Forever Princess

“Mia,” Tina says. “I thought you bought him some cologne.”

“I did. It didn’t take.”

“Mia,” Tina says. “Ihave to talk to you. I think you better come over.”

“I can’t,” I say. “I have to take my grandparents to the Central Park Zoo.”

“Then I’ll meet you,” Tina says, “at the zoo.”

“Tina,” I say. “What’s going on? What’s so important that you can’t tell me what you need to say over the phone?”

“Mia,” Tina says. “Youknow .”

She is wrong. I have no idea!

And it has to be something pretty bad if she’s afraid TMZ might pick it up, and it would damage my dad in the polls even worse than he is doing now.

“Meet me inside the Edge of the Icepack penguin enclosure at four fifteen,” she says, sounding just like Kim Possible. If Kim Possible ever asked people to meet her inside penguin enclosures.

Still, I’m not surprised. Somehow, the Central Park Zoo penguin enclosure is where I always end up during my hours of darkest need.

“Can you just give me a hint?” I ask. “What does it have to do with? Boris? Michael? J.P.?”

“Your book,” Tina says. And hung up.

Mybook ? What could my book have to do with anything? Unless…

Could it bethat bad?

Great. And both J.P. and Michael are reading copies of itright now. RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE!

I could throw up just thinking about it.

I should just go over to Eighth Street, buy a wig from one of the drag queen stores, and ditch town. I’m practically legal, and there’s nothing left for me here. I’ve been humiliated in every way a person possibly can be. I might as well just grab a bus for Canada.

If only I could figure out a way to get rid of my bodyguard….

Sunday, April 30, 4 p.m., Edge of the Icepack penguin exhibit at the Central Park Zoo

Wow.

Between having my current boyfriend tell me I’m selling myself short writing popular fiction, then spilling hot chocolate all over the jeans of my ex-boyfriend (who is currently reading my book—RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT), then having my best friend say she has to meet me because there’s a PROBLEM with that book—the same book I spent twenty-one months working on—I really didn’t think my twenty-four hours could get any worse.

But that was before I got to the zoo with my mother, stepfather, baby brother, grandparents, and bodyguard in tow.

I guess I was just born under a particularly lucky star seventeen years, three hundred and sixty-four days ago.

The Central Park Zoo wasn’t too crowded on the first perfectly sunny Sunday afternoon of the spring, so it wasn’t like we had any problems navigating Rocky’s enormous stroller through the crowds (NOT!!!!!).

Or that anyone noticed my huge bodyguard, who discreetly chose to wear a pair of wraparound shades with his black suit jacket and matching black shirt, tie, and pants.

And Mamaw didn’t stand out too much in her hot pink size-extra-large Juicy Couture knock-off sweat suit (instead of Juicy, it says Spicy on the butt. Spicy is one word you definitely don’t want to associate with your grandma’s butt. Juicy is another).

Good thing Papaw refused to conform to New York City fashion dictates, and kept on his good old green and yellow John Deere tractor baseball cap—though he did let Mamaw buy him a new one that saidLegally Blonde: The Musical . Which I will pay hard cash to see him wear.

Much was made over showing Rocky the polar bears and monkeys, his two favorite animals. And I will admit, my kid brother is cute, especially when it comes to doing a monkey imitation, with the underarm scratching and whatnot (an ability he clearly inherited from his father. No offense, Mr. G).

Mamaw was pretty excited to be spending time with me, not just her grandson. The good thing is, after this, we get to spend even more time together…we’re spending quality time over dinner at a restaurant of Mamaw and Papaw’s choice. And the restaurant they chose was…Applebee’s.

Yes! It turns out there is an Applebee’s in Times Square, and that is where my grandparents want to go. I turned to Lars when I heard this and said, “Please put a bullet in my brain now,” but he wouldn’t do it.

And Mom told me to shut my piehole or she’d shut it for me.

Seriously, though. Applebee’s? Out of all the restaurants in Manhattan? Why a chain restaurant that can be found in nearly every city in America?

I told Mamaw that I have a black American Express card and could afford to take them to any restaurant they wanted if price was a problem. Mamaw said it wasn’t the price. It was Papaw. He didn’t like eating strange food. He liked always going to the same place, so he’d know exactly what he was getting.

The whole fun of eating out is getting to try new things!

But Papaw said trying new things isn’t fun at all.

I just pray to every single god that exists in the heavens—Yahweh, Allah, Vishnu, etc.—that no paparazzi show up and snap photos of me, the princess of Genovia, coming out of an Applebee’s during this crucial time in my father’s campaign.

Anyway, Mamaw keeps wanting to talk about college. As in, where I’m going (welcome to the club, Mamaw). She’s got a lot of advice as to what I ought to be studying. In her opinion, what I ought to be studying is…nursing. She says there are always jobs for nurses, and as the American population ages, good nurses will always be in high demand.

I told Mamaw that while she’s quite right, and that nursing is a very noble profession, I didn’t think I’d be able to pursue it, what with my being a princess, and all. I mean, I have to choose a career where I’ll be able to spend at least a largish chunk of my time in Genovia, doing princess stuff like christening ships and hosting benefits and all of that.

Being a nurse wouldn’t exactly be conducive to that.

But being a writer would, because you can do that in the privacy of your own palace.

Plus with my SAT score I think the last thing anyone wants me doing is trying to measure out their medicine. I would probably kill way more people than I’d save.

Thank God we have people like Tina, who are good at math, going into the medical profession instead of me.

Speaking of Tina, I’ve snuck into the penguin enclosure to wait for her while Mom and those guys are getting Rocky a freeze pop or something he saw someone else eating and threw a very special soon-to-be-three-year-old tantrum for. They’ve fixed this place up a bit since the last time I was here. It isn’t nearly as smelly and the light’s a lot better to write by. But there are so many more people! I swear, New York City is becoming the Disneyland of the Northeast. I thought I heard someone ask where the monorail was. But maybe they were joking.

Even so, how am I supposed to leave this place to go to college? How??? I love it so much!!!!

Oh, here’s Tina now. She looks…concerned.Possibly she heard where I’m going to dinner?

I’m kidding….

Sunday, April 30, 6:30 p.m., the ladies’ room at the Times Square Applebee’s

Okay, I am FREAKING OUT OVER WHAT TINA TOLD ME IN THE EDGE OF THE ICEPACK PENGUIN EXHIBIT.

I’m just going to write this down the way it happened and try to ignore the squashed French fry on the floor underneath me (who eats French fries on the toilet? WHO??? Who eats ANYTHING on the toilet???? Excuse me, but gross, also, ew) and the fact that I am writing this in an Applebee’s ladies’ room, the only place I could go to get away from my grandparents:

So, Tina came up to me in the penguin house and was like, “Mia, I’m so glad I found you, we have to talk.”

And I was all, “Tina, what’s wrong? Did you hate my book, or something?”

Because, I have to admit, I mean, I know my book isn’t the greatest or anything—if it were, I’m sure someone would have wanted to publish it by now.

But I didn’t think it could be SO bad that Tina would have to meet me in the Edge of the Icepack penguin exhibit at the Central Park Zoo to tell me in person.

Plus, she looked kind of pale underneath her kohl and lipstick. But it could have been the blue glow from the penguin tank.

But then she grabbed my arm and was like, “Oh my God, Mia, no! I loved your book! It was so cute! And it had beer in it! I thought that was so funny, because of your bad experience with beer, remember, in tenth grade, when you tried to be a party princess, and you drank that beer and did the sexy dance with J.P. in front of Michael?”

I glared at her. “I thought we agreed we were never going to speak of the sexy dance again.”

She bit her lip. “Oops. Sorry,” she said. “But it’s just so cute. I mean, that you wrote about beer! I love that! No, when I said I needed to talk to you about your book, what I meant was—”

And she gave Lars this total look, like—GO AWAY!

And he got the message and went over to join Wahim, Tina’s bodyguard, looking at the cute penguins swimming around, both of them keeping an eye on the two of us, but out of earshot.

And the whole time, I was like, in my head, Okay, I wrote about beer, I mean, there’s beer in my book, does Tina think I’m an alcoholic? Is she here to perform an intervention on me? I’ve totally seen that showIntervention on TV, is that what’s happening right now?

And I was looking around for the camera crew, wondering how I was going to get out of going to rehab, because, seriously, I don’t evenlike beer—

Then Tina turned to me and asked me the question that still has me shaking to my very core. I mean, she was smiling as she asked it, and her eyes were shining, but she looked super serious, too.

And as I’m writing this, I still can’t believe it. I mean—TINA! TINA HAKIM BABA! Of all people.

I’m not judging. I just never, ever expected it.

Or suspected it.

It’s just…TINA!

Anyway, she turned to me and said, “Mia, I just had to ask—I mean, I was reading your book, and—don’t get me wrong, I like it—but…I started wondering—and I know it’s none of my business, but—have you and J.P. had sex?”

I could only stare at her. This was so far from anything I’d been expecting her to say—especially in the Edge of the Icepack penguin exhibit, with our bodyguards a few yards away, and all the little kids around, going, “Look, Mommy!Happy Feet! ”—that for a few seconds I think I was simply too shocked to speak.

“It’s just,” Tina went on quickly, seeing that I had been rendered mute, “the sex scenes in your book seem kind of realistic, and I just couldn’t help thinking that maybe you and J.P. have. Had sex, I mean. And if you have, I want you to know, I’m not judging you or anything for not waiting until prom night, like we agreed. I totally understand. In fact, Imore than understand, Mia. The truth is, I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time that Boris and I…well, we already had sex, too.”

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

“The first time was last summer,” she went on, after I just stared at her in total silence, doing my Rob Lowe inThe Stand imitation again. “At the house my parents rented in Martha’s Vineyard? You remember, Boris came out for two weeks to visit? Well, that’s when it first happened. I tried to wait, Mia. I really did. But seeing him every day in his swimsuit—it was just too much to resist. I finally just…well, we did it. After my parents went to sleep. And we’ve been doing it pretty regularly ever since, whenever Mr. and Mrs. Pelkowski aren’t home.”

I think my eyes must have looked like they were about to roll out of my sockets because Tina reached over to shake my arm.

“Mia?” she asked, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

“You?”I finally managed to choke out. “AndBoris ?” I wasn’t sure if I was going to throw up or pass out. Or both.

It wasn’t so much the fact that Tina—TINA!—of all people had given up on her dream of losing her virginity on prom night.

It was that she’d just said the sight of Boris in a swimsuit had been too much for her to resist. I’m sorry but…

While it’s true that Boris had undergone an incredible transformation from nottie to hottie in recent years—and actually has annoying violin groupies who worship him and follow him around begging him to sign his headshot whenever he appears in recital halls—I just couldn’t—CANNOT—see him in that way.

Maybe if I had never known him back when he’d worn a bionater and been such a scrawny sweater tucker-inner—and dated Lilly—I could see it.

But the truth is, I just can’t look at him and see the tall, muscular godlike figure he is today. I just can’t. I CAN’T! He’s like…I don’t know. Mybrother , or something.

Tina, of course, completely mistook my revulsion for something else.

“Don’t worry, Mia,” she said, taking my hand and gazing worriedly into my eyes. “We’re totally safe. You know neither of us has ever been with anybody else. And I’ve been on the Pill since I was fourteen, because of my dysmenorrhea.”

I blinked at her some more. Oh, right. Tina’s dysmenorrhea. She used to get out of P.E. because of it every month. Lucky duck.

Tina looked at me uncertainly. “So…you don’t think I’m a slut for not waiting until the prom?”

My mouth fell open. “What? No! Of course not! Tina!”

“Well.” Tina winced. “I just…I wasn’t sure. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how you’d feel about it. I mean, we had our plan for prom night, and I…I ruined it because I couldn’t wait.” Then she brightened. “But then, when you said you thought prom was lame, and J.P. didn’t ask you—and then when I read your book—well, I just put it all together and thought you must have had sex already, too! Only now that you and Michael—”

I looked around the penguin enclosure quickly. There were people everywhere! Most of whom were five years old! And screaming about penguins! And we were having this totally intimate conversation! Aboutsex !

“Now that Michael and me what?” I interrupted. “There’s no Michael and me, Tina. I told you, I just spilled hot chocolate on him. That’s all!”

“But you smelled him,” Tina said, looking concerned.

“Yeah, I smelled him,” I said. “But that’s it!”

“But you said he smelled better than J.P.” Tina still looked concerned.

“Yeah,” I said, starting to feel panicky. Suddenly, the penguin exhibit was making me feel a little claustrophobic. There were way too many people in there. Plus, the echoing shrieks of all the sticky-fingered kids—not to mention the faint odor of penguin—was getting a little overwhelming. “But that doesn’t mean anything! It’s not like we’re getting back together, or anything. We’re just friends.”

“Mia.” Tina looked stern. “I read your book, remember?”

“My book?” I could feel myself getting hot, even though it was super air-conditioned in the penguin house. “What does my book have to do with anything?”

“A handsome knight who’s been away from home for a long, long time returns?” Tina said meaningfully. “Weren’t you writing about Michael?”

“No!” I insisted. Oh my God! Was everyone who read it going to think this? Was J.P. going to think it? WasMichael ? OH, NO! HE WAS READING IT RIGHT NOW!!!! Maybe he was reading it WITH MICROMINI MIDORI! AND LAUGHING ABOUT IT!

“What about the girl who felt obligated to care for her people?” Tina went on. “Weren’t you really writing about yourself? And the people were the Genovians?”

“No!” I cried, my voice cracking. Some of the parents, holding the smaller kids up to see the penguins, looked over to see what the two teenaged girls in the dark corner were talking about.

If only they knew the truth. They’d probably have run screaming from the zoo. They might even have asked the wardens to shoot us.

“Oh.” Tina looked let down. “Well…it seemed like it. It seemed like…you were writing about you and Michael getting back together.”

“Tina, I wasn’t,” I said. My chest was starting to feel tight. “I swear.”

“So…” Tina looked at me intently in the blue glow from the penguin tank. “What are you going to do about J.P.? I mean…you twoare having sex? Aren’t you?”

I don’t know how what happened next happened—what heavenly miracle occurred to save me—but at that very moment Mamaw and Papaw showed up with Rocky in tow, screaming my name. I mean, Rocky was screaming my name. Not Mamaw and Papaw.

Then the zoo was closing, so we all had to leave. Which pretty much closed the discussion on Tina’s sex life. And mine. Thank GOD.

So now I’m here at Applebee’s.

And I don’t think I will ever be the same. Because Tina just confessed that she and Boris have been having sex regularly.

I should have known. They have been showing little to no public displays of affection at school all year—no kissing, no holding hands in the hallway, nothing like this—which should have been an indication to me that something serious was going on.

Such as major play under the sheets after school when Mr. and Mrs. Pelkowski weren’t home.

God! I’m so blind!

Oh, no—my cell phone is going off. It’s J.P.! He must be calling to tell me what he thinks ofRansom My Heart .

I just answered even though I’m in the ladies’ room and there are people and flushing and stuff all around me. I personally think it’s disgusting when people answer their cell phones in the ladies’ room, but I haven’t heard from J.P. all day, and I left a message with him earlier. Ido want to see what he thinks of my book. I didn’t want to sound needy or anything, but, you know. You’d have thought he’d have called already to let me know. What if HE thinks my book is about Michael and me, too, just like Tina?

But it turns out I needn’t have worried: He hasn’t had a chance to read it yet, because he’s been in rehearsal all afternoon.

He wanted to know what I’m doing for dinner.

I said I was at Applebee’s with Mamaw and Papaw and my mom and Mr. G and Rocky, and that he was welcome (that I was even DYING for him) to join us.

But he laughed and said that was okay.

I don’t think he really comprehended the gravity of the situation.

So then I said, “No, you don’t understand. You NEED to come join us.”

Because I realized Ireally needed to see him, after the day I’d had…what with smelling Michael and finding out from Tina about her and Boris and all.

But J.P. said, “Mia…it’sApplebee’s .”

I said, feeling a little desperate (okay—a lot desperate): “J.P., I know it’s Applebee’s. But that’s the kind of restaurant my family likes. Well, some of my family. And I’m stuck here. It would really cheer me up so much if you could stop by. And Mamaw would really like to meet you. She’s been asking about you all day.”

This was a complete and total lie. But whatever, I lie so much, what difference could one more lie make?

Mamaw hadn’t mentioned J.P. at all, though she’d asked me if I had ever thought of asking out “that cute boy from that showHigh School Musical . Because, as a princess, I’m sure you could get him to go out with you.” Um…thanks, Mamaw, but I don’t date boys who wear more makeup than me!

“Besides,” I said to J.P., “I miss you. It seems like I hardly ever get to see you anymore, you’re so busy with your play.”

“Aw. But that’s what happens when two creative people get together,” J.P. reminded me. “Remember how busy you were when you were working on what I now know was your novel?” His reluctance to set foot in the horror that is the Times Square Applebee’s was palpable. Also, may I just add, perfectly understandable. Still. “And you’ll see me in school tomorrow. And all night at your party tomorrow. I’m just really zonked from rehearsal. You don’t mind, do you?”

I looked down at the squashed fry beneath my shoe.

“No,” I said. What else could I say? Besides, is there anything more pathetic than a nearly eighteen-year-old girl in a bathroom stall begging her boyfriend to come meet her and her parents and grandparents at Applebee’s for dinner?

I don’t think so.

“See you later,” I said, instead. And hung up.

I wanted to cry. I really, really did. Sitting there, thinking how my ex-boyfriend was maybe—probably—reading my book and thinking it was about him…and my current boyfriend hadn’t read my book at all…well…

Honestly, I think I must be the most pathetic night-before-her-birthday girl in all of Manhattan. Possibly on the entire East Coast.

Maybe in all of North America.

Maybe in the whole world.

An excerpt fromRansom My Heart by Daphne Delacroix

Hugo lay beneath her, hardly daring to believe his good fortune. He had been pursued by a great many women in his time, women more beautiful than Finnula Crais, women with more sophistication and worldly knowledge.

But none of them had ever appealed to him as immediately as this girl. She boldly announced that she wanted him for his money, and she wasn’t going to resort to seductions and stratagems to get it. Her game was abduction, pure and simple, and Hugo was so amused, he thought he might laugh out loud.

Every other woman he’d ever known, in both the literal and biblical sense, had a single goal in mind—to become the chatelaine of Stephensgate Manor. Hugo had nothing against the institution of marriage, but he had never met a woman with whom he felt he wanted to spend the rest of his life. And here was a girl who stated, plain as day, that all she wanted from him was money. It was as if a gust of fresh English air had blown through him, renewing his faith in womankind.

“So it’s your hostage I’m to be,” Hugo said to the stones beneath him. “And what makes you so certain I’ll be able to pay your ransom?”

“Do you think I’m daft? I saw the coin you tossed Simon back at the Fox and Hare. You oughtn’t be so showy with your spoils. You’re lucky ‘tis me that’s waylaid you, and not some of Dick and Timmy’s friends. They have rather unsavory companions, you know. You could have come to serious harm.”

Hugo smiled to himself. Here he’d been worried about the girl meeting up with trouble on her way back to Stephensgate, never suspecting that she was sharing the same concern for him.

