my God.

I fully thought I was going to be sick all over Kenneth’s shiny dress shoes.

Lilly must have noticed, since she poked me in the back (again, not very gently), and asked, “Mia? Are youall right ?”

Michael was out of earshot by then, talking to theTimes reporter, and his mom had drifted off to talk to his dad and Nana Moscovitz. I just looked at Lilly miserably and said the first thing that popped into my head, which was, “Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?”

Lilly opened her mouth and started to say something, but Kenneth put his arm around her and glared at me and went, “Are you still going out with J.P.?”

I just blinked at him in confusion. “Yes,” I said.

“Then never mind,” Kenneth said, and swung Lilly away from me like he was mad at me, or something.

And she didn’t try to stop him.

Which is weird because Lilly isn’t exactly the type of girl to let a guy tell her what to do. Even Kenneth, who she really likes. More than likes, I’m pretty sure.

Anyway, that was the end of my big first meeting with Michael after almost two years. I got down off the stage with as much dignity as I could (it helps when you have a bodyguard to escort you), and we headed to the limo where the girls were waiting, and they demanded every detail, which I was able to give them as I wrote this (although I left out a few details in the version I told them, of course).

I have to take them to Nobu, where they say we’re going to sample every type of sushi on the menu.

But I don’t know how I’m going to be able to concentrate on appreciating the subtle flavors of Chef Matsuhisa when the whole time I’m going to be all,What am I going to do about showing my book to Michael?

Seriously. Not to sound common—as Grandmère would say—but I am pretty much screwed right now.

Because I can’t give my book to Michael. He invented a robotic arm that saves people’s lives. I wrote a romance novel. One of these things is not like the other.

And I really don’t want the guy who just got an honorary master’s degree in science from Columbia (and who’s had his hand down my shirt on numerous occasions) reading my sex scenes.

Talk about embarrassing.

Saturday, April 29, 7 p.m., the loft

I decided that Dr. K is right.

I really have to stop lying so much. I mean, if I’m going to meet Michael tomorrow for this newspaper interview thing (which there’s no way I can get out of, because if I don’t do it then I have to admit that Iwasn’t there today to interview him for theAtom , and there is absolutelyno way I’m fessing up that I wasreally there to ask him for a CardioArm…or, worse, to spy on him with my giggling girlfriends), then I’m going to have to give him a copy of my senior project.

I’m just going to have to. There’s no way I can get around it. He totally remembered—don’t ask me how, when he’s obviously the busiest man in the universe.

And if I’m going to come clean with my ex-boyfriend regarding the truth about my senior project, well, that means I have to tell the truth about it to the people in my life who are more important than he is. Such as, my best friend, and my actual boyfriend.

Because otherwise, it’s just not fair. I mean, for Michael to know the truth aboutRansom My Heart , but not Tina or J.P.?

So I decided that I’m just going to bite the bullet and give ALL of them a copy. This weekend.

In fact, I e-mailed Tina hers just now. I’ve got nothing but free time tonight, since J.P. is at rehearsal, and I’m babysitting Rocky while Mom and Mr. G are at a community meeting to discuss NYU’s rampant expansionism and what they can do to stop it before the only people who can afford to live in the Village are twenty-year-old Tisch film students with trust funds.

I sent Tina a copy of my manuscript with this message:

Dear T,

I hope you won’t be mad, but remember when I said my senior project was about Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650? Well, I was sort of lying. Actually, my senior project was a four-hundred-page medieval romance novel calledRansom My Heartset in 1291 England about a girl named Finnula who kidnaps and holds for ransom a knight just back from the Crusades, so she can get money for her pregnant sister to buy hops and barley to make beer (a common practice in those days).

However, what Finnula doesn’t know is that knight is really the earl of her village. And Finnula has some secrets the earl doesn’t know, as well.

I’m sendingRansom My Heartto you now. You don’t have to read it or anything (unless you want to). I just hope you’ll forgive me for lying. I feel really stupid for that. I don’t know why I did it, I guess because I was embarrassed because I wasn’t sure if it was any good. Plus, there are a lot of sex scenes in it.