“Here, what are you smiling at?” the girl demanded, and to his regret, she slid down from his back and prodded him, none too gently, in the side with a sharp toe. “Sit up, now, and stop sneering. There isn’t anything amusing about me abducting you, you know. I know I don’t look like much, but I think I proved back at the Fox and Hare that I truly am the finest shot with a short bow in all the county, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”

Sitting up, Hugo found his hands well tied behind his back. There was certainly nothing lacking in the girl’s knot-tying education. His bonds were not tight enough to cut off the circulation, yet not loose enough to give way.

Lifting his gaze, he found his fair captor kneeling a few feet away from him, her elfin face pale in a halo of wildly curling red hair, hair so long that the ends of it twined amongst the violets below her knees. Her lawn shirt was untucked and sticking to her still-wet body in places, so that her nipples were plainly visible through the thin material.

Quirking up an eyebrow, Hugo realized that the girl was completely unaware of the devastating effect her looks had on him. Or at least, aware only that naked, she made a fetching distraction.

Monday, May 1, 7:45 a.m., limo on the way to school

I got up this morning when the alarm rang (even though I hadn’t slept a BIT, wondering if Michael had read my book—I KNOW!!! All I could think, all night, was, “Has he read it yet? What about now? Do you think he’s read it now?” And then I’d freak out, going, “What do I care if my EX-boyfriend has read my book? Pull yourself together, Mia! It doesn’t matter what HE thinks! What about your CURRENT boyfriend?” and then I’d lie awake freaking out about J.P. Had HE read it? What had HE thought about it? Had HE liked it? What if he hadn’t?), and pulled Fat Louie off my chest and staggered to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth, and as I was staring at myself in the mirror (and the way my hair was sticking up in funny clumps—thank God I finally got more phytodefrisant), it suddenly hit me.

I’m eighteen.

And a legal adult.

And a princess (of course).

But now, thanks to the information Tina gave me yesterday, I’m pretty sure I’m basically the only virgin left in this year’s Albert Einstein High’s graduating class.

Yeah. Do the math: Tina and Boris—lost it this past summer.

Lilly and Kenneth? Obviously, they’ve been having sex for ages. You can just tell by the way they fondle each other in the hallway (which, thanks: I so want to see that on my way to Trig). So inappropriate.

Lana? Please. She left her virginity behind back in the days of one Mr. Josh Richter.

Trisha? Ditto, although not with Josh. At least, I’m pretty sure, unless he’s an even bigger dog than any of us suspect (likely).

Shameeka? The way her dad guards her like she’s all the gold in Fort Knox combined? She told me last year she busted out in the tenth grade (not that any of us ever suspected, she wasthat discreet about it) with that senior she was dating, what’s-his-name.

Perin and Ling Su? No comment.

And then there’s my boyfriend, J.P. He says he’s been waiting his whole life for the right person, and he knows that person is me, and when I’m ready, he’ll be ready, too. He can wait for all eternity, if he has to.

Which leaves who?

Oh, yeah. Me.

And God knowsI’ve never done it, despite what everyone (well, okay, Tina) apparently seems to think.

Honestly? It’s just never come up. Between J.P. and me, I mean. Except for the whole J.P. being willing to wait for all eternity thing (such a refreshing change from mylast boyfriend). I mean, for one thing, J.P. is the epitome of gentlemanlike behavior. He iscompletely unlike Michael in that regard. He has never let his hands drift below my neck for so much as asecond while we’re kissing.

Truthfully, I’d be worried he wasn’t interested if he hadn’t told me that he respects my boundaries and doesn’t want to go any further than I’m prepared to.

Which is very nice of him.

The thing is, I don’t really know what my boundaries are. I’ve never had a chance to test my boundaries out. With J.P., anyway.

It was just so…different, I guess, when I was going out with Michael. I mean, he never asked about my boundaries. He just sort of went for it, and if I had any objections, I was supposed to speak up. Or move his hand. Which I did. Frequently. Not because I didn’t like where it was, but because his—or my—parents or roommate were always walking in.

The problem with Michael was that when things started getting going, in the heat of the moment, and all, I often didn’twant to say something—or move his hand—because I liked what was going on too much.

That’s my problem—the other thing—my horrible, terrible secret that I can never tell anyone, not even Dr. K:

With J.P., I never feel that way. Partly because things never get that far. But also because…well.

I suppose I could just do what Tina did with Boris, and jump his bones. I’ve seen J.P. in his bathing suit (he’s come to visit me in Genovia) plenty of times. But jumping his bones has just never occurred to me. It’s not like he’s not hot or anything. He totally works out. Lana says J.P. makes Matt Damon from theBourne movies look like Oliver fromHannah Montana.

I just don’t know what’s wrong with me! It’s not like I’ve lost my sex drive, because yesterday during the wrestling match over the iPhone with Michael, and again, when he hugged me—it was there, all right.

It just doesn’t seem to be there with J.P. That’s theOther Thing.

This isn’t something I particularly want to think about on my birthday, though. Not when I’ve already had the joyous wonder of waking up in the morning and looking at myself in the mirror and realizing I’m eighteen; I’m a princess; and I’m a virgin.

You know what? At this point in my life, I might as well be a unicorn.

Happy freaking birthday to me.

Anyway, Mom, Mr. G, and Rocky were all up waiting for me with homemade heart-shaped waffles as a breakfast surprise (the heart-shaped waffle maker was a wedding gift for them from Martha Stewart). Which was super sweet of them. I mean, they didn’t know about my discovery (that I’m such a societal freak, I might as well be a unicorn).

Then Dad called from Genovia while we were eating to wish me a happy birthday and remind me today is the day I come into my full allowance as princess royale (not enough money to buy my own penthouse on Park Avenue, but enough to rent one if I need to), and not to spend it all in one place (ha ha ha, he hasn’t forgotten my spending spree at Bendel’s that one time and the subsequent donation I gave to Amnesty International) because it only gets replenished once a year.

I’ll admit, he got a little choked up on the phone and said he never thought, back when he met me at the Plaza four years ago to explain to me that I was actually the heir to the throne and I got the hiccups and acted like such a little freak about finding out I was a princess and all, that I’d turn out this well (if you consider this well).

I got a little choked up myself, and said I hoped there were no ill feelings about the constitutional monarchy thing, especially since we still get to keep the title, the throne, the palace, the crowns, the jewels, and the jet, and all that.

He said not to be ridiculous, all gruffly, which I knew meant he was about to cry from the emotion of it all, and hung up.

Poor Dad. He’d be a lot better off if he’d just meet and marry a nice girl (and not a supermodel, like the president of France did, though I’m sure she’s very nice).

But he’s still looking for love in all the wrong places. Like fancy underwear catalogs.

At least he knows enough not to date while he’s campaigning.

Then Mom came out with her present to me, which was a collage incorporating all the things from our lives together, including things like ticket stubs from train rides to women’s reproductive rights rallies in Washington, D.C., and my old overalls from when I was six, and pictures of Rocky when he was a baby, and pictures of Mom and me painting the loft, and Fat Louie’s collar from when he was a kitten, and snapshots of me in my Halloween costume as Joan of Arc and stuff.

Mom said it was so I wouldn’t be homesick when I went to college.

Which was totally sweet of her and completely brought tears to my eyes.

Until she reminded me I need to hurry up and make my decision about where I’m going to college next year.

Okay! Yeah, I’ll be sure to get right on that! Push me out of the loft, why don’t you?

I know she and Dad and Mr. G mean well. But it’s not that easy. I have a lot of things on my mind right now. Like how yesterday my best friend confessed she’s been having sex regularly with her boyfriend and never told me until now, and like how before that I gave my novel to my ex-boyfriend to read, and how now I have to go turn in the article I wrote on said ex-boyfriend to his sister, who hates me, and later on tonight I have to attend a party on a yacht with three hundred of my closest friends, most of whom I don’t even know because they’re celebrities my grandma, who’s a dowager princess of a small European country, invited.

And, oh, yeah, my actual boyfriend has had my novel for more than twenty-four hours and hasn’t read it and wouldn’t come to eat at Applebee’s with me.

Could someone possibly cut me a tiny piece of slack?

Life’s not easy for unicorns, you know. We’re a dying breed.

Monday, May 1, Homeroom

Okay, so I just left the offices of theAtom . I’m still shaking a little.

There was no one in there but Lilly when I went in just now. I put on a big fake smile (like I always do when I see my ex-best friend) and went, “Hi, Lilly. Here’s the story on your brother,” and handed the article to her. (I was up until one o’clock last night writing it. How do you write four hundred words on your ex-boyfriend and keep it a piece of impartial journalism? Answer: You can’t. I nearly had an embolism doing it. But I don’t think you can tell from reading it that I spilled hot chocolate on and then smelled the subject.)

Lilly looked up from whatever she was doing on the school computer (I couldn’t help remembering that stage she went through when she used to put the names of deities and then dirty words into Google just to see what kind of websites she’d come up with. God, those were the days. Imiss those days.) and went, “Oh, hi, Mia. Thanks.”

Then she added, sort of hesitantly, “Happy birthday.”

!!!!! She remembered!!!!

Well, I guess the fact that Grandmère sent her an invitation to my party might have been a slight reminder.

Surprised, I said, “Um…thanks.”

I figured that was it and was halfway out the door when she stopped me by going, “Look, I hope you won’t be weirded out if Kenneth and I come tonight. To your party, I mean.”

“No, not at all,” I said. Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Seven. “I’d love for you both to come.”

Which is just an example of how well all those princess lessons have paid off. The truth, of course, is that inside my head I was going,Oh my God. She’s coming??? Why? She can only be coming because she’s plotting some horrible revenge on me. Like, she and Kenny are going to hijack the yacht once it sets sail and steer it out into international waters and detonate it in the name of free love once we’ve all been put into life rafts, or something. Good thing Vigo made Grandmère hire extra security in case Jennifer Aniston shows up and Brad Pitt is there, too.

“Thanks,” Lilly said. “There’s something I really want to give you for your birthday, but I can only do it if I come to your party.”

Something she wants togive me for my birthday, but she can only give it to me on the Royal Genovian yacht? Great! My hijack theory confirmed.

“Um,” I stammered. “You d-don’t actually have to give me anything, Lilly.”

This was the wrong thing to say, though, because Lilly scowled at me and said, “Well, I know you already have everything, Mia, but I think there’s somethingI can give you that no one else can.”

I got super nervous then (not that I wasn’t before), and said, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. What I meant was—”

Lilly seemed to regret her caustic outburst, and said, “I didn’t mean it like that, either. Look, I don’t want to fight anymore.”

This was the first time in two years Lilly had referred to the fact that we even used to be friends, and that we’d been fighting. I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say at first. I mean, it had never even occurred to me that not fighting was an option. I just figured the only option was what we’d been doing…basically ignoring each other.

“I don’t want to fight anymore either,” I said, meaning it.

But if she didn’t want to fight anymore, what DID she want? Surely not to be my friend. I’m not cool enough for her. I don’t have any piercings, I’m a princess, I go on shopping sprees with Lana Weinberger, I wear pink ball gowns sometimes, I have a Prada tote, I’m a virgin, and, oh, yeah—she thinks I stole her boyfriend.

“Anyway,” Lilly said, reaching into her backpack, which was covered all over with buttons in Korean…I suppose promoting her TV show there. “My brother told me to give you this.”

And she pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. It was a white envelope with blue letterhead engraved on it where the return address was supposed to go. The letterhead said “Pavlov Surgical,” and there was a little illustration of Michael’s sheltie, Pavlov. The envelope was kind of lumpy, like there was something in it besides a letter.

“Oh,” I said. I could feel myself blushing, like I do whenever Michael’s name comes up. I knew I was turning the color of his high-tops. Great. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Lilly said.

Thank GOD the first bell rang just then. So I said, “See you later.”

And then I turned around and ran.

It was just so…WEIRD. Why is Lilly being so NICE to me? She must have something planned for tonight. She and Kenneth. Obviously they’re going to do something to ruin my party.

Although maybe not, because Michael and his parents are going to be there. Why would she do something to hurt me when it might embarrass her parents and brother? I could tell how much she loves them at the thing at Columbia on Saturday—and, of course, from having known her almost my whole life, despite us not talking the past two years.

Anyway. I looked around for Tina or Lana or Shameeka or someone to discuss what had just happened with Lilly, but I couldn’t find anyone. Which was strange, because you’d think they’d have come up to me at my locker to wish me a happy birthday, or something. But nothing.

I couldn’t help thinking—in an example of the marked paranoia I’ve been exhibiting lately—that maybe they were all avoiding me because Tina told them about my book. I know she said it was cute, but that’s just what she said to my face. Maybe behind my back she thinks it’s awful and she sent it to everyone else and they all think it’s awful too and the reason they haven’t stopped by to say happy birthday is because they’re afraid they won’t be able to stop laughing in my face long enough.

Or maybe they reallyare planning an intervention.

It’s not unlikely.

Now I’m hyperventilating because when I got to Homeroom and I was sure no one was looking, I tore open the envelope Lilly gave me and this is what I found inside. A handwritten note from Michael that said:

Dear Mia,

What can I say? I don’t know all that much about romance novels, but I think you must be the Stephen King of the genre. Your book ishot.Thanks for letting me read it. Anyone who doesn’t want to publish it is a fool.

Anyway, since I know it’s your birthday, and I also know you never remember to back anything up, here’s a little something I made for you. It would be a shame ifRansom My Heartgot lost before it ever saw the light of day because your hard drive crashed. See you tonight.

Love,

Michael

Inside the envelope with the letter was a little Princess Leia action figure USB flash drive. For me to store my novel on, since he was right—I never back up my computer’s hard drive.

The sight of it—it’s Princess Leia in her Hoth outfit, my favorite of her costumes (how had he remembered?)—brought tears to my eyes.

He said he liked my book!

He said I’m the Stephen King of my genre!

He gave me a personally designed USB flash drive to store it so it wouldn’t get lost!

Really, is there any higher compliment a boy can give a girl?

I don’t think so.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a nicer birthday gift.

Except Fat Louie, of course.

Plus…he signed his letterLove.

Love, Michael.

That doesn’t mean anything, of course. People sign thingsLove all the time. That doesn’t mean they love you in a romantic way. My mom signs all her notes to meLove, Mom . Mr. G writes notes to me and signs themLove, Frank (which, ew).

But still. The fact that he wrote the word…

Love.Love!

Oh my God. I know. I’m pathetic.

A pathetic unicorn.

Monday, May 1, World History

I just saw J.P. in the hallway. He gave me a great big hug and a kiss and wished me a happy birthday and told me I look beautiful. (I happen to know I don’t look beautiful. I look awful, actually. I was up half the night writing the article on Michael so there are dark circles under my eyes that I tried to hide with concealer, but really, there’s only so much concealer can do. And I was up the other half of the night freaking out over what Tina told me about her and Boris, and then worrying about what Michael’s and J.P.’s reactions to my book were going to be.)

Maybe to J.P. I look beautiful because I’m his girlfriend. J.P. just likes me too much to notice that I am, in fact, a unicorn (but not one of those beautiful ones with the long silky manes from fairy tales. I’m one of those screwed-up plastic toy unicorns that Emma, Rocky’s friend from day care, plays with, that My Little Pony unicorn with the bald patches whose head gets sucked on all the time by the little kids).

I waited for J.P. to tell me he’d read my book and liked it, the way Michael did in his letter, but he didn’t.

He didn’t mention my book at all, as a matter of fact.

I guess he still hasn’t gotten around to it. He does have his play, and all. It’s getting close to opening night, when he has to put it on for the senior project committee (Wednesday night).

But still. You’d have thought he’d have saidsomething .

All J.P. told me was not to expect my present from him just yet. He says he’s giving it to me tonight, at my party. He says it’s going to blow me away. He says he hasn’t forgotten about the prom, either.

Which is funny, because I certainly have.

Anyway, still no sign of Tina, Shameeka, Lana, or Trisha anywhere. I did see Perin and Ling Su, though, and they both wished me a happy birthday. But then they ran off, giggling madly, which is completely unlike them.

So, that about cinches it: They’ve totally read my book, and hated it. The intervention will probably be at lunch.

I can’t believe Tina would do that—send around copies of it without asking me.

I mean itis reading day in preparation for finals so there’s nothing to do in class BUT read. Obviously, it’s a perfect time for people to be reading my book.

Maybe I should try flunking all my finals (in the case of Trig, I won’t even have to try). Then I really will have no choice but to go to L’Université de Genovia next year.

But that won’t work. I don’t want to be that far from Rocky.

OH, NO! Principal Gupta just called for me to come to the office right away due to a family emergency!

Monday, May 1, Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa

Yeah. I should have known.

There was no family emergency. Grandmère faked one, as usual, to have me pulled out of school so I could spend my birthday getting pampered with her at her favorite day spa before my birthday bash this evening.

The good thing is, I’m not here alone with her. And this time, she didn’t just invite people she thinks Ishould hang out with, like my cousins from the royal family of Monaco or the Windsors or whoever.

No, she actually invited my real friends. Only a few of them (Perin and Ling Su, who actually care about their grades) were conscientious enough to say no and stay in school to study for finals instead. Tina, Shameeka, Lana, and Trisha are all here getting pedicures right next to me, while Grandmère is in the next room, having a difficult ingrown toenail removed. Which, thank God isn’t happening right in front of me, because I think I’d probably throw up. It’s bad enough to have to look at Grandmère’s toenails when they’re au naturel, but an ingrown toenail operation on top of that? No, thank you.

It’s kind of touching though that after all these years Grandmère finally gets it. I mean, that I have friends who I care about, and that she can’t just force me to hang out with whoever she feels would make me a suitable companion (although the majority of the people coming to the party tonight are her friends…or Domina Rei).

Sometimes Grandmère does kind of rock.

Although I’m glad she wasn’t there at that particular moment because the conversation was definitely not one you’d want your grandmother to overhear.

“Oh, the Waldorf,” Trisha was saying in response to a question Shameeka asked her, while the lady doing her feet rubbed gigantic salt granules all over her calves. “Brad and I got a room.”

“There weren’t any rooms left by the time I called,” Shameeka was saying, all mournfully.

“Me, either.” Lana had cucumbers over her eyelids. “Well, there were rooms, but not suites. Derek and I are staying at the Four Seasons instead.”

“But that’s across town!” Trisha practically yelled.

“I don’t care,” Lana said. “I won’t stay anywhere that only has one bathroom. I’m not sharing a bathroom with some random guy.”

“But you’ll have sex with him,” Trisha pointed out.

“That’s different,” Lana said. “I want to be able to use the bathroom without having to wait for someone else to be through with it. I can’t be expected toshare .”

About which, I’d just like to ask, WHO is the princess in the room?

“Where are you and J.P. staying after the prom, Mia?” Shameeka wanted to know, gracefully changing the subject.

“He still hasn’t asked her yet,” Tina told them matter-of-factly. “So, they’ll probably be joining you at the Four Seasons, Lana.” I didn’t have the heart to correct Tina on this. “Oh, Mia…can I tell them?”

Shameeka looked excited. “Tell us about what?”

“About…youknow.” Tina raised her eyebrows excitedly at me.

I seriously panicked when Tina came up with herCan I tell them, Mia? I thought—really—that she was referring to our conversation in the penguin exhibit yesterday. About Michael, and how I’d smelled him, and all of that.

And seeing as how I’d just gotten his note about my book—Love, Michael—and was holding his Princess Leia USB flash drive in my pocket, and the whole thing had made me feel a little…I don’t know. I guesscrazy would be the appropriate word. If unicorns can get crazy.