I really hope you’ll still be my friend.

Love,

Mia

I haven’t heard back from her, but that’s because the Hakim Babas usually have dinner all together this time of day, and Tina’s not allowed to check her messages at the table. It’s a family rule that even Mr. Hakim Baba follows now that his doctor warned him about his high blood pressure.

I kind of feel sick—sick and excited at the same time. About sendingRansom My Heart to Tina, I mean. I can’t imagine what she’s going to say. Will she be mad at me for lying to her? Or stoked, because romance novels are her favorite thing in the whole world? It’s true she prefers contemporary romance novels, and usually ones with sheiks in them.

But it’s possible she might like mine. I put a ton of references to the desert in it.

More importantly, what’s J.P. going to say about it when I tell him? I mean, he knows I love writing, and that I want to be an author someday.

But I’ve never actually mentionedromance writing to him before.

Well, I guess I’m going to find out what he thinks soon enough. I’m sending him a copy, too.

Although, who knows when he’ll actually open it up and read it. His play rehearsals have been known to go on until midnight.

And now Rocky is begging me to watch Dora the Explorer with him. I understand that millions of kids love Dora and have learned to read or whatever from her show. But I wouldn’t mind if Dora fell off a cliff and took her little pals with her.

Saturday, April 29, 8:30 p.m.

I just got a text from Tina!

OMG I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WROTE A ROMANCE NOVEL AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME!!!!!!!!!! YOU R SO AWESOME!!!!!!!!! I LUV U!!!!!!!!! ROMANCE NOVELS 4EVER!!!! I’VE STARTED IT ALREADY AND IT’S SO CUTE!!!! YOU HAVE TO TRY TO GET THIS PUBLISHED!!!!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WROTE A WHOLE BOOK!!!!!!!! Tina

P.S. I have to talk to you about something. It’s nothing I can put in a text. It’s not a bad thing. But it’s something I thought of because of your book. CALL ME ASAP!!!!!

It was as I was reading this that my phone rang, and I saw it was J.P. I picked up, and before I could say anything, even “Hello,” he was all, “Wait…you wrote aromance novel ?”

He was laughing. But not in a mean way. In an affectionate,I can’t believe it way.

Before I knew it, I was laughing, too.

“Yeah,” I said. “Remember my senior project?”

“The one about the history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650?” J.P. sounded incredulous. “Of course.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, actually, I sort of…lied about that.” Oh, dear God in heaven, I prayed. Don’t let him hate me for lying. “My senior project was really a historical romance novel. The one I just sent you. It’s medieval, set in 1291 England. Do you hate me?”

“Hate you?” J.P. laughed some more. “Of course I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. But aromance novel ?” he said, again. “Like the kind Tina reads?”

“Yeah,” I said. Why did he sound like that? It wasn’tthat strange. “Well, notexactly like the kind she likes to read. But sort of. See, Dr. K told me it was great that I helped Genovia become a constitutional monarchy, and all, but that I should really do something formyself , not just for the people of Genovia. And since I love writing, I thought—and Dr. K agreed—maybe I should write a book, because I want to be an author, and all, and I was always writing in my journal anyway. And, well, I love romance novels…they’re so satisfying, and proven to be stress relievers—did you know many of the Domina Rei, leaders in the business and political world, read romance novels to relax? I did some research, and over twenty-five percent of all books sold are romances. So, I figured if I was going to write something that had a hope of being published, statistically, a romance had the best shot—”

Okay. I was babbling. I mean, did I really just tell him over twenty-five percent of all books sold were romances? No wonder he wasn’t saying anything.

“You wrote aromance novel ?” he finally said. Again.

Weirdly, J.P. was turning out to be less upset about the fact that I’d lied to him than he was about the fact that I’d written a romance novel.

“Um, yeah,” I went on, trying not to focus too much on how stunned he sounded. “See, I did a whole lot of research on medieval times—you know, like when Princess Amelie lived? Then I wrote my book. And now I’m trying to get it published—”

“You’re trying to get itpublished ?” J.P. echoed, his voice breaking a little on the wordpublished .

“Yes,” I said, a little surprised by his surprise. What was up with that? Isn’t that what you did when you wrote a book? I mean, he’d written a play, and I was pretty sure he was trying to get it produced. Right? “Only not very successfully. No one seems to want it. Except vanity presses, of course, who wantme to paythem . But that’s not unusual, I guess. I mean, J.K. Rowling’s first Harry Potter novel got rejected numerous times before she—”

“Do the publishers know the book is byyou ?” J.P. interrupted. “The princess of Genovia?”

“Well, no, of course not,” I said. “I’m using a pseudonym. If I said it was by me, they’d totally want to publish it. But then I wouldn’t know for sure if they really liked it and thought it was good and worth publishing, or if they just wanted to publish a book written by the princess of Genovia. Do you see the difference? I don’t even want to be published if it’s going to happen that way. I mean, I just want to see if I can do it—be a published author—without it happening because I’m a princess. I want it to happen because what I wrote is good—maybe not the best. But okay enough to be sold at Wal-Mart or wherever.”

J.P. just sighed.

“Mia,” he said. “What are youdoing ?”

I blinked. “Doing? What do you mean?”

“I mean, why are you selling yourself short? Why are you writing commercial fiction?”

I had to admit, he completely lost me there. What was he talking about, “selling myself short”? And commercial fiction? What other kind of fiction was I supposed to write? Fiction based on real-life people? I’d tried that once…a long time ago. I wrote a short story based on real people—it was about J.P., as a matter of fact, before I had gotten to know him.

And I’d had the character based on him kill himself at the end by throwing himself under the F train!

Thank GOD I’d realized at the last minute—just before the story was about to be distributed to the entire school via Lilly’s literary magazine—that you just can’tdo that. You can’t write stories based on real people and have them throwing themselves under the F train at the end.

Because you’ll just end up hurting their feelings if they happen to read it and recognize themselves in it.

And I don’t want to hurt anybody!

But I couldn’t tell J.P. that. He didn’t know about the short story I’d written about him. I’d kept that a secret this whole time we’d been going out.

So, in answer to his commercial-fiction question, I said, “Well. Because…it’s fun. And I like it.”

“But you’re so much better than that, Mia,” he said.

I have to admit, this kind of stung. It was like he was saying my book—which I’d spent almost two years working on, and which he hadn’t even read yet—wasn’t worth anything.

Wow. This wasreally not the reaction I’d hoped for from him.

“Maybe you should read it first,” I said, trying to keep the tears that had suddenly popped into my eyes—I don’t know from where, I’m really not usually that sensitive—from spilling over, “before you make judgments about it.”

J.P. sounded instantly contrite.

“Of course,” he said. “You’re right. Sorry. Listen…I have to get back to rehearsal. Can we talk more about this tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I said. “Call me.”

“I will,” he said. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” I said. And hung up.

The thing is, it’s going to be fine. I know it will. He’ll readRansom My Heart , and he’ll love it. I know he will. Just like I’ll seeA Prince Among Men on opening night next week, and I’ll love it. Everything’s going to be fine! That’s why we’re so well suited for each other. Because we’re both so creative. We’re artists.

I mean, J.P. will probably have a few editorial notes to make aboutRansom My Heart . No book is perfect. But that’s okay, because that’s how creative couples are. Like Stephen and Tabitha King. I welcome his input! I’ll probably have a few notes onA Prince Among Men as well. We’ll go over his notes on my book together tomorrow, and—

OH MY GOD I’M MEETING MICHAEL FOR COFFEE TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!

How am I ever going to get to sleep NOW?????

Sunday, April 30, 3 a.m., the loft

Questions to ask Michael for the Atom:

1. What inspired you to invent the CardioArm?

2. What was it like to live in Japan for twenty-one months, assuming you were there this whole time and not actually back in this country before now and just not calling me, which would have been totally fine because we’re broken up anyway?