Plus, I was already extra sensitive about the fact that they were all talking about their boyfriends, and where they were taking them after the prom, and mine hadn’t evenasked me properly, let alone ever even touched me below the neck….

Well, I guess you could say I overreacted, a little.

Because suddenly I heard myself saying, way too loudly, as the woman who was giving me a pedicure ground away at one of my heel calluses, caused from standing around in too-high heels at too many royal benefits, “Look, I’ve never had sex, all right? J.P. and I have neverdone it . So sue me! I’m eighteen, and I’m a princess, and I’m a virgin. Is thatall right with everyone? Or should I go wait in the limo until you’re all done with yoursexy talk ?”

For a second all four of them (well, nine if you count the ladies who were doing our feet) just stared at me in stunned silence. The silence was finally broken by Tina, who said, “Mia, I just meant, would it be okay if I told them how you’d written a romance novel.”

“You wrote a romance novel?” Lana wore an expression of shock. “A book? You, like…typedit?”

“Why?”Trisha looked stunned. “Why would youdo that?”

“Mia,” Shameeka said, after exchanging nervous glances with everyone else. “I think it’s great you wrote a book. S-seriously! Congratulations!”

It took a minute for it to sink in that they were more shocked by the fact that I’d written a book than that I was a virgin. In fact, they seemed not even to care about the fact that I was a virgin, and werefixated on the fact that I’d written a book.

About which, can I just say—well, I was insulted, actually.

“But the sex scenes in your book,” Tina said. She looked as shocked as everyone else in the room. “They were so…”

“I told you.” I could feel myself turning as red as Elizabeth Arden’s door. “I read a lot of romance novels.”

“Is it, like, a real book?” Lana wanted to know. “Or is it one of those books you make at the mall where you put your own name in it? Because I wrote one of those when I was seven. It was all about how LANA went to the circus and how LANA got to perform with the trapeze artists and bareback riders because LANA is just as pretty and talented as—”

“Yes, it’s a real book,” Tina said, shooting LANA alook . “Mia wrote it herself, and it’s really—”

“HELLO!” I yelled. “I just told all of you that I’ve never had sex! And all you seem to be able to talk about is the fact that I wrote a book. Can we please FOCUS?I’ve never hadsex ! Do you have nothing to say about that?”

“Well, the book thing is more interesting,” Shameeka said. “I don’t see what the problem is, Mia. Just because we’ve all done it doesn’t mean you should feel strange about having waited. I’m sure there’ll be tons of girls at the University of Genovia who haven’t done it, either. So you won’t be at all out of place.”

“Totally,” Tina said. “And how sweet is it that J.P. hasn’t pressured you?”

“That’s not sweet,” Lana said flatly. “That’s weird.”

Tina shot her another dirty look, but Lana refused to back down. “Well, it is! That’s what boys do. It’s, like, their job to try to get you to have sex with them.”

“J.P. is a virgin, too,” I informed them. “He’s been saving himself for the right person. And he says he’s found her. Me. And he’s willing to wait until whenever I’m ready.”

When I said that, everyone in the room looked at one another and sighed dreamily.

All except Lana. She went, “So what’s he waiting for then? Are you sure he’s not gay?”

Tina shouted, “Lana! Could you be serious for one second, please?” just as Shameeka asked, “Mia, if J.P. is willing to wait, then what’s the problem?”

I blinked at her. “There’s no problem,” I said. “I mean, we’re fine.”

Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Eight.

And Tina busted me on it.

“But thereis a problem,” Tina said. “Isn’t there, Mia? Based on something you mentioned yesterday.”

I widened my eyes at her. I knew what she was going to say, and I really didn’t want her to. Not in front of Lana and those guys.

“Uh,” I said. “No. No problem. I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer….”

“I’ll say.” Lana snorted. “Geek.”

But Tina didn’t notice my subtle hint.

“Do you evenwant to have sex with J.P., Mia?” Tina asked.

Love, Michael.Now, why did that have to pop into my head?

“Yes, of course!” I cried. “He’s totally foxy.” I was borrowing a phrase from the bathroom wall, about Lana. She’d written it about herself. But I figured it applied to J.P., too.

“But…” Tina looked as if she were trying to choose her words carefully. “You told me yesterday that you think Michael smells better.”

I saw Trisha and Lana exchange glances. Then Lana rolled her eyes.

“Not the neck thing again,” she said. “Itold you, just buy J.P. some cologne.”

“Idid ,” I said. “It’s not that—Look, forget it, okay? You guys all have sex on the brain, anyway. There’s more to a relationship thansex , you know.”

This caused all the ladies who were doing our feet to start giggling hysterically.

“Well,” I said to them. “Isn’tthere?”

“Oh, yes,” they all said. “Your Highness.”

Why did I get the feeling that they were making fun of me? That they were ALL making fun of me? Look, I knew from my vast romance reading that sex was fun.

But I ALSO knew from my vast romance reading that there were some things more important than sex.

LOVE, MICHAEL.

“Besides,” I added desperately, “just because I think Michael smells better than J.P. doesn’t mean I’m still in love with him or anything.”

“Okay,” Lana said. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper and said,“Except for the part where it totally does.”

“Oh my God, love triangle!” Trisha squealed, and the two of them started laughing so hard that they splashed the water in their foot basins, causing their pedicure specialists to have to ask them to please control themselves.

It was at that moment Grandmère hobbled back into the room, wearing her robe and flip-flops and looking particularly frightening because she’d also just had a facial and so all of her pores were still open and her face was devoid of makeup and very shiny and she was wearing an expression of extreme surprise….

But not, it turned out (much to my relief), because she’d overheard us.

It was because no one had drawn her eyebrows back on.

Monday, May 1, 7 p.m., the Royal Genovian Yacht Clarisse 3, master suite

I have never seen so much pre-party psychosis in my life. And I’ve been to alot of parties.

The florist brought the wrong floral arrangements—whites roses andpurple lilies, not pink—and the caterer’s crispy seafood spring rolls came with a peanut sauce instead of an orange sauce (Idon’t care, but there’s some speculation that Princess Aiko of Japan has a peanut allergy).

Grandmère and Vigo are having CORONARIES about it. You would think somebody had forgotten to polish the silver, or something.

Don’t even get me started on the aneurysm they had when I suggested we use the helicopter landing pad as a dance floor.

Whatever! It’s not like anybody’s going to be landing the helicopter on it!

At least my dress arrived safely. I’ve been stuffed into it (it’s silver and sparkly and formfitting and what can I say? It was made especially for me, and you can tell. There’s not a whole lot left to the imagination), and my hair is all twisted up and tucked into my tiara, and I’ve been ordered to sit here quietly out of everyone’s way, and not move until it’s time to make my grand entrance, once all the guests have arrived.

Like I’m all that jazzed to go anywhere, seeing as how what awaits me out there are my twin “surprises”—one from J.P., and the other from Lilly.

I’m sure I’m overreacting. I’m sure whatever J.P. got me, I’m going to like it. Right? I mean, he’s my boyfriend. He’s not going to do anything to embarrass me in front of my family and friends. The whole thing with the guy who dressed up like the knight and rode up on the horse painted white—I mean, I explained that already. He got the message. Iknow he got the message.

So…why do I feel so sick to my stomach?

Because he called me a little while ago to see how I was. (I’m actually feeling a little better aboutsome things now that I’ve shared my “secret” with all the girls. The one about my book AND the one about my being the lastunicorn in the Albert Einstein High senior class—besides J.P., I mean. The fact that they didn’t seem to think it was such a big deal was a pretty big relief. I mean, not that it IS a big deal, because it’s not. It’s just…well, it’s good to knowthey don’t think it’s a big deal. Although I wish Lana would quit texting me with alternative titles for my book. I don’t actually thinkPut It in My Candyhole is that good a name for a novel.)

J.P. also wanted to ask if I was “ready” for my birthday surprise.

Ready for my birthday surprise? What is hetalking about? Is he trying to freak me out on purpose? Seriously, between him and Lilly—with her talk of how she can only give me my presenttonight —I’m going to go mental. I really am.

I don’t know how anyone can expect me to sit still, either. In fact, I haven’t been sitting. I’ve been looking out one of the portholes, at all the people coming up the gangplank. (I’m trying to keep myself hidden behind the curtains so no one can see me, keeping in mind Grandmère’s golden rule:If you can see them, they can see you .)

I can’t believe everyone who’s showing up for this shindig. So many celebrities: There’s Donald Trump and his wife. Princes William and Harry. Posh Spice and David Beckham. Bill and Hillary Clinton. Will Smith and Jada Pinkett. Bill and Melinda Gates. Tyra Banks. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Barack and Michelle Obama. Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick. Sean Penn. Moby. Michael Bloomberg. Oprah Winfrey. Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick. Heidi Klum and Seal.

And the evening’s entertainment, Madonna, and her band, are already setting up. She’s promised to do her old-school stuff, in addition to some of her new songs (Grandmère is donating extra money to the charity of Madonna’s choice for her to sing “Into the Groove,” “Crazy for You,” and “Ray of Light”).

Hopefully it won’t be at all weird for Madonna that her ex, Sean Penn, is also here.

Grandmère had initially planned on having a different musical entertainer for my eighteenth birthday (Pavarotti) but fortunately he died. (No offense, he was awfully nice, but opera is kind of hard to dance to.)

The thing is, in addition to celebrities…there are so many people from my past here! My cousin Sebastiano (stopping to talk to all the paparazzi, snapping pictures where all the limos and taxis are dropping people off), with a supermodel on his arm. He’s a famous fashion designer now. He even has a line of jeans in Wal-Mart.

Oh, and there’s my cousin Hank, in white leather pants and a black silk top. His stalkers have found their way to the Seaport (they must have read about the party on Page Six, where it was announced this morning), and are screaming for his autograph. Hank pauses suavely and signs for them. It’s hard to believe we used to hunt for crawdads together in overalls and bare feet, back in Versailles, Indiana, all those years ago. Now Hank routinely has giant billboards of himself in his underwear up in Times Square. Who would have thought? I mean, I’ve seen him squirt Coca-Cola out of his nose.

Aw, and there’s Mamaw and Papaw. I see Grandmère got them a stylist. I wonder if she was worried they’d show up in NASCAR T-shirts?

But they clean up beautifully! Papaw’s in a tux! He looks a little like James Bond. You know, if James Bond chewed tobacco.

And Mamaw’s wearing an evening gown! And it looks as if Paolo got to her hair. And okay, she keeps stopping and waving to the paparazzi, none of whom wants to take her picture.

But she looks great! Kind of like Sharon Osbourne. If Sharon Osbourne had bleached-blond hair and a really big butt and said, “Hey, y’all!” a lot.

And there’s my mom and Mr. G and Rocky! My mom looks beautiful, as always. If only I could ever be that pretty someday. Even Mr. G isn’t a total wash. And doesn’t Rocky look cute in his little toddler tux? I wonder how long it will be until he spills something all down the front of it (I give him five minutes). I’m betting it will be the peanut sauce.

And there are Perin and Ling Su and Tina and Boris and Shameeka and Lana and Trisha and their parents…oh, don’t they all look nice? Well, except Boris.

Oh, all right. Even Boris. When you’re wearing a tuxedo, at least you’resupposed to tuck the shirt into your pants.

And there’s Principal Gupta! And Mr. and Madame Wheeton! And Mrs. Hill and Ms. Martinez and Ms. Sperry and Mr. Hipskin and Nurse Lloyd and Ms. Hong and Mrs. Potts and just about the entire rest of the staff of Albert Einstein High!

It was nice of Grandmère to let me invite them all, even if it’s super weird to see your teachers outside of school. The fact that they’re wearing evening clothes makes them basically unrecognizable and, ew, I think Mr. Hipskin brought his wife and she looks almost exactly like him, except for the mustache. Sadly, I mean hers, not his…

Wow, this is actually kind of fun, aside from the fact that eventually I have to—

Oh! And there he is. J.P., I mean. He’s brought his parents.

And he certainly does look GORGEOUS in his evening jacket and white tie.

He doesn’t have any large packages with him. So…what can it be? His surprise for me, I mean? Because he’s not carrying a present, that I can see…

Oh, look, he’s stopping now, with his parents, to talk to the paparazzi. Why does something tell me he’s going to mention his play?

Well, if I were writing my book under my own name, would I waste any possible opportunity to mention it? Probably not, right?

On the other hand, considering what—or ratherwho —Tina seemed to think it was about, maybe not…

Okay, I can’t stand this! I think I’m going to be sick. When can I join the party? I’d rather just get it over with already than keep waiting like—

Here come the Moscovitzes! They’re getting out of a LIMO! There are the Drs. Moscovitz—I’m so glad they got back together! Doesn’t Dr. Moscovitz look distinguished in his tuxedo? And Lilly and Michael’s mom, in her red evening gown, with her hair all up? So pretty! So unlike her normal self, in her glasses and business suit and Lady Air Jordans…

And there’s Kenneth, also in a tux, turning around to help—LILLY! Whoa, she actually dressed up—in a really nice black velvet dress. I wonder where she got that, certainly not her normal clothing store of choice, the Salvation Army. And look, her video-camcorder bag matches her dress! That’s so stylish of her!

She looks so pretty. I can’t imagine she really can be up to anything that devious tonight. Can she?

And there’s MICHAEL! He CAME! He looks so GORGEOUS in his tuxedo! Oh my God, I think I’m going to—

ACK! It’s Grandmère…and…

The captain!

Great. Captain Johnson says he can’t possibly unmoor from the dock because the boat is already filled to capacity and there are still more limos and taxis pulling up, and if he attempts to head out to sea with more than the maximum capacity the ship can hold, we’ll sink.

“Fine,” Grandmère says. “Amelia, you’re going to have to tell your guests to leave.”

I just laughed in her face. She’s had WAY too many Sidecars already if she thinks that’s going to happen.

“Myguests? Excuse me, who invited Brangelina?And all their kids?” I wanted to know. “I don’t evenknow them! I want to have a nice time at my birthday party with my friends.You askyour celebrity guests to leave!”

Grandmère gasped.

“You know I can’t do that,” she cried. “Angelina is a Domina Rei! There’s a strong possibility she’s carrying your invitation to join—unless it’s Oprah!”

Anyway, we’ve worked out a compromise: Nobody gets kicked off.

Instead, we’re just not going to move. The boat’s staying at the dock.

It’s just as well. I wouldn’t want to be out to sea with some of these lunatics (just in case Lilly IS up to something more than just filming everyone with their mouths full of shrimp cocktail, or whatever).

Lars just knocked! He says it’s time for my big entrance…. Now I think I reallywill hurl.

It’s too bad I’m not being carried in on a couch by half-naked bodybuilders like some of those girls onMy Super Sweet 16. I’m just walking.

Of course, I have a tiara on my head: So I have to walk tall, or it will fall off.

But still.

Monday, May 1, 11 p.m., the Royal Genovian Yacht Clarisse 3, weird overhangy part just off the place where they steer, where Leo and Kate stood in Titanic, and Leo said he was the king of the world, I don’t know what it’s called, I don’t know anything about BOATS, but it’s cold up here and I wish I had a coat

Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God!

Okay, I just have to remember to breathe. BREATHE. In and out. IN. Then OUT.

The thing is, it all started off so well. I mean, I came out and Madonna was singing “Lucky Star” and my tiara didn’t fall off and everyone clapped, and everything looked so nice despite Grandmère and Vigo’s worries, especially the purple flowers, and—this was the really amazing thing—it turned outDad had flown in especially for the occasion, all the way from Europe on the Royal Genovian jet, taking time off from the campaign just for the night as a special surprise for me.

Yes! He stepped out from behind the biggest batch of purple flowers, and made a speech about how great a daughter—and princess—I am…a speech that I barely heard because I was so shocked and teary-eyed at seeing him.

And then the next thing I knew he was hugging me, and he’d given me this GIANT black velvet box, and inside was a very sparkly tiara. I thought it looked familiar, and he explained to everyone that it was the one Princess Amelie Virginie was wearing in the portrait I have hanging in my bedroom. He said that if anyone deserved it, I did. It had been missing for nearly four hundred years, and he’d had them look all over the palace for it, and finally someone had found it in a dusty corner of the jewelry vault, and they’d polished it all up and cleaned it just for me.

Can you imagine anything so sweet?

It took me five minutes to stop crying. And another five minutes for Paolo to get my old tiara off and the new one on, thanks to all the hairpins.

You know, it fits me a lot better than my old one. It doesn’t feel like it’s going to slip offat all .

After that everyone walked over and said such kind things to me, like, “Thanks for inviting me,” and “You look so pretty!” and “The spring rolls are delicious!”

And Angelina Jolie came up and gave me my formal invitation to join the Domina Rei, which I accepted on the spot (Grandmère told me I had to, but I wanted to, of course, because it’s a kick-ass organization).

Grandmère spotted us talking and, of course, figured outimmediately what was going on, so she came rushing over like Rocky when he hears a box of cookies being opened.

And so Angelina gave herher invitation, and all of Grandmère’s dreams came true.

I wish I could say she went away then, but she spent the rest of the evening, as best I could tell, following Angelina around, thanking her every chance she got. It was embarrassing.

But then, it was Grandmère. What else is new?

And then I went around and did the princess thing, personally going up to everyone and thanking them for coming, and it wasn’t even that awkward because, whatever, after nearly four years of this I’m pretty much used to it, and I’m not even thrown anymore by the bizarre things people sometimes say, which are probably just non sequiturs I’ve taken out of context, like when Mr. Hipskin’s wife said, “You look like a mermaid!”

I’m sure she just meant because my dress is so shiny and not because she’s psychic (but only partly) and got mermaids and unicorns mixed up and knows I’m the only virgin left in the graduating senior class of Albert Einstein High, besides my boyfriend, of course.

And Lana and Trisha and Shameeka and Tina and Ling Su and Perin and mymom and I had a blast rocking down to “Express Yourself” (“Come on, girls!”), and then Lana and Trisha made a beeline for the Princes William and Harry (of course), and J.P. and I slow danced to “Crazy for You,” and my dad and I rumbaed to “La Isla Bonita.” And even though Lilly was filming everything, which technically wasn’t allowed, I told the security force just to let her, rather than make a big deal of it. She was at least asking people beforehand if it was all right, so that part was okay—but that wasall she appeared to be up to.

God only knows what she’s going to do with the film later. Probably make some kind of documentary about the exorbitant spending habits of the filthy rich—Real Princesses of New York City—and run scenes from my party side by side with scenes of people from the slums of Haiti, eating cookies made of dirt.

(Note to self: Make a huge donation to hunger organization. One in three children of the world die of hungerevery day . Seriously. And Grandmère was having a fit over the SAUCE we were supposed to dip the spring rolls in.)

But Lilly lowered the camera when she came up to me—Kenneth in tow, and Michael following not far behind—and said, “Hey, Mia. This is a pretty great party.”

I totally almost choked on the piece of shrimp cocktail I was eating. Because I hadn’t been able to eat a thing all night, I’d been so busy dancing and greeting people, and Tina had just come up to methat minute with a little plate of food, going, “Mia, you’ve got to take a minute to eat something, or you’re going to pass out….”

“Oh,” I said, with my mouth full (a total Grandmère nono). “Thank you.”

I’ll admit, I was speaking to Lilly.