3. What did you miss most about America?

4. What did you like best about Japan?

(I can’t ask him this! What if he says Micromini Midori? I won’t be able to bear it! Plus, I can’t put that answer in a school paper! Oh…maybe I should just ask it anyway…he could say something like sushi…)

4. What did you like best about Japan? (PLEASE DON’T LET HIM SAY MICROMINI MIDORI!!!!)

5. How long is the wait list for one of Pavlov Surgical’s CardioArms?

I can’t ask this either! Because it sounds like I’m asking to see how long it would take Genovia to get one, and that I’m hinting that I want one….

5. Hypothetically, if a very small country were to request a CardioArm for one of their hospitals (and were willing to pay cash for it, of course), what type of procedure would they follow? Does Pavlov Surgical accept checks or could a country pay with a black American Express card and if so could I possibly pay for it now?

6. If you could be any animal what would it be and why? (God, this is the stupidest question, but it seems like everyone who ever interviews me asks this, so I guess I’d better ask it, too.)

7. How long do you plan on staying in New York? Is this a permanent move or do you think you’ll go back to Japan? Or do you see yourself moving, perhaps, to Silicon Valley in California, which is where all the young computer titans, such as the founders of Google and Facebook, seem to live these days?

8. As an AEHS grad, what is your best memory of your time at our school? (Nondenominational Winter Dance. Please say Nondenominational Winter Dance your senior year.)

9. Do you have any words of inspiration for this year’s AEHS graduating class?

AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH THESE ARE SO LAME!!!!!!

Sunday, April 30, noon, the loft

Okay, I still haven’t thought of any better questions for Michael, but those were the best I could come up with after what happened with J.P. being allYou wrote a romance? Not to mention the nine hundred text messages I’ve received from Tina telling me we have to talk “in person.” I have no idea what could be so important that we can’t discuss it over the phone.

But Tina is totally convinced that René might have hackers secretly taping my cell phone transmissions (just like Prince Charles and Camilla and the “tampon” incident), so for the moment, she won’t say or text anything too inflammatory to me via cellular transmission.

Which makes me think whatever it is that’s on her mind, I probably don’t want to hear it.

Possibly the reason that I can’t come up with any better questions for Michael might have something to do with the fact that I woke up this morning to Rocky banging on my face with his fist, yelling, “Soopwise!”

I was “soopwised” all right. Surprised he was in my room, since he isn’t supposed to be allowed in it—and he isn’t supposed to be able to get in it with the special slippy thing I put over the doorknob that only adults know how to work.

Only it turned out an adult had opened the door for him. An adult who was peering down at me with a big happy grin on her face.

“Well, hey there, Mia! How you doin’?”

Oh my God. It was Mamaw. With Papaw right next to her. In my room. MyBEDROOM .

That’s it. I’m moving out of this place. Just as soon as I can figure out where I’m going to go to college. Which I have a little less than a week to decide.

“Happy birthday, in advance!” Mamaw yelled. “Look atchoo, lying in bed at ten o’clock! Who do you think you are, anyway? Some kinda princess?”

This caused Mamaw and Papaw to explode with laughter. At their own joke. It caused me to pull the covers up over my head and yell, “MO-O-OOOM!!!”

“Mother.” I could hear Mom show up. “Please. I’m sure Mia’s very excited to see you, but let’s give her a chance to get up and greet you properly. You’ll have plenty of time to visit each other.”

“I don’t see when,” Mamaw said. I could tell by her voice that she was scowling. “Y’all have us visitin’ so many museums and tours and whatnot.”

“Well, I’m sure Mia will be more than happy to go on some of those tours with you,” I heard Mom say.

It was at that point I flipped the covers down and glared at her. Mom just glared right back.

So, apparently, I’m taking Mamaw and Papaw to the Central Park Zoo later today.

I understand that it’s the least I can do in my capacity as their only granddaughter. Still.It’s not like I don’t exactly have other things to do.