But my gaze had flicked right over her and was totally fixated on Michael, in his tux, behind Kenny (I mean, Kenneth). Michael just looked so…incredible, standing there with the glow of the lights of lower Manhattan behind his head, and the little bit of condensation that was in the air having settled over his broad shoulders and making the black material on them look a bit sparkly in all the twinkly party lights.

I don’t know. I don’tknow what’s wrong with me. Iknow he broke up with me. Iknow Dr. Knutz and I worked that all out in therapy already. I know I have a boyfriend, a perfectly good boyfriend who loves me, and at that moment was over at the bar getting me a refill on my sparkling water.

Iknow all that.

Knowing all that and still looking at Michael and seeing him smile at me and thinking he’s the handsomest guy in the world (even though, as Lana would be quick to point out, he’s not—Christian Bale is) isn’t even the problem.

What happened next is.

Which was, Michael said, “Nice party hat you’ve got there, Thermopolis,” meaning Princess Amelie Virginie’s tiara.

“Oh,” I said, reaching up to touch it. Because I still couldn’t quite believe it—that my dad had found it, or even that he’d actually shown up to give it to me. “Thanks. I’m going to kill him for doing this. He can’t afford to take this much time out from the campaign. René is leading in the polls.”

“That guy?” Michael looked shocked. “He was always kind of a tool. How can people like him more than your dad?”

“Everyone loves a bloomin’ onion,” Boris, who was standing near Tina, said.

“Applebee’s doesn’t have bloomin’ onions,” I growled at him. “That’s Outback!”

“I don’t get why your dad wants to be prime minister so bad, anyway,” Kenneth said. “He’s always going to be prince, right? Wouldn’t he just want to sit back and relax and let some other guy do the political thing, so he can just do the fun prince stuff, like hanging out on yachts like this with…well, Ms. Martinez, it looks like?”

I looked over to where Kenneth was pointing.

And okay, yeah, my dad was slow dancing to “Live to Tell” with Ms. Martinez. The two of them looked really…snug.

But I’m eighteen now.

So, no, in fact, vomit did not rise up into my mouth.

I very maturely and very wisely turned back to the conversation at hand and said, “Actually, Kenneth, yes, my dad could very easily choose not to run for prime minister and simply be happy with his title and his normal royal duties. But he prefers to take a more active role in the shape of the future of his country, and that’s why he wants to be prime minister. And that’s why I sort of wish he hadn’t wasted his time coming here.” And now that I just saw what I saw, why I REALLY wish he hadn’t come.

Oh, well. Ms. Martinez did read my novel and let it count as my senior project.

Ithink she read it. Some of it, anyway.

But that’s not what happened that freaked me out so much either.

Lilly said, in my dad’s defense, “It’s nice that he came. You only turn eighteen once. And he’s not going to get to see you much after he’s elected and you head off to college.”

“He will if Mia goes to the University of Genovia,” Boris said, “like she’s planning.”

Which is when Michael’s head whipped around and he looked at me with his eyes wide and he went, “University of Genovia? Why are you goingthere ?” Because, of course, he knows what a crummy school it is.

I could feel myself blush. Michael and I, in our e-mail conversations with each other, hadn’t discussed the fact that I’d gotten into every school I’d applied to, much less the fact that I’d lied about this to all my friends at school.

“Because she didn’t get in anywhere else,” Boris helpfully answered for me. “Her math SAT score was too low.”

This caused Tina to elbow him, deeply enough to make him say “Oof.”

It was at this moment that J.P. came back with my sparkling water. The reason it had taken him so long was because he’d stopped along the way to have a pretty in-depth conversation with Sean Penn—which he must have been pretty stoked about, Sean Penn being his hero, and all.

“I find it really hard to believe you got rejectedeverywhere you applied, Mia,” Michael was saying, not noticing who was approaching. “There are a lot of schools that don’t even count SAT scores anymore. Some great ones, actually, like Sarah Lawrence, which has a really strong writing program. I can’t imagine you didn’t apply there. Is it possible maybe you’re exaggerating about—”

“Oh, J.P.!” I cried, cutting Michael off. “Thanks! I’m so thirsty!”

I snatched the water out of his hand and gulped it down. J.P. was standing there, just staring at Michael, looking a little perplexed.

“Mike,” J.P. said. He still seemed dazed from his conversation with his artistic hero. “Hey. So. You’re back.”

“Michael’s been back for a while,” Boris said. “His robotic surgical arm is a huge financial success. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. Hospitals everywhere are vying for them, but they cost over a million dollars each and there’s a waiting list—ow.”

Tina elbowed him again. This time I think she must have nearly broken one of Boris’s ribs, because he almost doubled over.

“Wow,” J.P. said, with a smile. He didn’t look at all disturbed by Boris’s news. In fact, he had his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants, like he was James Bond, or someone. He’d probably gotten Sean Penn’s phone number and was fondling it. “That’s great.”

“J.P. wrote a play,” Tina squeaked. Apparently because she was unable to stand the tension and was trying to change the subject.

Everyone just looked at her. I thought Lilly was going to bust a piercing, her eyebrows were so furrowed as she tried to hold in what was apparently a huge horse laugh.

“Wow,” Michael said. “That’s great.”

I honestly didn’t know if he was being serious or if he was making fun of J.P., basically repeating the same thing he’d just said, or what. All I knew was, I had to get the heck out of there, or the tension was going to kill me. And who wants to stroke out on their eighteenth birthday?

“Well,” I said, handing Tina my plate. “Princess duty calls. I have to go mingle. See you guys later—”

But before I could get even one step away, J.P. grabbed hold of one of my hands and pulled me back and said, “Actually, Mia, if it’s all right with you, I have sort of an announcement I’d like to make, and I can’t think of a better time than right now. Will you go with me up to the microphone? Madonna’s about to take a break.”

Thatwas when I started feeling sick to my stomach. Because what sort of announcement could J.P. be going to make? In front of the Clintons? And Madonna and her band? And my dad?

Oh, and Michael.

But before I could say anything, J.P. started gently tugging—okay, dragging—me up to the stage they’d set up over the yacht’s built-in pool.

And the next thing I knew, Madonna was moving graciously out of the way and J.P. had hold of the microphone and was asking for everyone’s attention—and getting it. Three hundred faces were turning our way as my heart thumped inside my chest.

It’s true I’ve given speeches in front of way more people than that. But that was different. ThenI’d been the one in charge of the microphone. This time, someone else was.

And I had no idea what he was about to say.

But I had sort of an idea.

And I wanted to die.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” J.P. began, his deep voice booming out across the ship’s deck…and, for all I knew, the entire South Street Seaport. The paparazzi, down below, could probably hear him. “I’m so proud to be here tonight to celebrate this special occasion with such an extraordinary young woman…a young woman who means so much to all of us…to her country, to her friends, to her family…But the truth is, Princess Mia means more to me, perhaps, than she does to any of you—”

Oh, God. No. Nothere . Notnow ! I mean, it was totally sweet of J.P. to be expressing how much he cared about me in this way, in front of everyone—God knew Michael had never had the guts to do such a thing.

But then, I don’t think Michael had ever felt that he’d needed to.

“…And that’s why I want to take the opportunity to show her just how much she means to me by asking her here, in front of all her friends and loved ones—”

It was when I saw him reach a hand into one of the pockets of his tuxedo pants that Ireally started to think that I might need actual CPR in a minute.

And sure enough, from his pocket J.P. pulled a black velvet box…a much smaller one than Princess Amelie’s tiara had fit in.

The one J.P. was holding was ring-sized.

As soon as everyone in the crowd saw the box—and then J.P. sink down to one knee—they went totally bananas. People started cheering and clapping so loudly, I could hardly hear what J.P. said next…and I was standing right next to him. I’m sure no one else heard him, even though he was speaking into a microphone.

“Mia,” J.P. went on, looking up into my eyes with a confident smile on his face, as he opened the box to reveal an extremely large pear-shaped diamond on a platinum band, “will you…”

The screaming and cheering from the crowd got even louder. Everything went all swoopy in front of my eyes. The Manhattan skyline before us, the party lights on the boat, the faces before us, J.P.’s face below me.

I really did think for a second that I was going to pass out. Tina was right: I should have eaten more.

But one thing my vision was still steady enough to take in with perfect clarity:

And that was Michael Moscovitz. Leaving.

Yes, leaving the party. The boat. Whatever. The point was, he was exiting. One minute, I saw his face, perfectly expressionless, but there, down below me.

And the next, I was looking at the back of his head. I saw his broad shoulders, and then his back as he made his way toward the gangplank.

He was going.

Without even waiting to see what I’d say in response to J.P.’s question.

Or even what, exactly, that question was. Which, it turned out, wasn’t at all what everyone seemed to think it was.

“…go to the prom with me?” J.P. finished, his smile still wide and full of trust in me.

But I could barely drag my gaze to look in his direction. Because I couldn’t stop staring after Michael.

It’s just that…I don’t know. Looking out into the crowd like that, after my vision had gone all kind of wonky from surprise, and seeing Michael turn his back and just walk away, like he couldn’t have cared less what happened….

It was like something went cold inside me. Something I didn’t even realize was stillliving inside me.

Which, it turned out, was this little tiny ember of hope.

Hope that maybe, somehow, someday Michael and I might get back together.

I know! I’m a fool. An idiot! After all this time, why would I keep on hoping? Especially when I have such a fantastic boyfriend, who, by the way, was still kneeling in front of me, holding a RING! (Which excuse me, but what’s up with that? Who gives a girl a RING as he’s asking her to theprom ? Well, except for Boris. But excuse me, he’sBORIS .)

But obviously I was the only one harboring that little sliver of hope. Michael didn’t even care enough to stay and watch what I said in response to my longtime boyfriend’s proposal of prom-promise. (I guess that’s what it was. Wasn’t it?)

So. That was that.

It’s kind of funny, because I thought Michael broke my heart a long time ago. But he just sort of broke it all over again by walking out like that.

It’s amazing how boys can do that.

Fortunately, even though I couldn’t see very well because of the tears that filled up my eyes by Michael leaving like that, and my heart had just been smashed to pieces (again), I could still think clearly. Sort of.

The only thing I could think to do was give J.P. the speech that Grandmère had made me rehearse nine million times for just such an occasion—though I’d never actually believed such an occasion would ever arise:

“Oh,insert name of proposer here , I’m just so overwhelmed by the intensity of your emotions, I hardly know what to say. You’ve truly swept me off my feet, and I do believe my head is swimming—”

No lie, in this case.

“I’m so young and inexperienced, you see, and you’re such a man of the world…I just wasn’t expecting this.”

Absolutely no lie, again in this case. Who proposes in high school—even if it is just a promise ring, or whatever? Oh, wait, that’s right. Boris.

Hold on, where’s my dad? Oh, there he is. Oh, my God, I’ve never seen his face that color. I think his head is literally going to explode, he looks so mad. He must think, like everyone else, that J.P. just proposed. He didn’t hear that all J.P. did was ask me to the prom. He saw the ring, saw J.P. kneel, and just assumed…oh, this is awful! Why did J.P. have to get me aring ? Is that whatMichael thought? That J.P. was asking me tomarry him?

I want to die now.

“I think I need to go have a bit of a lie-down in my boudoir—alone—and let my maid apply some lavender oil to my temples while I think this over. I’m just so flattered and thrilled. But, no, don’t call me,I’ll call you.”

The truth is Grandmère’s speech just seemed the tiniest bit…outdated.

And also it didn’t really seem to apply considering the fact that J.P. and I have been going out for almost two years. So it’s not like his prom-ring proposal was completely out of left field.

Come on! I don’t even know where I want to go to college next year. How am I supposed to know who I want to be with for the foreseeable future?

But I have a pretty good clue:Not someone who hasn’t evenglanced at my book yet, even though he’s had it more than forty-eight hours.

I’m just saying.

The thing is, I’d never say that in front of everyone on the whole boat, and humiliate J.P.! I love him. I do. I just…

Why, oh, why did he have to kneel down like that in front of everyone? And with aring ?

So instead of Grandmère’s speech—and totally aware that there was this growing silence as I just stood there, idiotically saying nothing at all, I said, feeling my cheeks getting hotter and hotter, “Well, we’ll see!”

Well, we’ll see? WELL, WE’LL SEE?

A totally hot, totally perfect, totally wonderful guy who, by the way, loves me, and is willing to wait for me for all eternity, asks me to go to the prom with him, and also offers me what looks, at least according to the size chart Grandmère made me memorize in my head, like a three-carat diamond ring, and I say,Well, we’ll see ?

What’swrong with me? Seriously, do I have some sort of wish to live alone (well, with Fat Louie) for the rest of my life?

I really think I do. J.P.’s confident smile wavered…but just a little.

“That’s my girl,” he said, and stood up and hugged me, while somewhere out in the crowd, someone started to clap…slowly at first (I recognized that clap…it had to have been Boris), and then more rapidly, until everyone was politely applauding.

It was horrible! They were applauding for me saying “Well, we’ll see!” in response to my boyfriend’s asking me to the prom! I didn’t deserve applause. I deserved to be tossed overboard. They were only doing it because I’m a princess, and their hostess. I know deep down inside, they were thinking, “What a byotch!”

Why? Why had Michaelleft ?

As J.P. hugged me, I whispered, “We have to talk.”

He whispered back, “I have certification to prove it’s blood free. Is that why you look so freaked out?”

“Partly,” I said, inhaling his mingled scent of dry cleaning and Carolina Herrera for Men. We’d stepped away from the microphone by then, so there was no chance of anyone overhearing us. “It’s just—”

“It’s only a promise ring.” J.P. broke the hug first, but he still held on to one of my hands…into which he’d slipped the box holding the ginormous diamond ring. “You know I’d do anything to make you happy. I thought this was what you wanted.”

I just looked up at him in total confusion. Part of my confusion was over the fact that here was this wonderful, wonderful guy who really did mean what he’d just said—I knew he would do anything to make me happy. So why couldn’t I just let him?

And another part of me was wondering what I had ever said to make him think what I wanted was a ring—promise, engagement, or otherwise?

“It’s what Boris got Tina,” J.P. explained, seeing my lack of comprehension. “And you were so happy for her.”

“Right,” I said. “Because that’s the kind of thing she likes—”

“I know,” J.P. said. “The same way she likes romance novels, and you wrote one—”

“So naturally if her boyfriend gave her a promise ring, I’d want one, too?” I shook my head. Hello. Couldn’t he see there was a big difference between me and Tina?

“Look,” J.P. said, closing my fingers around the velvet box. “I saw the ring, and it reminded me of you. Think of it as a birthday gift if it freaks you out to think of it the other way. I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, but I just want you to know…I’m not going anywhere, Mia.I’m not leaving you, for Japan or anywhere else. I’m staying right here, by your side. So whatever you decide, whenever you decide it…you know where to find me.”

That’s when he leaned down and kissed me.

And then he, too, walked away.

Just like Michael.

And that’s when I ran for the safety of…this. Wherever I am now.

I know I should come down. My guests are probably leaving, and it’s rude that I’m not there to say good-bye.

But hello! How many times does a girl get sort-of proposed to? On her birthday? In front of everyone she knows? And then turns the guy down? Sort of? Only not really?

Also…what’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I just say yes? J.P. is clearly the most amazing guy on the planet…he’s wonderful, gorgeous, fantastic, and sweet. And he loves me. He LOVES me!

So why can’t I just love him back, the way he deserves to be loved?

Oh, crud…someone’s coming. Who do I know who’s limber enough to climb all the way up here? Not Grandmère, that’s for sure…

Tuesday, May 2, midnight, limo home from my party

My dad isn’t too happy with me.

He’s the one who climbed all the way to the yacht’s bow to tell me I had to stop “sulking” (his word for what I was doing, which isn’t completely accurate, in my opinion…I’d call it venting, since I’m writing in my journal), and come down and say good-bye to all my guests.

That wasn’t all he said, either. Not by a long shot.

He said I have to go to the prom with J.P. He said you can’t go out with a guy for nearly two years, then decide, a week before the senior prom, that you’re not going to go with him, just because you don’t feel like going to the prom.

Or, as he so unfairly put it, “Just because your ex-boyfriend happens to have come back to town.”

I was like, “Whatever, Dad! Michael and I are just friends!”Love, Michael. “Like going to the prom with him had ever even OCCURRED to me!”

Because it totally hasn’t. Who takes a twenty-one-yearold college graduate millionaire robotic-surgical-arm inventor to their high school prom? Who, by the way, broke up with me two years ago, and also clearly doesn’t care about me now either, so it’s not like he’d go if I asked.

And like I’d do that to J.P., anyway.

“There’s a name for girls like you,” Dad said, as he sat down next to me on my precarious perch out over the water. “And what you’re doing to J.P. And I don’t even want to repeat it. Because it’s not a nice name.”

“Really?” I was totally curious. No one’s ever called me a name before. Except for the names Lana routinely calls me—geek and spazoid and stuff like that. Well, and all the stuff Lilly called me on ihatemiathermopolis.com. “What name?”

“Tease,” Dad said gravely.

I have to admit, that made me start laughing. Even though the situation was supposed to be completely and totally serious, with Dad sitting there on the edge of the yacht, talking me down like I was about to commit suicide or something.

“It’s not funny,” Dad said, sounding irritated. “The last thing we need right now, Mia, is for you to get a reputation.”

This just made me laugh even harder. Considering the fact that I happen to be the last virgin in the graduating senior class of Albert Einstein High School (besides my boyfriend). It was just so ironic that my dad was lecturing me—me!—about getting a reputation. I was laughing so hard I had to hold on to the side of the boat to keep from falling into the inky black waters of the East River.

“Dad,” I said, when I could finally speak. “I can assure you, I amnot a tease.”

“Mia, actions speak louder than words. I’m not saying I think you and J.P. should get engaged.That , of course, is completely absurd. I expect you to kindly and gently explain to him that you’re much too young to be thinking of that kind of thing right now—”

“Da-ad,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s apromise ring.”

“Regardless of your personal feelings about the prom,” he went on, ignoring me, “J.P. wants to go, and surely wasn’t wrong to have expected to take you—”

“I know,” I said. “And I told him I wouldn’t mind if he takes someone else—”

“He wants to takeyou . His girlfriend. Whom he’s been seeing for nearly two years. He has certain rights of expectation because of that. One of them is that, barring any sort of gross misconduct on his part, you would go to the prom with him. And so the right thing for you to do is go with him.”

“But, Dad,” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t understand. I mean…I wrote a romance novel, and I gave it to him, and he hasn’t even—”

My dad blinked at me. “You wrote aromance novel ?”

Oops. Yeah, guess I forgot to mention that part to good old Dad. Maybe I could distract him.

“Um,” I said. “Yeah. About that. You don’t have to worry. No one wants to publish it anyway—”

My dad waved a hand like my words were something annoying that was buzzing around his head.

“Mia,” he said. “I think you know by now that being royal isn’t all about being driven around in limos and having a bodyguard and taking private jets and buying the latest handbag or jeans and always being in style. You know what it’s really about is always being the bigger person, and being kind to others. You chose to date J.P. You chose to date him for nearly two years. You cannotnot go to the prom with him, unless he’s been in some way cruel to you…which, from what you describe, it doesn’t sound as if he has. Now, stop being such a—what do you kids call it? Oh, right, a drama queen—and come down from here. My leg is getting a cramp.”