One of them being get ready for my coffee date, I mean interview, with Michael. Which I need to continue doing right now. Even though it’s hard because my hands are trembling so much I can barely hold my eye pencil to outline my lids.

And I really wish Lana would quit texting me to tell me what to wear because that’s not helping, either.

Although I refuse to take her advice, and I’m going with something casual. Just my 7 For All Mankind jeans, the Christian Louboutin boots, my off-the-shoulder Sweet Robin Alexandra top, all my bangles, my Subversive lava bead cameo choker, and my chandelier earrings. That’s not too much at all! I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to get him to like me in a sexy way. We’re just friends now.

I’m going to brush my teeth one more time, though, just to be safe.

Mr. G and Rocky are putting on a drum recital for Mamaw and Papaw.

Please, let me get out of here without developing a cluster headache.

Sunday, April 30, 12:55 p.m., Caffe Dante,

MacDougal Street

My hands are sweating so much. This kind of weakness is insufferable, especially in a member of the House of Renaldo. We’re all feminists. Even Dad. He has the endorsement of NOWG, National Organization of the Women of Genovia, after all. Even Grandmère is a member.

Speaking of Grandmère, she’s e-mailed me, like, FOUR times today about the party and/or Dad’s election. I’ve deleted each one. I don’t have time to read her insane messages! And why can’t she learn to e-mail properly? I realize she’s four hundred years old, and I have to respect my elders (even though if you ask me, she is in no way deserving of my respect). But still, she could let go of the R button once she’s pressed it the first time.

Where IS Michael? Lars and I are here. And I realize we’re five minutes early. (I wanted to get rid of the paparazzi if I had to, but there’s none here, strangely. I also wanted to have the first choice of seat so I could make sure I got the best lighting. Lana assures me this is vitally important in boy/girl meetings, even of the Friends Only variety. Also, I wanted to snag a table close by for my bodyguard, yet far enough away that he wasn’t breathing down our necks, no offense, of course, Lars, if you’re reading this over my shoulder, which, don’t lie, I know you do when the battery on your Treo runs down.) So where is—

Oh, God. There he is. He’s looking around for us.

He looks SO good. Even better than yesterday, because today he’s wearing jeans and they’re fitting him SO PERFECTLY in all the right places.

Wow. I’m turninginto Lana.

And he’s also wearing a totally nice black short-sleeved Polo shirt and I’m just going to come right out and say that everything we suspected lay under the sleeves of his suit jacket yesterday REALLY DOES. As in, muscles. Not hideous bulked up steroidy ones, either.

But Lana was not far off in her Christian BaleBatman assessment.

And I know I have a boyfriend. I am merely observing this in my capacity as an investigative journalist.

!!!!!

He’s seen me!!!!! He’s coming!!!!!

I’m dying now, good-bye.

Interview with Michael Moscovitz for theAtom , as recorded by Mia Thermopolis on Sunday, April 30, via iPhone (to be transcribed later)

Mia:So, it’s okay if I record this?

Michael(laughing): I said it was.

Me:I know, but I need to record you saying it. I know it’s stupid.

Michael(still laughing): It’s not stupid. It’s just kind of weird. I mean, to be sitting here being interviewed by you. First of all, it’s you. Second of all…well, you were always the celebrity.

Mia:Well, now it’s your turn. And thanks again, so much, for doing this. I know how busy you must be, and I want you to know I really appreciate you taking the time out to meet with me.

Michael:Mia…of course.

Mia:Okay, so first question: What inspired you to invent the CardioArm?

Michael:Well, I saw a need in the medical community and felt I had the technical knowledge to fill it. There’ve been other attempts in the past to create similar products, but mine is the first to incorporateadvanced imaging technology. Which I can explain to you if you want, but I don’t think you’re going to have room for it in your article, if I remember how long the stories are in theAtom .

Mia(laughing): Uh, no, that’s okay—

Michael:And, of course, you.

Mia:What?