I knew my dad was right. I was being stupid. I’d been acting like an idiot all week (so what else was new?). I was going to the prom, and I was going with J.P. J.P. and I were perfect for each other. We always had been.

I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I needed to stop acting like one. I needed to stop lying to everyone, just like Dr. Knutz said.

But most importantly, I needed to stop lying to myself.

Life isn’t a romance novel. The truth is, the reason romance novels sell so well—the reason why everyone loves them—is because no one’s life is actually like that. Everyonewants their life to be like that.

But no one’s life really is.

No. The truth was, Michael and I were through—even if he did sign his letter to meLove, Michael . But that didn’t mean anything. That little ember of hope I’d been carrying around—partly, I knew, because my dad had told me that love is always waiting right around the corner—needed to die and stay well and truly dead. I needed toallow it to die, and be happy with what I had. Because what I had was pretty freaking great.

I think what happened tonight finally killed that ember of hope about Michael I’ve been carrying around. I really do.

At least, I’m almost positive when I climbed down and found J.P. (talking to Sean Penn again, of course) and I went up to him and said, “Yes,” and showed him that I was wearing the ring, that killed it. Killed it pretty much dead.

He gave me a big hug and lifted me up and swung me around. Everyone standing around cheered and clapped.

Except my mom. I saw her give my dad a look, and he shook his head, and she narrowed her eyes at him, like,You are so gonna get it , and he gave her a look, like,It’s just a promisering, Helen.

I suspect I’m due for a breakfast lecture on post-modern feminism from Mom tomorrow morning. As Lana would say, whatevs. Like any lecture of Mom’s can make me feel worse than the sight of Michael’s back did a little while ago.

Tina and Lana and Trisha and Shameeka and Ling Su and Perin were all over the ring, though Ling Su mainly wanted to know if I could cut plates in half with my new diamond, since she’s doing a new installation piece that involves pieces of broken ceramic (we experimented on some of the dishware from the caterer and the answer is yes, my ring can cut plates in half).

The person who seemed most interested was Lilly. She came over and really looked at it and was like, “So what are you now, like, engaged?” and I was all, “No, it’s just a promise ring,” and Lilly went, “That’s some bigpromise ,” meaning the diamond. Which I’m pretty sure she meant in a semi-insulting way…

And she succeeded.

What I couldn’t figure out was why Lilly hadn’t sprung her “surprise” on me yet…the one she’d said she could only give me if she came to my party. I’d assumed that meant she was going to give it to meat my party—or at least on my birthday itself. But so far she’d showed no sign of doing so.

Maybe I’d misunderstood.

Or maybe—just maybe—there was still some sliver of affection for me somewhere in her, and whatever diabolical scheme she’d been planning, she’d decided not to launch it after all.

So remembering what Dad had said about how being royal is about being the bigger person, I refused to take offense at her “That’s some bigpromise ” remark.

And I also refused to ask her where her brother had gone. Though Tina, of course, sidled up to me and pointed out—in case I’d missed it, somehow—that he’d left…and that he’d done it as soon as J.P. had whipped out the ring.

“Do you think,” Tina whispered, “Michael left because he couldn’t stand to see the woman he’s loved for so long promising herself to another man?”

Really, this was too much.

“No, Tina,” I said flatly. “I think he left because he just doesn’t care about me.”

Tina looked shocked.

“No!” she cried. “That’s not why! I know that’s not why! He left because he thinks YOU don’t care about him, and knew he couldn’t control his unbridled passion for you! He was probably afraid if he’d stay, he’d KILL J.P.!”

“Tina,” I said. It was sort of hard to stay calm, but I remembered my new motto—life is not a romance novel—and that made it a little easier. “Michael doesn’t care about me. Face the facts. I’m with J.P. now, the way I always should have been. And please don’t talk to me that way about Michael anymore. It really upsets me.”

And that was the end of it. Tina apologized for having upset me—about a million times—and was really concerned about having hurt my feelings, but we hugged it out, and everything was fine after that.

The party went on for a little while longer, but then pretty much fizzled out when the dock master came along and said Madonna’s band had to unplug due to complaints from the neighborhood associations of nearby waterside condos (I guess they’d have preferred Pavarotti).

In all, it was a pretty good party. I cleared some excellent loot: a ton of Marc Jacobs and Miu Miu totes, clutches, and wallets and stuff; a lot of scented candles (which you can’t even take with you to the dorm—whatever college I end up in—since candles are considered a fire hazard); a Princess Leia cat costume for Fat Louie, which won’t be too confusing for him, gender-wise; a Brainy Smurf T-shirt from Fred Flare; a Cinderella Disney castle pendant; diamond and sapphire hair clips (from Grandmère, who always says my hair is in my face now that it’s long); and $253,050 in donations to Greenpeace.

Oh, yeah, and one three-carat blood-free diamond promise ring.

I’d add one broken heart to the list, but I’m trying not to be a “drama queen,” like Dad said. Besides, Michael broke my heart a long time ago. He can’t break itagain . And all he did was say he liked my book and writeLove, Michael at the end of his note to me about it. That hardly constitutes wanting to get back together. I have no idea why I got my hopes up in such a ridiculous, girly manner.

Oh, right: Because I’m a ridiculous, girly girl.

Tuesday, May 2, World History final

It probably wasn’t such a good idea to have my eighteenth birthday soirée the actual nightof my birthday, seeing as how finals start today. I’ve seen more than a few people wandering around, looking all bleary-eyed, like they could have used a couple more hours of sleep. Including me.

Thank God the schedules are all topsy-turvy for finals week and I just have World History and English Lit today, my easiest classes. If I had Trig or French finals today, I’d die.

Literally. My mom’s speech about how women have come a long way from the time when they used to have to get married right out of high school because females weren’t allowed in universities, nor were there any jobs open to them either, went on for a really long time. And every time I started to doze during it, she poked me awake again.

I said, “Mom, duh! J.P. and I aren’t getting married after graduation! I’m ambitious, all right? I totally got into every college I applied to already and I wrote a novel and I’m trying to get it published! What more do you want from me?”

But somehow none of this seemed to comfort her. She kept saying, “But you haven’tchosen a school. You have less than a week to decide which one you’re going to,” and “It’s aromance novel,” like somehow either of these made a difference.

And whatever: The heroine of my romance novel is a total dead shot with a bow and arrow.

I don’t even wear J.P.’s ring around the house so I’m not sure what the problem is. It’s not like she even has to see it. What about it is so offensive to her?

Tuesday, May 2, Lunch

Everyone is forever asking to see my ring. I mean, it’s flattering, and all, but…kind of embarrassing. Then I have to explain it’s not an engagement ring. Because, of course, it looks exactly like one. And they all think J.P. proposed.

And it’s so big it keeps getting snagged on things. Like loose threads of my uniform skirt and once in one of Shameeka’s braids. It took, like, five minutes to get it unsnagged.

I’m not used to being so glamorous at school.

You can tell J.P. is really pleased though.

So. There’s that. If he’s happy, I’m happy.

Tuesday, May 2, English Lit final

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

Okay, once again, I have made a complete and total fool out of myself.

But really, what else is new?

Not that it matters, because I’ve moved on. I’m eighteen, and an adult, and in four days I will be out of this hellhole FOREVER (just don’t ask me where I’ll be going instead, because I still have no idea).

Anyway, it’s all Tina’s fault, because Tina is barely speaking to me. I know I told her not to talk to me about Michael, but that’s not the same as sayingDon’t talk to me at all .

You’d think she’d have a lot to talk to me about, seeing as how we’re both engaged-to-be-engaged, and all.

But maybe she’s so scared of saying the wrong thing to me now, for fear of hurting my feelings, she’s decided to say nothing to me at all.

I don’t know what her problem is. I can’t win in the best-friend division, apparently. I can’t ever seem to make them happy.

I really should just settle for having Lana as my best friend. She’s much easier-going than anyone else I know. She’s very excited today because she’s got a love bite and she claims it’s from Prince William (she so wishes). She’s going around, showing it off to everyone. I’m surprised she hasn’t drawn a big red circle around it, in lipstick, with an arrow, and a sign that says, PRINCE WILLIAM’S (ALLEGED) HICKEY.

Anyway, after lunch I saw Tina in the girls’ bathroom and I was like, “What exactly is your problem?”

And she was all, “Problem? What problem? There’s no problem, Mia,” with her big Bambi eyes.

But I could tell that even though her eyes were all wide and innocent, she was lying. I mean, I don’t know how I could tell, exactly.

Okay, maybe she wasn’t lying. Maybe I was just projecting (which is a term we learned in Psych for when you attribute your own unwanted thoughts to someone else as a defense mechanism). Maybe I was still wound up from what had happened the night before, with Michael leaving the party, and all.

But in any case, I went, “There is too a problem. You think I’m doing the wrong thing, saying yes to J.P. when I still have feelings for Michael.” (Yeah, I know. Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I was like,What are you saying? Shut up, Mia. But I couldn’t shut myself up. I just kept talking. It was like a nightmare.)

“Well,” I went on, “I’ll have you know that I don’t. Have feelings for Michael anymore. I’ve moved on from Michael. Well and truly moved on. Last night when he walked out the way he did was the last straw. And I’ve decided that after the prom, J.P. and I are going to Do It. Yes. We are.” Honestly, I have no idea where this was coming from. I think I just thought of it at that very moment. “I’m tired of being the last virgin girl in our senior class. No way am I going to start college with my innocence still intact. Even though I probably lost it a long time ago on a bike or whatever.”

Tina was still doing the big-eyed,I don’t know what you’re talking about act.

“Okay, Mia,” she said. “Whatever you say. You know I support you whatever you decide.”

ARGH! She is so frustratingly NICE sometimes!

“In fact,” I said, whipping out my iPhone. “I’m going to text J.P. right now. Yes! Right now! And tell him to get a hotel room for after the prom!”

Tina’s eyes were HUGE now. She went, “Mia. Are you really sure you want to do this? You know, there’s really nothing wrong with being a virgin. Lots of people our age—”

“Too late!” I yelled.

I swear I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was because a few minutes before, J.P.’s ring had gotten snagged on Stacey Cheeseman’s eyelet ponytail holder as she walked down the hall. Maybe it was all the PRESSURE that was on me…finals, Dad’s election, everyone telling me I had to choose a college by the end of the week, the thing with Michael, Lilly being so nice to me all of a sudden…I don’t know. Maybe it was justeverything .

Anyway, I texted, MAKE SURE WE R GETTING A HOTEL RM 4 AFTR PROM to J.P.

It was right after that that a toilet flushed. And a stall door opened.

And Lilly walked out.

I nearly had a synaptic breakdown right there in the girls’ bathroom. I just stood there staring at her, realizing she’d overheard everything I’d said—about finally being over Michael,and about being a virgin….

…and that I was texting J.P. to get a hotel room for after the prom.

Lilly looked right back at me. She didn’t utter a word. (Neither, needless to say, did I. I couldn’t think of a word to say. Later, of course, I thought of amillion things I should have said. Like that Tina and I had just been rehearsing a scene from a play or something.)

Then Lilly turned around, walked over to the sinks, rinsed her hands, dried, tossed her paper towel, and left the room.

All in complete and utter silence.

I looked at Tina, who stared back at me with her huge, troubled eyes…eyes, I realized now, that had never been anything but filled with concern for me.

“Don’t worry, Mia” were the first words from Tina’s lips. “She won’t tell Michael. She wouldn’t. Iknow she wouldn’t.”

I nodded. Tina knew no such thing. She was just being nice. The way Tina always is.

“You’re right,” I said. Even though she wasn’t. “And even if she does…he doesn’t care anymore. I mean, obviously he doesn’t care anymore, or he wouldn’t have walked out last night like he did.”

This, at least, was true.

Tina bit her lip.

“Of course,” she said. “You’re right. Only, Mia…don’t you think—”

Only I never found out what it was Tina wanted to know that I thought, because my cell phone buzzed. And there was a text message back from J.P.

And it said:

HOTEL ROOM ALREADY SECURED. ALL SYSTEMS GO. LUV U.

So. Great!

That’s taken care of. Yay! I’m about to become devirginized.

Go me.

Tuesday, May 2, 6 p.m., the loft

Daphne Delacroix

1005 Thompson Street, Apt. 4A

New York, NY 10003

Dear Ms. Delacroix,

We regret that we are unable to publish the enclosed material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read it.

Sincerely,

The Editors

And…the hits just keep coming.

I walked into the loft and found (besides this letter) Mom with every college-acceptance packet I’ve ever received spread out on the floor and Rocky sitting in the middle of it all like the stamen of a flower (if the stamen of a flower ever drank from a Dora the Explorer sippy cup). Mom looked at me and went, “We’re picking a college for you.Tonight .”

“Mom,” I said crankily. “If this is about J.P. and the ring thing—”

“This is aboutyou ,” Mom said. “And your future.”

“I’m going to college, all right? I said I’d choose one by the election. I’ve got till then. I can’t handle this right now, I’ve got a Trig final tomorrow I have to study for now.”

Also, I’m going to be devirginized after the prom on Saturday. Only I didn’t mention this part to her. Obviously.

“I want to discuss this now,” Mom said. “I want you to make an informed choice, not just pick any old place because your father is pressuring you.”

“And I don’t want to go to some Ivy League college,” I said, “that I didn’t deserve to get into and that just let me in because I’m a princess.” I was fully stalling for time, because all I wanted to do was go into my room and try to digest the whole losing-my-virginity-on-Saturday thing. And the fact that Lilly Moscovitz, my ex-best friend, knew about it. Was she going to tell her brother?

No. She wouldn’t. She didn’t care about me anymore. So why would she?

Except to totally and completely annihilate me in his eyes even further than I have been already by my own idiotic behavior.

“Then don’t go to some Ivy League college,” Mom said. “Go to some college you might have had a shot at getting into without the princess thing. Let me help you pick a place. Please, Mia, for the love of God. Don’t tell me your future degree is an MRS.”

“What’s that?” I asked her.

“Mrs.Reynolds-Abernathy IV,” she said.

“It’s a PROMISE ring,” I yelled at her. God! Why doesn’t anyonelisten to me? And why, when I’d been getting my feet done with all those girls who’d had sex, hadn’t I asked them more questions about it? I know I wrote about it in my romance novel. I’ve certainly READ about it quite a bit.

But that’s not the same as actually doing it, you know?

“Good,” Mom said, about the promise ring thing. “Then PROMISE me you’ll let me help narrow it down a little so I can tell your father I’m on this. He’s called metwice about this today. And he only just got back to Genovia a few hours ago. And I’m slightly worried about it myself, you know.”

I made a face at her. Then I went around the room and picked up the acceptance packets to the schools I thought I could bear spending four years attending. I tried to pay special attention to the ones that didn’t count SAT scores (I looked them up on the computer, per Michael’s suggestion…even though I didn’t do it for HIM. I just did it because…well, it was good advice), and that might possibly have let me in despite the whole princess thing.

It was probably the most mature thing I did all day. Besides organize my thank-you notes for all my birthday gifts. I didn’t exactly come to a final decision about where I want to go, but I narrowed it down quite a bit so that possibly, maybe by election day slash prom, I might be able to tell them I’d decided on someplace.

I think. Sort of.

I was in the middle of getting my Trig notes ready when I got an IM from J.P.

JPRA4: Hey! How’d it go today? With finals, I mean.

FTLOUIE: Good, I think. I just had World History and English Lit, so nothing too stressful. It’s tomorrow I’m worried about. Trig! You?

It seemed so weird that we were IM’ing about finals when in less than a week we’re going to be…you know.

And we’ve never even been undressed in the same room together before.

JPRA4: Okay. I’m worried about tomorrow, too…tomorrow night.

FTLOUIE: Oh, right, your big performance in front of the senior project committee! Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s going to go great. I can’t wait to see it!

How can he even care about his stupid senior project when we’re going to have sex? What’s wrong with boys?

JPRA4: It’ll go great as long as you’ll be there.

WHAT IS HE EVEN TALKING ABOUT???? IS HE INSANE?????? SEX!!!! WE’RE GOING TO HAVE SEX!!!! WHY CAN’T WE TALK ABOUT IT?????

At least Michael would talk about it.

FTLOUIE: You know I wouldn’t miss it! And it’ll be awesome.

JPRA4:You’re the awesome one.

We went on like that for a while, each one saying who was the more awesome, but neither of us saying what we really NEEDED to say (or at least what I felt like we needed to say), until I got an IM from Tina interrupting us.

ILUVROMANCE: Mia, I know you said not to talk about this anymore, but this isn’t talking about it. It’s IMing about it. I really don’t think Michael left the party last night because he doesn’t care about you. I think he left because he DOES care about you and he couldn’t stand to see you with another. I know you don’t want to hear that, but that’s what I think.

I do love Tina. So, so much.

But sometimes I want to strangle her.

ILUVROMANCE: I mean, I was just wondering if you’ve really consideredall the implications of what you’re about to do with Ja. on prom night. Take it from someone who’s been there. I know Lana and Trisha might make it sound like it’s nothing, but sex is a deeply emotional experience your first time, Mia—or it should be. This is a really big step and you shouldn’t take it with just anyone.

FTLOUIE: Like with my boyfriend of almost two years whom I love to distraction, you mean?

ILUVROMANCE: Okay, I see what you’re saying, and you guys have been going out for a long time. But what if you’re making a mistake? What if J.P. isn’t the One?

FTLOUIE: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? Of course J.P. is the One. BECAUSE HE HASN’T BROKEN UP WITH ME. LIKE MICHAEL DID. REMEMBER?

ILUVROMANCE: Yes, but that was a long time ago. And now Michael’s back. And I was just thinking…maybe you shouldn’t make any hasty decisions. Because what if Lilly tells Michael what she heard in the bathroom today?

I knew Tina was lying today.

FTLOUIE: YOU SAID SHE WOULDN’T.

ILUVROMANCE: Well, she probably won’t. But…what if she does?

FTLOUIE: Because Michael doesn’tcare , Tina. I mean,he broke up withme. Heleft the party last night. What would he care if I’m going around saying I’m still a virgin but I’m going to sleep with my boyfriend after the prom and that I only just got over still liking him? If he cared, he’d do something about it, right? I mean, Michael has my phone number, right?

ILUVROMANCE: Right.

FTLOUIE: And the phone’s not ringing, is it? ILUVROMANCE: I guess not.

FTLOUIE: No. It isn’t. So. No offense, Tina. I love romance, too, but in this particular case, it’s OVER. MICHAEL DOESN’T CARE ABOUT ME ANYMORE. As his behavior at my party clearly illustrates.

ILUVROMANCE: Well. Okay. If you say so.

FTLOUIE: I do. I do say so. Case closed.

That’s when I told both Tina and J.P. that I really had to go. I had to log off, or I thought my head was going to spin out into the courtyard of our building and go whizzing off into space to be with all the space satellites that keep hurtling down to rain upon us.

That’s not what I told them, of course. I said if I don’t study, I won’t pass Trig. Truthfully, if I don’t pass Trig, then maybe one of these colleges that let me in based on my actual grades and essays and extracurriculars and all really won’t let me in.

J.P. IMed me a million good-bye kisses. I sent them back in return. Tina just IMed “Bye.” But I could tell there were ten thousand more things she wanted to say. Like about how J.P. wasn’t my One, undoubtedly.

Nice of her to mention that NOW. Not that there’s anything I can do about it.