Michael:You asked what my inspiration was for inventing the CardioArm. Part of it was you. You remember, I told you before I left for Japan, I wanted to do something to show the world I was worthy of dating a princess. I know it sounds dumb now, but…that was a big part of it. Back then.

Mia:R-right. Back then.

Michael:You don’t have to put that in the article if it embarrasses you, though. I can’t imagine you’d want your boyfriend reading that.

Mia:J.P.? No…no, he’d be fine with that. Are you kidding? I mean, he knows about all that. We tell each other everything.

Michael:Right. So he knows you’re here with me?

Mia:Um. Of course! So where was I? Oh, right. What was it like to live in Japan for so long?

Michael:Great! Japan’s great. Highly recommend it.

Mia:Really? So are you planning on…Oh, wait, that question’s later…Sorry, my grandmother woke me up really early this morning and I’m all disorganized.

Michael:How is the Dowager Princess Clarisse?

Mia:Oh, not her. The other one. Mamaw. She’s in town for my birthday party.

Michael:Oh, right. I wanted to thank you for the invitations to your party.

Mia:…the invitations to myparty ?

Michael:Right. Mine arrived this morning. And my mom said hers and Dad’s and Lilly’s came last night. That was really nice of you, to let bygones be bygones with Lilly. I know she and Kenny are planning on going tomorrow night. My parents, too. I’m going to try to make it, as well.

Mia(under breath):Grandmère!

Michael:What was that?

Mia:Nothing. Okay…so what did you miss most about America while you were gone?

Michael:Uh…you?

Mia:Oh, ha ha. Be serious.

Michael:Sorry. Okay. My dog.

Mia:What did you like best about Japan?

Michael:Probably the people. I met a lot of really great people there. I’m going to miss some of them—the ones I haven’t brought over here with the rest of my team—a lot.

Mia:Oh. Really? I mean…so you’re moving permanently back to America now?

Michael:Yeah, I have a place here in Manhattan. Pavlov Surgical will have its corporate offices here, though the bulk of the manufacturing will be done out of Palo Alto in California.

Mia:Oh. So—

Michael:Can I askyou a question now?

Mia:Um…sure.

Michael:When am I going to get to read your senior project?

Mia:See, I knew you were going to ask me that—

Michael:So, if you knew, where is it?

Mia:I have to tell you something.

Michael:Uh-oh. I know that look.

Mia:Yeah. My project’s not about the history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650.

Michael:It’s not?

Mia:No. It’s actually a four-hundred-page medieval historical romance novel.

Michael:Sweet. Hand it over.

Mia:Seriously. Michael—you’re just being nice. You don’t have to read it.

Michael:Haveto? If you don’t think I want to read it now, you’re high. Have you been smoking some of Clarisse’s Gitanes? Because I’m pretty sure I got high once on the secondhand smoke from those.

Mia:She had to quit smoking. Look, if I e-mail you a copy, will you just promise to not start reading it until I’ve left?Michael: What, now? You mean this minute? To my phone? I completely and totally swear.

Mia:Okay. Fine. Here it is.

Michael:Outstanding. Wait. Who’s Daphne Delacroix?

Mia:You said you wouldn’t read it!

Michael:Oh my God, you should see your face. It’s the same color red as my Converse.

Mia:Thanks for pointing that out. Actually, I changed my mind. I don’t want you to have a copy anymore. Give me your phone, I’m deleting it.

Michael:What? No way. I’m reading this thing tonight. Hey—cut it out! Lars, help, she’s attacking me!

Lars:I’m only supposed to intervene if someone is attacking her, not if the princess is attacking someone else.

Mia:Give it to me!

Michael:No—

Waiter:Is there a problem here?

Michael:No.

Mia:No.

Lars:No. Please excuse them. Too much caffeine.

Mia:Sorry, Michael. I’ll pay for dry cleaning….

Michael:Don’t be stupid…are you stillrecording this?

End recording.

Sunday, April 30, 2:30 p.m., a bench in

Washington Square Park

Yeah, so, that didn’t work out so well.

And it got even worse when I was saying good-bye to Michael—after I’d tried, then failed, to wrestle his iPhone away from him so I could delete that copy of my book I’d so stupidly sent him—and we got up to leave, and I stuck out my hand to shake his hand good-bye, and he looked at it and said, “I think we can do a little better than that, can’t we?”

And held out his arms to give me a hug—an obviouslyfriendly hug, I mean, it was nothing more than that.

And I laughed and said, “Of course.”

And I hugged him back.

And I accidentally smelled him.

And it all came rushing back. How safe and warm I’d always felt in his arms, and how every time he’d held me like that, I’d never wanted him to let go. I didn’t want him to let go of me there, right in the middle of Caffe Dante, where I was just interviewing him for theAtom , not on a date or anything. It was so stupid. It was so awful. I mean, I had to practicallyforce myself to let go of him, to stop breathing in his Michael-y smell, which I hadn’t smelled in so long.

What iswrong with me?

And now I can’t go home, because I don’t think I can deal with running into any of my various family members from Indiana (or Genovia) who might be there. I just have to sit out here in the park and try to forget what a complete idiot I was back there (while Lars stands guard to protect me from the drug dealers who keep asking me to “Smoke? Smoke?” and the homeless people who want to know if I can give them “a five dollars” and the packs of touring NYU kids with their parents, who keep going, “Oh my God, is that—It is! It’s Princess Mia of Genovia!”) and hope eventually I’ll go back to normal and my fingers will stop shaking and my heart will stop beatingMi-chael, Michael, Mi-chael like I’m back in freaking ninth grade again.

I really hope that hot chocolate washes out of his jeans.

Also, I would just like to ask the gods or anyone else who might be listening…why can’t I conduct myself in a grown-up fashion around guys I used to date and with whom I broke up and whom I should be completely and one hundred percent OVER?

It was just so…weirdsitting so close to him again. Evenbefore I could smell him. And I get that we’re just friends now—and, of course, I know I have a boyfriend, and Michael’s got a girlfriend (probably—I never did get a straight answer about this).

But he’s just so…I don’t know! I can’t explain it! He sort of emanates this…touchablequality.

And, of course, I knew I couldn’t touch him (before I did touch him…which he ASKED me to do. He couldn’t have known what that hug would do to me. Did he know? No, he couldn’t have. He isn’t a sadist. Not like his sister).

But being there in the café with him, it was like…well, it was like no time had gone by. Except, of course, a lot of time had gone by. Only in the best way, you know? Like, even though I might have sounded stupid on the tape (I just played it back. I sounded like a complete idiot), I didn’tfeel stupid while I was saying it—not the way I used to when I was younger around Michael. I think it’s because…well, a lot of stuff has happened since I was last in Michael’s company, and I just feel more confident about things (okay, well…about men) than I used to. Recent hug-related freak-out aside.

For instance—now that I played the tape back, I realize Michael was kind of flirting with me! Just a little.

But that’s okay. It’smore than okay, actually.

Oh, no. Did I just write that?

Not that it matters, because I’m pretty sure he thinks the only reason I was there was because I’m doing an article for theAtom (although some reporter I am, since I didn’t even ask him all my questions, once I got so preoccupied wrestling him over his phone).

Wrestling! In a restaurant! Like a seven-year-old! Great. When am I ever going to learn to act like a grown-up? I really thought I’d reached the point of being able to maintain a somewhat dignified demeanor in a public place.

And then I wrestled my ex-boyfriend in a café over his iPhone! And spilled hot chocolate over him!

Then I smelled him.

I think I lost one of my chandelier earrings, too.

Thank God no paparazzi showed to get photos ofthat .

Which is kind of odd, if you think about it. That none of them was around, since they seem to show up everywhere else I go.

Whatever.

Anyway, I guess it was…sweet? Michael, I mean, and his reaction to my telling him I wrote a romance novel. Even though I completely regret sending it to him.