I suppose she thinks my One is Michael. Why does my best friend have to think my One is a guy who is categorically uninterested in me?

Tuesday, May 2, 8 p.m., the loft

Crud. There is stuff all over the gossip websites about my “engagement” to J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV.

It’s all tied in with how Dad is still losing in the Genovian election polls…and how maybe flying to the U.S. for a day for his daughter’s eighteenth birthday party wasn’t the best idea, seeing as how he really can’t afford to be spending the time away from the campaign.

On the other hand, a lot of the articles say maybe if he did spend more time with his daughter, she wouldn’t be getting herself engaged at such a young age.

I’m like the Jamie Lynn Spears of the Renaldo family! Minus the pregnancy!

I’m going to crawl under the covers and never come out.

It’s a PROMISE RING! Who told them it was an engagement ring anyway?

Seriously, when is it all just going to go away?

Oh, that’s right: Never.

Tuesday, May 2, 9 p.m., the loft

Grandmère just called. She wanted to know if I had a dress for the prom yet.

“Um,” I said, suddenly remembering that, in fact, I didn’t. “No?”

“I figured as much,” Grandmère said, with a sigh. “I’ll put Sebastiano on it, since he’s here in town.”

Then she said if I’d just given J.P. the speech she’d made me memorize so long ago, none of the gossip stuff would be happening. I guess they’d said something about it onEntertainment Tonight. Grandmère never misses an episode, since she’s obsessed with Mary Hart’s posture, which she says is perfect, and I should emulate. (I would, but I’d have to jam a broomstick up my butt.)

“On the other hand,” she went on, “if you had to get yourself engaged to anyone, Amelia, at least you picked someone with breeding and his own fortune. It could be worse. I suppose,” she added, with a cackle, “it could have been That Boy.”

ByThat Boy , Grandmère meant Michael. And I don’t frankly see what’s so funny about that.

“I’m not engaged,” I told her. “It’s a promise ring.”

“What in God’s name,” Grandmère wanted to know, “is a promise ring? And what is this your father tells me about you having written a romance novel?”

I really was not in the mood to discussRansom My Heart with Grandmère. I still had about twenty chapters of Trig to review. Oh, and my devirginization to map out. I had to figure out what I was going to buy at CVS to keep a wholeJuno scenario from breaking out. The next novel I write does not need to be titledPregnant Princess.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” I snapped. “Since no one wants to publish it anyway.”

“Well, thank the Lord for that,” Grandmère said. “The last thing this family needs is some tawdry paperback novel writer—”

“It’s not tawdry,” I interrupted her, stung. “It’s a very humorous and moving romance about a young girl’s sexual awakening in the year twelve ninety-one—”

“Oh my God.” Grandmère sounded as if she’d swallowed the wrong way. “Please tell me if you do get published, you’ll be using a pen name.”

“Of course I am,” I said. How much can one person be expected to take, anyway? “But even if I wasn’t, what’s wrong with it? Why does everyone have to be such a prude? You know, I’ve put up with doing what everybody else wants me to do for nearly four years now. It’s about time I got to do somethingI want to do—”

“Well, for the love of God,” Grandmère said, “why can’t you take up skiing, or something? Why does it have to benovel writing?”

“Because I like it,” I said. “And I can do it and still have time to be princess of Genovia, and not have paparazzi chase me around, and it isn’t bad for me, and why can’t you just be happy for me that I’ve found my calling?”

“Her calling!” I could tell Grandmère was rolling her eyes. “Hercalling , no less. It can’t be your calling if no one will evenbuy the wretched thing from you, Amelia. Listen, if you want a calling, I’ll pay for you to have cliff-diving lessons. I hear it’s all the rage with the young people down in—”

“I don’twant cliff-diving lessons,” I said. “I’m going to write novels and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. And I’m going to go to college to learn to do it better. I just don’t know where yet. But I will by the prom and the election—”

“Well,”Grandmère said, sounding offended. “Someone didn’t get her beauty sleep!”

“Because I was atyour party,” I said. Then I softened my tone, remembering what my dad had said about princesses being kind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It was very nice of you to have that party for me, and it was lovely to see Dad, and you and Vigo did an awfully nice job. I just meant—”

“I suppose,” Grandmère said stiffly, “I ought to be relieved I don’t have to have an engagement party for you. No one givespromise -ring parties…do they? But I imagine you’ll expect abook party someday.”

“If I get published,” I said, “it would be nice.”

Grandmère sighed gustily and hung up. I could tell she was going to go have a Sidecar, even though her physicians have expressly ordered her to cut back on them (and I saw her with one in her hand throughout the night last evening. Either her glass was magic and never emptied, or she had several).

So, yeah. Exactly what Dad DIDN’T want: Looks like I’m a Princess with a Reputation.

On the other hand, at this point…I might as well live up to it, I guess.

Wednesday, May 3, Trig final

Okay. Barely passed that.

Moving on.

Wednesday, May 3, Lunch

OH MY GOD!

I was just sitting down at our table in the caf with my tofurkey burger and salad when my phone rang and I saw that it was my dad.

Dad never calls me during school unless it’s an emergency or massively important, so I practically dropped my tray and was all, “WHAT?” into the phone.

Of course J.P. and Tina and Boris and Lana and everyone stopped talking and turned to look at me.

The only things I could think were:

A) Grandmère finally croaked from too many Gitanes, or

B) Somehow the paparazzi got wind of the fact that I’m going to have sex on my prom night and spilled the beans to my parents, and I was busted. Could Tina be right? Had they finally tapped my phone?

Then Dad went, in a completely calm voice, “I thought you’d be interested to know that a brand-new CardioArm was just delivered to the Royal Genovian Hospital, with a card indicating it was a donation courtesy of Michael Moscovitz, President and CEO, Pavlov Surgical Industries.”

I almost dropped my phone into Lana’s fro-yo. “Hey, watch it,” she said.

“A programmer named Midori came with the CardioArm to teach our surgeons a two-week course on how to use it,” Dad went on. “She’s at the hospital now, setting it up.”

Micromini Midori!

“I don’t understand,” I said. I really was totally confused. “Why would he do that? We didn’t ask for one. Did you ask for one? I didn’t ask him for one.”

“I didn’t ask him for one,” Dad said. “And I already checked with your grandmother. She swears she didn’t ask him for one.”

I had to sit down, my legs having suddenly given out from beneath me. I hadn’t even thought of Grandmère. She had to have been behind this! She must have browbeaten Michael into giving Genovia one of his CardioArms! No wonder he’d left my party early! Poor thing.

And all this time I’d been thinking horrible thoughts about him….

“Mia,” J.P. said, looking concerned. “Are you all right? What’s going on?”

“She must have said something to him,” I said into the phone, ignoring my boyfriend. “She’s got to be lying. Why else would he have done it?”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea why,” Dad said, in a strange voice.

“You do?” I was flummoxed. “Well, why? Other than Grandmère having cornered him the other night at my party and demanding one? Dad, she had to have.” I lowered my voice so the lunch gang wouldn’t overhear me. “There’s a huge long waiting list for those things. They cost over a million dollars! He’s not just going to have one shipped over to Genovia for free, for no reason!”

“I think there’s a reason,” Dad said dryly. “Why don’t you call him to thank him? I imagine he’ll probably tell you what it is over dinner.”

“Dinner?” I echoed. “What are you talking about? Why would we go out to din—”

Comprehension dawned. I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to figure out what my dad meant—that Michael had sent the CardioArm because he still liked me.More than liked me, maybe, even.

I could feel myself starting to blush. I was grateful everyone at the table couldn’t hear both sides of the conversation. That is, if they hadn’t figured it out already from my end.

“Da-ad!” I whispered. “Come on! It’s notthat ! I mean—” I lowered my voice even more, grateful for the din of the cafeteria.“He broke up with me, remember?”

“That was almost two years ago,” Dad said. “You’ve both done a lot of growing up since then. One of you, in particular.”

He meant me. I knew he meant me. He certainly didn’t mean Michael, who’d never been anything but calm and understanding, whereas I’d been…

Well, not.

Geek.

“Mia, what’s going on?” Tina wanted to know. She looked worried. “Is your dad all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” I said to them. “I’ll tell you in a minute—”

“Mia, I have to go,” Dad said. “The press is here. I don’t think I have to tell you that something like this…well, it’s big news in a little place like Genovia.”

No, he didn’t need to tell me that. People don’t make donations of million-dollar, state-of-the-art medical equipment to Genovia’s dinky hospital. Something like that was going to get major media coverage.

Way more, in fact, than René’s efforts to open an Applebee’s.

“Okay, Dad,” I said, in a daze. “Bye.”

I hung up, feeling totally confused. What was going on? Why had Michael done this? I mean, I knew why mydad thought Michael had done it.

But why had hereally done it? I’d seen how he’d walked out of my birthday party like that. It didn’t make any sense.

Love, Michael.

“What’s going on, Mia?” J.P. wanted to know.

“You look like you just ate a sock,” Tina said.

“It’s nothing,” I said quickly. “It was just my dad to say that the Royal Genovian Hospital got a donation of a CardioArm from Michael’s company. That’s all.”

Tina choked on the sip of Diet Coke she was taking. Everyone else took the news calmly.

Including J.P.

“Oh, hey, Mia,” he said. “That’s great! Wow. That’s a generous gift.”

He didn’t look a bit jealous.

And why should he? It’s not as if there’s anything to be jealous about. Michael doesn’t like me like that, despite what Dad—and Tina—might think. I’m sure he just donated the CardioArm to be nice.

And Micromini Midori…the fact that he sent her to teach the surgeons how to use it? That doesn’t mean she and Michael aren’t going out. It just means they’re in such a stable relationship that they can be away from each other for weeks at a time and it doesn’t bother them a bit.

What am I blathering about? Who cares if Michael and Micromini Midori are dating? I’m wearing a promise ring from another guy! To whom I am going to lose my virginity after the prom this coming Saturday! What is wrong with me?

Really—What IS wrong with me? I shouldn’t even be thinking about any of this stuff! I have a French final in fifteen minutes!

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ABOUT THE FACT THAT MICHAEL SENT A CARDIOARM TO THE ROYAL GENOVIAN HOSPITAL?????

And I can’t stop thinking about him for even one second, and I’m due to lose my virginity to my boyfriend after the prom in four days (three if you don’t count today)????

Wednesday, May 3, French final

Mia—Are you done with the final? T

Yes. That was horrible.

I know! What did you get for number 5?

I don’t know. Future perfect, I think. I don’t remember anymore. I’m trying to block it out.

Same here. So. I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but what are you going to do about Michael, and the fact that he did what he did? Because, no matter what you say, Mia, you can’t deny—no guy is going to send a CardioArm to the country of a girl he doesn’t like.

See, I knew this was going to happen. Tina takes everything and wraps it up in silver tissue paper and puts a big bow on it and calls it Love.

AndI’m supposed to be the romance writer.

He doesn’t like me! Notlike like me. He just did it to be nice. For old times’ sake. I’m sure.

Well, I don’t see how you can be sure when you haven’t even spoken to him about it. Have you spoken to him about it?

Well, no. Not yet. I’m not sure I’m going to, either. Because, in case you don’t remember, Tina, I’m promise-ringed to someone else.

That doesn’t give you the right to be rude! When someone goes to all the trouble of donating a CardioArm to your country, the least you can do is personally thank him! Although that doesn’t mean you have to sleep with him, or anything. I’m sure Michael isn’t expecting anything likethat . You could kiss him though.

Oh my God.

Whose side are you on, anyway, Tina? J.P.’s, or Michael’s?

J.P.’s, of course! Because that’s who you’ve chosen, right? I mean…haven’t you? It would be pretty weird if that’s NOT who you’ve chosen, seeing as how you’re wearing his ring, and plan on spending the night with him on Saturday.

Of course I chose J.P.! Michael broke up with me, remember?

Mia, that was almost two years ago. Things are different now. You’re different now.

WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP SAYING THIS?

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS I JUST GOT OUT OF MY LAST GERMAN FINAL EVER! No more German finals ever! At least for me! I think in college I’m going to take Spanish because then I’ll be able to order more things when I go to Cabo for break instead of just tacos.

—————————————

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

Lana, don’t you think Mia should call Michael to thank him for donating a CardioArm to the Royal Genovian Hospital?

Whatevs, she should just call him because he is HOT like a red-hot chili pepper like the kind I’ll be learning about when I start taking SPANISH instead of GERMAN!!!!

—————————————

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

See? Mia, just text Michael. Thank him for what he did. That’s not hurting J.P. I mean, you already met with Michael and didn’t tell J.P. And okay, maybe Michael did it because Lilly told him what she overheard us saying in the bathroom. But chances are he was going to send it anyway. So just call him.

You think he sent it because Lilly told him she overheard me say I still like him? I’m going to be sick!!!!!

No! I said MAYBE that’s why he did it!

OH MY GOD that IS why he did it! I know it! Oh my God. OH MY GOD!!!!!!

Look, I’m sure that’s NOT why. But…you should call him and find out.

Wait a minute…I’m going to Genovia for break from now on. I should take French next year. What’s French for tacos?

—————————————

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

When I go to college the first thing I’m going to do is pick out all new friends. Because the friends I currently have are psychotic.

Wednesday, May 3, 4 p.m., limo on the way to

Grandmère’s condo at the Plaza

Sebastiano has picked out a half dozen gowns from his latest collection for me to try on to wear to the prom, and I’m meeting him at Grandmère’s to check them out.

I have a feeling they’re going to be horrible, but I guess I shouldn’t be so judgmental. I really liked the last formal gown of his that I wore (to the Nondenominational Winter Dance my freshman year. Can it really have been so long ago? It seems like yesterday). Just because Sebastiano’s selling his stuff at Wal-Mart doesn’t mean it’s going to be awful.

Anyway, I’ve been writing and deleting texts to Michael the whole way up in the car. I’ve been trying them out on Lars. (He thinks I’m nuts, clearly. But then, what else is new?) It’s really hard to capture just the right casually breezy, yet still warmly sincere tone.

Lars thinks I should go with this:

Dear Michael,

I can’t tell you how surprised yet pleased I was to hear from my dad today about a certain delivery that arrived at the Royal Genovian Hospital. You can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve done for him and for the people of Genovia. Your generosity will never be forgotten. I would so like to thank you in person on their behalf (when you have time).

Sincerely,

Mia

I do think this has just the right polite yet friendly tone. It’s the sort of thing a girl who is promise-ringed to someone else could send and not have misinterpreted. Or have intercepted by the paparazzi and get herself into trouble.

I added the stuff about meeting in person because…well, it just seems like you should thank someone in person for a gift that cost over a million dollars. Not because I want to smell him again. No matter what Lars thinks (I really wish he wouldn’t eavesdrop on all my conversations. But I guess that’s one of the hazards of guarding someone).

I’m going to hit SEND before I chicken out.

Wednesday, May 3, 4:05 p.m., limo on the way to Grandmère’s condo at the Plaza

Oh my God! Michael got the text and texted me back already! I’m freaking out. (Lars is laughing even harder at me but I don’t care.)

Mia,

Would love to see you “in person.” How about tonight?

Michael

P.S. No need to thank me on behalf of your father or Genovia. I only sent it because I thought it might help out your dad in the elections, and that, in turn, would makeyou happy. So you see my motives were completely selfish.

Now what do I do????

Lars has no answer for me. Well, he does, but it’s completely unreasonable. He’s like, “Call him. Go out with him tonight.”

But I can’t go out with him tonight! Because I’ve got A BOYFRIEND! Plus, I’ve got J.P.’s play tonight. I promised I’d be there to support him.

And Iwant to be there for J.P. Of course I do. It’s just that—

What can Michael mean, his motives were entirely selfishly motivated? Does he mean what Lars says he thinks he means, that he only sent the CardioArm because he likes me?

And wants to get back together?

No. That’s not possible. Lars has spent too much time in the desert sun, setting off explosives with Wahim. Why would Michael want to get back together with me, when I am so obviously a crazy person? I mean, when we were together last time, I went positively Britney on him. I can’t imagine any boy would ever sign up for a second helping of that.

Even though, of course, like Dad said, I have grown up a lot since then….

And we did have a nice time at Caffe Dante. But that was just an interview.

Oh! But he did smell nice! I don’t suppose he thoughtI smelled nice, too?

I’ve got to check with Tina…even though she’s nuttier than I am, if you ask me.

But never mind about that. I’m forwarding his text to her…And, dang, we’re at Grandmère’s now, I’ve got to go endure trying on clothes for hours. Who has the patience for fashion when all THIS is going on?

Wednesday, May 3, 8:00 p.m., the Ethel

Lowenbaum Theater

It’s really very hard to write in here since the lights are down and J.P.’s play is going on. I’m doing this, in fact, by the glow of my cell phone.

I know I shouldn’t be writing in my journal at all—I should be paying attention to the play, since the senior project committee is here (and so are J.P.’s parents, as are all our friends who didn’t stay home to study for finals), and I should be trying to look like I support J.P., and all.

But I just have to write more about Michael’s e-mail.

Because, of course, I couldn’t keep it to myself. Ihad to show everyone at Grandmère’s.

Grandmère said it just proves that Michael harborsune grande passion for me. She says a million-dollar piece of medical equipment as a gift isn’t quite as romantic as a three-carat diamond and platinum promise ring.

“But,” she went on, “the fact that Michael donated it without your having asked for it is rather extraordinary. I’m starting to wonder if I wasn’t wrong about That Boy after all.”

!!!!!!

Honestly, I nearly fainted on the spot. I have NEVER heard Grandmère say she was wrong about ANYTHING!!!!!

Well, hardly ever.

Anyway, this was such a startling thing to hear coming from Grandmère’s lips that I nearly tumbled off the stool Sebastiano had me standing on while he stuck pins into the gown I was modeling. He said, “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” and asked me if I wanted to be stuck all over like a porcupine.

Only, of course, Sebastiano still hasn’t grasped the basics of the English language, so he just called it a “porc.”

“G-Grandmère,” I stammered. “What are you saying? Sh-should I give Michael another chance? Should I give J.P. his ring back?”

I swear my heart was slamming so hard inside my chest, I felt like I could hardly breathe as I waited for her reply. Which is weird because it’s not like I particularly VALUE advice from Grandmère, as she is, in fact, a certified lunatic.

“Well,” Grandmère said, looking thoughtful. “It is a terriblylarge ring. On the other hand, it’s a terribly expensive piece of medical equipment. But you can’twear a robotic surgical arm.”

See what I mean?

“I know what you should do, Amelia,” Grandmère said, brightening. “Sleep with both of them, and whichever young man performs better in the boudoir, that’s the one you keep. That’s what I did with Baryshnikov and Godunov. Such lovely boys. And so flexible.”

“Grandmère!” I was shocked. I mean, seriously: How evil is she? How could we even be of the same bloodline?

Honestly, I don’t consider myself a prude. But I think you should at least bein love with someone before you dothat with them (something I have tried unsuccessfully to impress upon Lana. Oh, and my grandmother).

Anyway, I told her not to be stupid, that I’m not sleeping with anybody. Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Nine.

But whatam I going to do? I’ve gotten a confirmation e-mail back from Tina. (She’s here tonight with Boris. But, of course, we can’ttalk about it. Not with J.P. around. Oh, and Boris.)