He said he’s going to read it! Tonight!

Of course, J.P. said the same thing. But J.P. also told me I shouldn’t sell myself short. Michael didn’t say anything like that.

Then again, Michael’s not my boyfriend. He doesn’t have my best interests at heart the way J.P. does.

It was just so adorable how he said I was the inspiration for his inventing the CardioArm, though. Even if that was ages ago, and before we broke up.

He also said it was nice of me to let bygones be bygones with Lilly. He obviously doesn’t know the truth. I mean thatI’m not the one who’s been holding a grudge all this time, but—

Oh, no. Grandmère’s calling. I’m going to pick up, because I have a few things I want to say to her.

“Amelia?” Grandmère sounds like she’s in a tunnel. I hear blow-drying in the background, though, so I know it’s only because she’s getting her hair done. “Where are you? Why aren’t you answering any of my e-mails?”

“I have a better question for you, Grandmère. Why did you invite my ex-boyfriend and his family to my birthday party tomorrow night? And you better not say it’s to butter him up so I can ask him for a CardioArm, because—”

“Well, of course that’s why, Amelia,” Grandmère says. I hear a slapping noise, and then she says,“Stop that, Paolo. I said not so much hair spray.” To me she says, in a louder voice, “Amelia? Are you still there?”

Really, nothing she says or does should surprise me anymore. And yet, it does. Continuously.

“Grandmère,” I say. I’m mad. Really. This isn’t just any ex-boyfriend. It’sMichael. “You can’t do this. You can’tuse people like this.”

“Amelia, don’t be stupid. You want your father to win the election, don’t you? We need one of those arm contraptions. As I think I told you. If you had done what I asked you and requested one from him, I wouldn’t have had to send him and that horrible sister of his an invitation, and you wouldn’t be placed in the awkward position of having to entertain your former paramour at your birthday soiree tomorrow night in front of your current paramour. Which I admit will be tricky…”

“Former—” I sputter. There’s a pack of pubescent boys skateboarding nearby. I watch as one of them wipes out on a cement mound placed in the park for this purpose. I know exactly how he feels. “Grandmère, Michael wasnot my paramour. That word suggests that we were lovers, and we werenot —”

“Paolo, Itold you, not so much hair spray. Are you trying to gas me? Just look at poor Rommel, he’s practically hyperventilating, his lung capacity isn’t the same as a human’s, you know!” Grandmère’s voice is fading in and out. “Now, Mia, about your gown for tomorrow night. Chanel will be delivering it in the morning. Kindly let your mother know someone needs to be at your flat to receive it. This means your mother will have to stay home from her little art studio for once. Do you think she can handle that, or is it too much responsibility? Never mind, I already know the answer to that question—”

My call-waiting is going off. It’s Tina!

“Grandmère. This isn’t over,” I inform her. “But I’m going now—”

“Don’t you dare disconnect me, young lady. We haven’t spoken about what we’re going to do if the Domina Rei make an offer of membership to you tomorrow, as you know they’re likely to. You—”

I know it’s rude, but I’ve had quite enough of Grandmère. Really, thirty seconds of her is enough.

“Bye, Grandmère,” I say. And switch over to Tina. I’ll deal with Grandmère’s wrath later.

“Oh my God,” Tina says, the minute I pick up. “Where are you?”

“Washington Square Park,” I say. “Sitting on a bench. I just met Michael and spilled hot chocolate on his pants. We hugged good-bye. I smelled him.”

“You spilled hot chocolate on his pants?” Tina sounds confused. “Yousmelled him?”

“Yeah.” The skateboarders are all trying to outdo one another with their jumps, but most of them just keep crashing. Lars is watching them with a little smile on his face. I really hope he isn’t thinking about asking one of them to borrow a skateboard to show them how it’s done. “He smelled really, really good.”

There is a long pause as Tina digests this.

“Mia,” she says. “Did Michael smell better to you than J.P.?”

“Yes,” I say, in a small voice. “But he always has. J.P. smells like his dry cleaner.”