She thinks Michael’s note meant what Grandmère thinks it did (but who even counts what Grandmère thinks, as she’s clearly unhinged): Michael really did send the CardioArm for me. ME!

Tina says I’ve got to write him back and truly make some kind of arrangement to see him in person. Because, as she just texted fromher seat:

You can’t leave Michael hanging. Hecould just be flirting with you…but I doubt it. He went to a lot of trouble to send that CardioArm…not to mention Micromini Midori along with it.

And the only way to find out what’s really going on with him is to see him in person. You’ll know when you look him in the eye whether he’s playing or for real.

This is serious, Mia: You could find yourself TORN BETWEEN TWO LOVERS!!!!

I know you’re probably really upset about this, but is it wrong that I for one find it VERY VERY EXCITING????? Okay, I’m sorry, I’ll stop bouncing up and down in my seat. Someone in the next row just shot me a very annoyed look, and Boris wants me to pay attention to the play now.

I’m glad someone’s happy about it, but I personally am not. I honestly don’t know how it happened. How could I, Mia Thermopolis, go from being the most boring person on the planet (except for the princess thing), who has basically never left her house for the past year and a half because she was always working on her senior project, a history on Genovian olive oil pressing, circa 1254–1650 (and, okay, it was really a historical romance novel, but so what?), to a girl who is being sought after by two highly desirable men?

Really, how????

And, according to my best friend, what I’m supposed to do about it is arrange to meet the one to whom I am not engaged-to-be-engaged….

But how can I arrange to meet Michael now, knowing my weakness for him—especially the smell of his neck—when he might possiblylike me—enough to send my country a CardioArm (and someone to teach our surgeons how to use it)?

I can’t do that to J.P. J.P. has his faults (I still can’t believe he hasn’t read my book), but he’s never met his exes behind my back (not that he has any exes, besides Lilly). He’s neverlied to me.

And admittedly, I don’t think that whole Judith Gershner thing is as big a deal now as I used to, considering it all happened before Michael and I ever went out. I never did flat out ask Michael if he’d ever been with anybody else before me, so, technically, it’s not like he actually lied.

But there is no denying the fact that that was an important piece of information that he really ought to have shared with me. People in romantic relationships really are supposed to share their sexual history with each other. Theircomplete sexual history.

Although I guess hedid share it with me. Eventually.

And I behaved with about as much maturity as a five-year-old. Just like he knew I would.

Oh, God! I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do! I need to talk this all out with someone sane—someone who isnot related to me (see previous statement re: someone sane) or who I go to school with.

Which just leaves Dr. Knutz, I think, unfortunately.

But I’m not seeing him until Friday for what will be our last appointment ever. So.

LUCKY ME!!!! I get to sit around and try to figure out what the right thing to do is on my own until then.

I guess this is how people who are eighteen and soon-to-be high school graduates deal with things.

(You know, there’s someone in this audience who looks so familiar and I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out who it is all night and it finally just hit me: It’s Sean Penn.

No wonder J.P. was acting so nervous before.

Sean Penn, his favorite director, is here in the audience for the big performance of his play,A Prince Among Men . J.P. must have told him about the show when they were talking on the boat at my birthday party. Either that, or Stacey did, since she’s been in one of Sean Penn’s movies before.

That’s awfully nice of Mr. Penn to come.)

Anyway. I know I’ve got to text Michael back. After all, I’m the one who said I wanted to meet him in person. I just left him hanging after that last text when he said that nice thing about how he did it for me and not my dad or Genovia.

But I don’t know what to say, exactly!I can’t tonight seems obvious since it’s after eight already.

On the other hand, people who’ve graduated from high school stay out really late, so maybe this wouldn’t seem obvious to him.

But Tina’s right. I do have to see him.

How about:

Hi, Michael! Tonight won’t work (obviously), and tomorrow night is Boris’s senior project (his concert at Carnegie Hall). Friday is Senior Skip Day. Are you free for lunch on Friday? Mia

Lunch is good, right? Lunch isn’t sexy or anything. You can have lunch and still just be friends. Friends of the opposite sex have lunch all the time and there’s nothing in the least romantic about it.

There. I sent it.

I think that was a good text. I didn’t sayLove, Mia or anything like that. I didn’t get into the stuff about how he gave the CardioArm to Genovia because of me and not my dad. I was just breezy and casual, and—

Oh my God, he wrote back. Already!

Mia,

Friday for lunch is great. Want to meet at the Central Park Boathouse, lakeside, one o’clock?

Love,

Michael

The Boathouse! Friends don’t have lunch at the Boathouse. Well, I mean, they do, but…it’s not casual or breezy. You have to have reservations to get a table, and the lakeside restaurant is sort of…romantic. Even at lunchtime.

And he signed itLOVE, MICHAEL ! Again! Why does he keep SAYING that?

Oh—everyone is clapping….

Ack! Is it intermission already?

Wednesday, May 3, 10:00 p.m., the Ethel

Lowenbaum Theater

Okay.

Okay, so J.P.’s play is about a character named J.R., who’s pretty much exactly like J.P. I mean, he’s a handsome, wealthy boy (played by Andrew Lowenstein), who goes to a fancy New York City prep school, which also just happens to be attended by the princess of a small European principality. At the beginning of the play, J.R. is very lonely, because his only hobbies include throwing bottles off the rooftop of his apartment building, writing in his journal, and picking corn out of the chili the lunch ladies in his school cafeteria serve him. This makes his relationship with his self-centered parents very rocky, and he is teetering on the brink of wanting to move to Florida to live with his grandparents.

But then one day the princess, Rhea (played by Stacey Cheeseman, who wears a blue plaid school uniform skirt in the play that, by the way, is much shorter than I’ve ever worn any of mine), goes up to J.R. in the caf and actually asks him to sit with her at lunch, and J.R.’s whole life changes. Suddenly, he starts listening to his shrink about not throwing bottles off the top of his apartment building, and his relationship with his parents improves, and he stops wanting to move to Florida. Soon, it’s all about the beautiful princess, who falls in love with J.R., because of his wit and kindness.

I could tell that the play was about me and J.P. He had changed our names (barely), and a little bit of the details, but who else could it be about?

The thing was, I’m used to people making movies based on my life, and with them taking little liberties with the facts about that life.

But the people who made those movies don’t know me! They weren’t there when the things they were showing actually happened.

But J.P. was. The things he had Andrew and Stacey saying in his play…I mean, they’re things J.P. and I have actually said to each other…and J.P. has the actors in his play saying them completely out of context!

For instance, there is a scene where Princess Rhea drinks a beer and does a sexy dance and totally embarrasses herself in front of her ex-boyfriend.

Which, okay, totally happened.

But shouldn’t that be something that stays private between a boyfriend and a girlfriend? Did J.P.have to go and share that with everyone we know (even if everyone we know pretty much already knows about it)?

And J.P. has J.R. nobly standing by the princess’s side and supporting her (despite the sexy dancing, which I guess is supposed to make everyone hate her and think she’s such a slut and all). Right now there’s a scene going on where Stacey Cheeseman is tearfully explaining to Andrew Lowenstein that she could understand it if he didn’t want to be with her, because he’ll never be able to have a normal life with her, what with all the beer swilling and sexy dancing and the fact that there’ll always be paparazzi chasing them around. And then if they were ever to get married (!!!!), of course he’ll have to become a prince, and lose all his anonymity, and as royal consort, he’ll always have to walk five feet behind her and never be allowed to drive race cars.

But Andrew Lowenstein is saying, in a very patient voice as he holds Stacey Cheeseman’s hand and looks lovingly into her eyes, that he doesn’t care, he just loves her so much, he’d be willing to suffer any indignity for her, even her sexy dancing and his having to become a prince….

Oh, and now everyone is clapping like crazy as the curtain falls, and J.P. is joining the cast as they come out to take their bows….

I just…I just don’t get it. I mean…his play is aboutus .

Only not really. Half the stuff in it didn’t even technically happen the way he has it happening.

Can youdo that?

I guess so. He just did.

Wednesday, May 3, 11 p.m., the loft

Dear Author,

Thank you for submitting your manuscript,Ransom Your Heart , with Tremaine Publications. Although your work shows promise, we don’t feel we have a place for it at this time. We apologize for the fact that, due to the volume of submissions we receive, we cannot give you a more detailed critique of your work. Thank you for thinking of Tremaine!

Sincerely,

Tremaine Publications

Thanks for nothing, Tremaine Publications.

Anyway, J.P.’s play was a huge success.

Of course, he passed the senior projects committee with flying colors.

But that’s not all:

Sean Penn wants to option it.

Which basically means Sean Penn—Sean Penn—wants to makeA Prince Among Men into a movie.

Which I’m totally happy about. Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled for J.P.

And there are already so many movies about my life. What’s one more, right?

It’s just…WHEN IS IT GOING TO BE MY TURN?

Seriously. When is someone going to recognize somethingI’ve done? Other than bring democracy to a small European nation, which frankly no one seems to care about.

I don’t mean to whine (which I know is hilarious, because it’s basically all I ever do in my journal), but for God’s sake. I don’t think it’s fair that a guy can write a play (which is basically a huge chunk of MY life that he’s more or less STOLEN), throw it up onto a stage, then get a movie deal with Sean Penn.

Whereas I slave—yes, slave—over a book for months, and I can’t even get a publisher to look at it.

Come on!

And I’m going to tell you the truth: I didn’t like that Sean Penn movieInto the Wild so much.

Yes!I know it was critically acclaimed! I know it won all these awards! It’s very sad that boy is dead and all. But I thought the movieEnchanted , with the singing princess and the chipmunk and the people dancing in Central Park, was cuter.

So there!

Anyway, J.P. came up and asked me how I likedA Prince Among Men . (“I was exploring the theme of self-discovery,” he explained to me, “a boy’s journey toward manhood and the woman who helped him find his way from troubled childhood to the full realization of what it means to become a man…and eventually even to become a prince.” He didn’t mention anything about exploring the theme of sexy dancing.)

I told him I liked it a lot. What else could I say? I guess if it hadn’t been about me, I really would have liked it. Except that the princess came off as this kind of kooky girl, who always needs her boyfriend to bail her out of the zany situations she gets herself into, and I don’t actually think I’m like that. I don’t think I need any rescuing at all, actually.

But it seemed the wrong time to give him editorial notes. And I was glad I didn’t, because he seemed so pleased to hear me say I liked it. He wanted me to come out with him and Sean Penn and his parents and Stacey Cheeseman and Andrew Lowenstein so we could all talk about his movie deal. Sean Penn was taking everyone, including the senior projects committee, to Mr. Chow’s for a celebratory meal.

But I said I couldn’t go. I said I had to go home and study for my Psych final.

Which, I will admit, was not very friendly of me. Especially since I don’t have to study for my Psych final at all. I have Psych down cold. After all, I was best friends for most of my life with a girl whose parents were psychiatrists. Then I dated her brother. And now I’min therapy.

But obviously this didn’t occur to J.P., because he just went, “Are you sure you don’t want to come, Mia?” then kissed me when I said no and then hurried to join Sean and Andrew and Stacey Cheeseman and his parents at the theater door, where tons of paparazzi were waiting to take his photo.

Yeah. Because there were huge amounts of paps in front of the theater. As I made my own way out, they asked me how I felt about my boyfriend having written a play about me that’s going to be turned into a movie directed by Sean Penn.

I said I felt great about it, making that statement officially Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Ten.

Although I think I’m starting to lose track.

I don’t know how I’m ever going to get to sleep tonight when all I can think about is this:

P.S. No need to thank me on behalf of your father or Genovia. I only sent it because I thought it might help out your dad in the elections, and that, in turn, would makeyou happy. So you see my motives were completely selfish.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

An excerpt fromRansom My Heart by Daphne Delacroix

He felt her body tense, but when she tried to back away from him, two things happened simultaneously to thwart her escape. The first was that she came up against Violet’s solid flank. The mare only looked back at them, placidly chewing on some loose straw, and would not move. The second was that Hugo’s arms went around her, half-lifting Finnula off the ground even as his tongue slid into her mouth.

Finnula let out a mew of protest that was quickly stifled by his own mouth…but her protest seemed short-lived. Either Finnula was a woman who appreciated a good kiss, or she liked him, at least a bit. Because a second after his mouth met hers, her head fell back against his arm, and her lips opened like a blossom. He felt her relax against him, her hands, which previously had been trying to push him away, suddenly going around his neck to press him closer.

It wasn’t until he felt her tongue flick tentatively against his that he lost his careful control. Suddenly, he was kissing her even more urgently, his hands traveling down her sides, past her hips, until they lifted her full up against him.

Her firm breasts crushed against his chest, her thighs clenched tightly around his hips, Hugo molded Finnula against him, kissing her cheeks, her eyelids, her throat. The sensuous reaction he’d evoked from her amazed and excited him, and when she held his face between both her hands and rained kisses upon him, he groaned, both from the sweetness of the gesture and the fact that he could feel the heat from between her legs burning against his own urgent need.

Holding her to him with one arm, he swept open the collar of her shirt. Finnula let out another sound, this one a sigh of such longing that Hugo could not stifle a wordless cry, and he looked about for a pile of hay thick enough for them to lay in….

Thursday, May 4, Psychology final

Describe major histocompatibility complex.

This is so easy.

Major histocompatibility complex is the gene family found in most mammals that is responsible for reproductive success. These molecules, which are displayed on cell surfaces, control the immune system. They have the capacity to kill pathogens, or malfunctioning cells. In other words, MHC genes help the immune system to recognize and destroy invaders. This is especially useful in the selection of potential mates. MHC has recently been shown to play a crucial role, via olfaction (or sense of smell), in this capacity. It has been proven that the more diverse, or different, the MHC of the parent, the stronger the immune system of the child. Interestingly, MHC-mate dissimilar selection tendencies have been categorically determined in humans. The more dissimilar a male’s MHC to a female (this was without deodorant or cologne), the “better” he tended to smell to her in clinical studies. These studies have been duplicated time and again, with the same results. Mice and fish have shown similar—

Oh.

My.

God.

Thursday, May 4, Psych final

What am I going to do?

Seriously. This can’t be happening. Icannot be suffering from major histocompatibility complex for Michael. That is just…that is justridiculous.

On the other hand…why else have I always been so drawn to—okay, completely obsessed with—the way his neck smells?

This explains everything. He is my perfect dissimilar MHC match! No wonder I’ve never been able to get over him! It’s not me, or my heart, or my brain…it’s mygenes , crying out in longing for their complete and total genetic opposite!

And what about J.P.? This perfectly explains why I’ve never been that physically attracted to him…he’s never smelled like anything but dry-cleaning fluid to me. We’re too MHC compatible! We’retoo close of a genetic match. We evenlook alike…the blond hair, light eyes, same build. How did that person put it, so long ago, who saw us together at the theater—“They make a very attractive couple. They’re both so tall and blond.”

No wonder J.P. and I have never even gotten past first base. Our molecules are like, REJECTION! REJECTION! DO NOT MATE!

And here I am, demanding that we do it anyway.

Well, with a condom.

But still. Offspringcould result, down the line, if J.P. and I get married.

OH MY GOD! I wonder what kind of genetic defects our kids would have, considering I get no olfactory vibe from him at all! They’ll probably be born all aesthetically perfect—just like LANA!!!!

Which, think about it, is a serious genetic defect. Being born perfect would turn any kid into a horribleCloverfield -type monster, just like Lana (well, for the first seventeen years of her life, considering how awful she was until I tamed her a bit). I mean, if you’re born perfect, like Lana, you never have to learn any coping mechanisms, the way I did growing up. Because beautiful people can often coast along on their looks, never having to develop a sense of humor, or compassion for others, or anything like that. Why would they have to? They’re perfect. If you’re born aesthetically beautiful, the way J.P. and my kids would be, basically, you’re a monster…and my genes know it.

That’s why whenever J.P. kisses me, I don’t get that thrill I always did when Michael kissed me…MY GENES DON’T WANT ME TO GIVE BIRTH TO GENETIC MONSTERS!!!!!

What am I going to do?????? I am scheduled to have sex in less than two days with a guy with whom I am a complete MHC match!

AND THAT IS THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF WHAT MAJOR HISTOCOMPATIBILITY COMPLEX IS ALL ABOUT!

My MHCmis match is someone who broke up with me almost two years ago!

And who, despite what my grandmother and best friend seem to think, does NOT love me, but really just does want to be friends.

True, J.P. and I have somuch in common personality-wise—we both like creative writing, andBeauty and the Beast , and drama.

While Michael and I basically have nothing in common except a deep and abiding love forBuffy the Vampire Slayer andStar Wars (the original three movies, not the hideous prequels).

And yet I might as well admit, I have an insufferable weakness for him. Yes! I do! I cannot resist the way he smells. I am drawn to him the way the American public is drawn to Tori Spelling.

I have got to fight this. I can’t allow myself to feel this way about a boy who is so incredibly wrong for me (except, of course, genetically).

But what if I’m not strong enough?

Thursday, May 4, Psych final

Mia, is it true? Is J.P.’s play really going to be a movie?

Ahhhhh! You scared me! I don’t have time to talk about this now, Tina. I just figured out J.P. and I are total MHC mismatches…or, matches, really. Our children are going to be perfect genetic mutants, like Lana! And that Michael’s my MHC match! That’s why I’ve always been obsessed with how his neck smells! And why whenever I’m around him, I act like a total blithering idiot. Tina, I am a dead woman.

Mia…are you on drugs?

No—don’t you see what this means? It explains EVERYTHING! Why I’ve never felt attracted to J.P…. Why I can’t let Michael go…Oh, Tina, I’m being held hostage by my own MHC. I’ve got to FIGHT it. Will you help?

Do you need help? Because I could call Dr. Knutz.

No! Tina—Look. Just…never mind. I’m fine. Pretend I never said anything.

Why does everyone always think I’m crazy when I’ve never been saner in my life?Can’t Tina—can’t everyone—see that I’m just a woman who’s busy trying to take care of business? I’m eighteen now. I know what I have to do to get things done.

Or, as in this case—not done, I guess. Because there’s nothing I can do about this.

Except stay far, far away from Michael Moscovitz.

I just can’t believe I bought J.P. all that cologne. When it turned out cologne had nothing to do with it in the first place. It was his genes all along.

Who knew?

Well…me, I guess. I just didn’t put it all together until the test today.

I guess Ihave had a lot on my mind, what with trying to get my dad elected and pick a college and all.

I blame the educational system in this country. Why did they wait until the last semester my senior year to tell me all this—about MHC, I mean? This is information that might have been useful to me, oh, I don’t know, around about ninth grade, maybe!

The big question now is: How am I going to avoid smelling Michael during lunch tomorrow?

I don’t know. I guess I’ll just stay as far away from him as I can. I certainly won’t hug him this time. If he asks for a hug, I’ll just say I have a cold.

Yes! That’s it. And I don’t want him to catch it.

God. Genius.

I can’t believe Kenneth is our class valedictorian. It should really be me. If they gave out class valedictorian for LIFE lessons, it would be.

Thursday, May 4, Lunch

Dad just called with more Moscovitz news.

This time it was about Lilly.

Seriously, I should stop purchasing food here, since I’m only going to end up dropping it on the floor. Although since tomorrow is Senior Skip Day…I guess this is the last day I’m going to have this particular problem.

“Do you remember how she was filming everyone at your party?” Dad asked, when I picked up the phone, convinced this time Grandmère reallyhad keeled over.

“Yeah…” I was picking bits of salad out of my hair. Everybody else was giving me the evil eye, picking bits of salad out of their own hair. Though it wasn’t my fault, really, I’d dropped my Fiesta Taco Bowl.

“Well, she’s crafted a campaign commercial from the footage. It began airing on Genovian television last night at midnight.”

I groaned. Everyone looked politely inquisitive—except J.P. He got a call on his own cell phone at that exact moment.

“It’s Sean,” he said apologetically. “I’ve got to take this. I’ll be right back.” He got up to go take the call outside, away from the din of the caf.

“How bad’s the damage?” I asked. Dad’s numbers had gotten a little better since Michael’s donation, and the press Dad had received because of it.

But René was still leading in the polls.

“No,” Dad said. He sounded strange. “You don’t understand, Mia. Her commercial’s insupport of me. Not against me.”

“What?” I asked him breathlessly. “Whatdid you say?”

“That’s right,” Dad said. “I just thought you should know. I’ve e-mailed you a link to it. It’s really lovely, actually. I can’t imagine how she accomplished it. You said she has her own show in Korea, or something? I suppose she had her people there put it together, and then they had someone over here—”

“Dad,” I said, my chest feeling tight. “I’ve got to go….”

I hung up, then went straight to my e-mail. Scrolling through all the hysterical messages from Grandmère about what I was going to wear to the prom and then the next day, to graduation (like it even matters, since I’ll have my graduation gown on over whatever it is), I found Dad’s e-mail and clicked on it. The link to Lilly’s commercial was there, and I clicked on that. The ad began to play.

And he was right. Itwas lovely. It was a sixty-second clip featuring all the celebrities from my party—the Clintons, the Obamas, the Beckhams, Oprah, Brad and Angelina, Madonna, Bono, and more—all saying sweet, very sincere-sounding things about my dad, about stuff he’d done for Genovia in the past, and how Genovian voters ought to support him. Interspersed between the brief celebrity endorsements were gorgeous shots of Genovia (which I realized Lilly had taken during her many trips with me there), of the blue sparkling waters of the bay, the green cliffs above it, the white beaches, and the palace, all looking pristine and untouched by touristy schlock.

At the end of the ad, some curlicue script came on that said, “Preserve Genovia’s historic wonder. Vote for Prince Phillipe.”

By the time the music—which I recognized as a ballad Michael had written, way back in his Skinner Box days—had ended, I was almost in tears.

“Oh my God, you guys,” I said. “You have to see this.”

And then I passed around my cell phone and showed them all. Soon the whole table was almost in tears. Well, except J.P., who hadn’t come back yet, and Boris, who is immune to emotion unless it involves Tina.

“Why would she do that?” Tina wanted to know.

“She used to be cool,” Shameeka said. “Remember? Then something happened.”

“I have to find her,” I said, still blinking back tears.

“Find who?” J.P. asked. He’d finally returned from his Sean Penn call.

“Lilly,” I said. “Look what she did.” I handed him my cell phone so he could watch the commercial she’d made. He did, a frown on his face.

“Well,” he said, when it was over. “That was…nice.”

“Nice? It’s amazing,” I said. “I have to thank her.”

“I really don’t think you do,” J.P. said. “She owes you. After that website she made up about you. Remember?”

“That was a long time ago,” I said.

“Yeah,” J.P. said. “Even so. I’d watch out, if I were you. She’s still a Moscovitz.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. J.P. shrugged. “Well, you of all people should know, Mia. You have to imagine Lilly wants something in return for her apparent generosity. Michael always did, didn’t he?”

I stared at him in complete shock.

On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. Hewas talking about Michael, the boy who’d broken my heart into so many little pieces…pieces J.P. had so kindly helped put back together again.

Before I had a chance to say anything, though, Boris said, from absolutely nowhere, “Funny, I hadn’t noticed that. Michael’s letting me live with him next semester for absolutely nothing.”

This caused all of us to swivel our heads around to stare at him as if he were a parking meter that had suddenly magically begun speaking.

Tina was the first one of us to recover.

“WHAT?” she demanded of her boyfriend. “You’re living withMichael Moscovitz next semester?”

“Yeah,” Boris said, looking surprised she didn’t know it. “I didn’t hand in my housing registration to Juilliard on time, and they ran out of singles. And I’m not going to live with a ROOMMATE. So Michael said I could crash in his spare bedroom until a single opens up for me on the waiting list. He’s got a kick-ass loft, you know, on Spring Street. It’s huge. He won’t even know I’m there.”

I glanced at Tina. Her eyes were bigger than I’d ever seen them. I wasn’t sure if it was with rage or bewilderment.

“So all this time,” Tina said, “you’ve secretly gone on being friends with Michael behind Mia’s back? And you never told me?”

“There’s nothing secret about it,” Boris said, looking offended. “Michael and I’ve always been friends, since I was in his band. It has nothing to do with Mia. You don’t stop being friends with a guy just because he’s broken up with his girlfriend. And there’s lots of stuff I don’t tell you about.Guy stuff. And you shouldn’t be stressing me out today, I have my concert tonight, I’m supposed to be taking it easy—”

“Guy stuff?” Tina said, picking up her purse. “You don’t have to tell me aboutguy stuff ? Fine. You want to take it easy? You don’t want to be stressed? No problem. Why don’t I just relieveall your stress? By leaving.”

“Tee,” Boris said, rolling his eyes.

But when she stormed from the caf in a huff, he realized she was serious. And he had to hurry to chase after her.

“Those two,” J.P. said, with a chuckle, when they were gone.

“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t chuckling, though. I was remembering something that had happened nearly two years ago, when Boris had come up to me and urged me to write back to Michael, when he kept writing to me, but I didn’t trust myself to write back. I’d wondered then how Boris even knew Michael had been writing to me. I thought it was because Tina had told him.

Now I wondered if I’d been wrong. MaybeMichael had told him. Because the two of them had been in communication.

Aboutme.

What if Boris, scraping away on his violin in the supply closet while the two of us were in Gifted and Talented together, had been spying on me for Michael the whole time?

And now Michael’s giving him free room and board in his fancy SoHo loft to pay him back!

Or am I reading too much into this—as usual?

And I don’t think that’s true, what J.P. said, about the Moscovitzes always wanting something in return. I mean, yes, Michael wanted to have sex back when we were dating (if that’s what he was implying…and I think it was).

But the truth is, so did I. Maybe I wasn’t as ready for it emotionally then as I am now. But we couldn’t exactly help being attracted to each other.

And now I finally realize why!

This is all just so confusing. Honestly,what is going on? Why did Lilly make that commercial for Dad? Why did Michael donate the CardioArm?

Why is everyone in the Moscovitz family being so nice to me all of a sudden?

Thursday, May 4, 2 p.m., the hallway

I’m cleaning out my locker.

Tomorrow is Senior Skip Day (although technically not an officially school-sanctioned holiday), and I’m done with finals, so this is basically the only time I’m going to be able to do this—also the last time I’ll be inside this hellhole (aside from graduation, which will be in Central Park, unless it rains).

It’s really sad, in a way.

I guess this place wasn’t really a hellhole. Or at least, it wasn’t always. I had some good times here. At least a few. I’m throwing away tons of old notes from Lilly and Tina (remember when we used to write notes, before we got cell phones, and started texting?) and a lot of things that are stuck together that I can’t identify (seriously, I wish I had cleaned this thing out once or twice before in the past four years. Also, I think a mouse has been in here).

Here’s a flattened Whitman’s Sampler (empty) someone once gave me. I seem to have eaten everything that was inside it. And here’s a smushed flower of some kind that I’m sure had some kind of significance at some point but now it’s kind of moldy. Why can’t I take better care of my things? I should have pressed it neatly between the pages of a book the way Grandmère taught me, and noted what kind of flower it was and who gave it to me so I could always treasure its memory.

What’s wrong with me? Why did I jam it in my locker like that? Now it’s rotten and I have no choice but to stuff it in this trash bag Mr. Kreblutz the head custodian has given me.

I’m a terrible person. Not just because I don’t take better care of my belongings, but because…well, all the other reasons, which should be obvious by now.

What am I going to do? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?

I looked all over for Lilly, but I couldn’t find her. I suppose she has finals this afternoon.

(I did find Tina and Boris, though. They made up. At least if the fact that they were making out in the third-floor stairwell means anything. I snuck discreetly away before they noticed me.)

I guess I could call her (Lilly, I mean). But…I don’t know what I’d say. Thank you? That seems so lame.

What I want to say is…why?Why are you being so nice to me?

Maybe I’ll ask her brother at lunch tomorrow. I mean, if he knows. After I warn him about my cold. And to stay far away from me.

Anyway.

It feels so weird to be wandering around the halls of this place while everyone else is in class. Principal Gupta totally saw me, too, but she didn’t say anything like, “Why aren’t you in class, Mia? Do you have a pass?” She was just like, “Oh, hello, Mia,” and kept walking by, all distracted. Clearly, she was worrying about graduation (So am I—WHAT COLLEGE AM I GOING TO CHOOSE???) or whatever, and had more pressing matters on her mind than why a princess was roaming around in the halls of her school.

Either that, or I didn’t look like much of a threat. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a graduating senior.

With a bodyguard in tow.

Maybe someday I’ll write a book about this. A senior girl, experiencing conflicting emotions as she cleans out her locker, saying good-bye to the place of higher education she’s known so long…her love/hate relationship with it…She wants to leave it, and yet…she’s afraid to leave it, to spread her wings and start anew somewhere else. She hates the long, gray, smelly hallways, and yet…she loves them, too. I mean, in a way.

Einstein Lions, we’re for you

Come on, be bold, come on, be bold,

come on, be bold

Einstein Lions, we’re for you

Blue and gold, blue and gold,

blue and gold

Einstein Lions, we’re for you

We’ve got a team no one else can ever tame

Einstein Lions, we’re for you

Let’s win this game!

Good-bye, AEHS. You suck. I hate you.

And yet…somehow I’ll miss you, too.

Thursday, May 4, 6 p.m., the loft

Dear Ms. Delacroix,

Enclosed please find your manuscript, which we are sorry to say we do not believe is the right fit for us at this time. We wish you the best of luck placing it elsewhere.

Sincerely,

Heartland Romance Publications

I had to hide the above from J.P., who’s here right now. He came over after school today. It’s the first time in months he didn’t have play rehearsal or I didn’t have princess lessons or one of us didn’t have therapy.

So. He came over.

He’s out in the living room right now, talking to Mom and Mr. G about his movie deal. I’m “changing for Boris’s concert.”

But, obviously I’m not. I’m writing about what happened when he came over instead. Which is that I totally tried VERY VERY HARD to get my MHCs to respond to his. I did this by doing what Tina did, when she saw Boris in his swimsuit.

Yes. I jumped his bones.

Or I tried to, anyway. I just figured, if I could get J.P. to kiss me—reallykiss me, the way Michael used to, when we were having a heavy-duty make-out session in his dorm room—maybe everything would be all right. Maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about pretending I have a cold tomorrow when I have lunch with Michael. Maybe I won’t be so super attracted to him anymore.

But it didn’t work.

Not that J.P. pushed me away, or anything. He kissed me back, and stuff. He tried. He really did try.

But he kept stopping every thirty seconds or so to talk about his movie deal.

I’m not even joking.

Like about how “Sean” had asked him to write the screenplay. (I guess a screenplay isn’t the same as writing a play. J.P. has to rewrite the whole thing from scratch now, in a different computer program.)

And how J.P. is seriously considering moving out “to the Coast” so he can be there for the filming.

He’s even debating putting school off for a year so he can work on the movie. Because you can go to school any time.

But you can only be one of the hottest young screenwriters in Hollywood once.

Anyway, he asked me to come with him. Out to Hollywood.

This completely killed the mood. The making out mood, I mean.

I guess some girls would love it if their boyfriend, who’d written a play about them that was soon to become a major motion picture directed by Sean Penn, asked them to defer college for a year and move out to Hollywood with them.

But I, being the ultimate loser that I am, just blurted out, “Why would I dothat ?” before I could really stop myself. Mostly because I didn’t really have my mind in the conversation. I was thinking about…well, not Hollywood film deals.

Also because I’m a horrible person, for the most part.

“Well, because you love me,” J.P. was forced to remind me. We were lying on my bed, with Fat Louie glaring balefully at us from the windowsill. Fat Louie hates it when anyone but me lies on my bed. “And you want to support me.”

I flushed, feeling guilty for my outburst.

“No,” I said. “I mean, what wouldI do out in Hollywood?”

“Write,” J.P. said. “Maybe not romance novels, because frankly, I think you’re capable of much more important work—”

“You haven’t even read my book,” I reminded him, feeling hurt. We’d still never gotten to have our Stephen and Tabitha King editorial talk. And important work? Romance novels are important! To the people who like to read them, anyway.

“I know,” J.P. said, laughing. But not in a mean way. “And I’m going to, I swear, I’ve just been so swamped with the play and then finals and everything. You know how it is. And I’m sure it’s the best romance novel there is. I’m just saying, I think you could write something much weightier if you really put your mind to it. Something that could change the world.”

Weightier? What is he talking about? And haven’t I done enough for the world? I mean, I made Genovia a democracy. Well, not me personally, but I helped. And if you write something that cheers someone up when they’re feeling down, doesn’t that change the world?

And let me tell you something: I have seenA Prince Among Men now, and it is not going to change the world OR cheer anybody up. I don’t mean to sound like I’ve got sour grapes, but it’s the truth. It doesn’t even make you think except to make you think that the guy who wrote it must think pretty highly of himself.

Sorry. I didn’t mean that. That was uncalled for.

Anyway, I was like, “J.P., I don’t know. Moving to Hollywood with you isn’t something my mom or my dad is going to approve of. They both expect me to go to college.”

“Right,” J.P. said. “But taking a year off might not be such a bad idea. It’s not like you got in anywhere that great anyway.”

Ouch. See, that would have been a great opportunity for me to say, “Actually, J.P., I was kind of exaggerating when I said I didn’t get in anywhere….”

Only, of course, I didn’t. Instead, I just suggested we go into the living room and watchTrue Life: I’m Hooked on OxyContin , because I didn’t want to get in an argument.

Anyway, after watchingTrue Life , I learned something. Not just that I am never going to do drugs (obviously). But that writing is my drug. It’s the only thing I ever do that I really like.

I mean, besides kiss Michael. But I can’t do that anymore, obviously.

Thursday, May 4, 8 p.m., ladies’ room, Carnegie Hall

OH MY GOD!

I thought this concert was going to be really boring, but I was wrong.

Oh, not the music.That’s totally boring. I’ve heard it a million times coming out of the G&T supply closet (although I’ll admit, it’s kind of different to hear it coming from the center of the Carnegie Hall stage, especially seeing all these fancy people turned out in their best clothes, clutching CDs with Boris—BORIS—on the cover, all saying his name in excited voices. I mean, it’s just Boris Pelkowski. But these people seem to think he’s some kind of celebrity. Which, hello, HIGHlarious).

But the fact that everyone I know from AEHS is here, includingboth Moscovitz siblings—that’sexciting. I wasn’t expecting that.

And I know it’s wrong to be excited to see my ex-boyfriend when I’m out on a date with my current boyfriend.

However, that is not my fault. It’s MHC.

Our seats are rows and rows apart so there’s no chance of my being overpowered by eau de Michael. Unless somehow we bump into him later. Which I highly doubt is going to happen.

Anyway, Michael’s alone. He didn’t come with a date! Which may be because Micromini Midori is in Genovia.

Except that I can’t help wondering if he came solo because I said in my e-mail to him that I’d be coming.

But then I remembered what Boris said—about how the two of them are going to be living together this year. So I guess that’s why he’s here, actually. To support his friend.

Stupid me, getting my hopes up. AGAIN.

Anyway. I guess I should be getting back to my seat. I didn’t want to be rude and write while I was supposed to be looking like I was paying attention, but—

WAIT.

Oh, God.

I recognize those shoes.

Thursday, May 4, 8:30 p.m., ladies’ room, Carnegie Hall

I was right: Theywere her shoes.

I totally confronted her when she came out of her stall.

Well, confronted isn’t the right word. Iasked her about the commercial she made for my dad. Why she did it, I mean.

At first she tried to get out of it by saying it had been a birthday gift for me.

And it’s true, she had said, back in theAtom office when I turned in my story about Michael, that there was something she’d been going to give me for my birthday. And she’d said to give it to me, she’d need to come to my party. She just hadn’t said she was going to give it to meat my party. I’d assumed that part.

But…why now? Why a presentthis year? And such agreat present?

At first she looked really annoyed that I wouldn’t just let it go. Like she couldn’t believe she’d walked into the bathroom and there I was.

I guess it probablydoes seem like every single time she goes for a pee, there I am.

Well, it’s basically true. It’s like I have some kind of Lilly Moscovitz bladder radar.

And this time Kenneth wasn’t around to ask weird questions about whether or not I was still going out with J.P., and keep her from answering. For a second I thought she wouldn’t anyway.

But then she seemed to make a decision within herself. She sort of sighed and, looking a bit annoyed, went, “Fine. If you must know, Mia…my brother said I had to be nice to you.”

I just stared at her. It took a few seconds for her words to register. “Yourbrother said?…”

“That I had to be nice to you,” Lilly finished for me, sounding exasperated, as if I should have been aware of this. “He found out about the website, okay?”

I moved from staring to blinking. I was making progress. “Ihatemiathermopolis.com?”

“Right,” Lilly said. She did look a little ashamed of herself, actually. “He was really mad. I’ll admit…itwas pretty childish.”

Michael found out about ihatemiathermopolis.com? You mean…he hadn’t known? I thought everyone in the whole world had known about that stupid website.

And he’d told Lilly she had to benice to me?

“But.” I was having trouble processing so much information at once. It was like I was a desert that was finally getting rain…only there was too much of it, and I couldn’t soak it all in. Soon I’d be experiencing mud slides. And flash floods. “But…why were you so mad at me in the first place? I’ll admit, I acted like a total jerk to your brother. But I regretted it, and I tried to get back together with him. He’s the one who said no. So why were you so mad about it?” This was the part I could never figure out. “Was it…was it just because of J.P.?”

Lilly’s face darkened. “You don’t know?” she asked, sounding incredulous. “You honestly don’t know?”

I was definitely experiencing sensory overload. “No.” I shook my head. She hadn’t actually answered the question. “What am I supposed to know?”

“I have never,” Lilly said flatly, “met anyone so dense as you in my life, Mia.”

“What?” I still have no idea what she was talking about. I know I’m dense. I do! I’m a geek. She didn’t have to rub it in. She could have helped me a little. “Dense aboutwhat ?”

But at that point an old lady came into the bathroom, and I guess Lilly decided she’d said enough. She just shook her head, and walked out.

Which just leaves me here to wonder, as I have a million times before:What is it I’m supposed to know? What is it that Lilly thinks I’m so dense about?

It’s true I started dating J.P. right after the two of them broke up. But she was already not speaking to me by the time that happened. So that can’t be it.

Why can’t Lilly just tell me what it was I was so dense about? She’s the genius, not me. I hate it when geniuses expect the rest of us to be as smart as they are. It’s not fair. I’m ofaverage intelligence, and I always have been. I’m creative, and stuff, but I’m romance-novel-writing creative! I don’t perform well on IQ tests, and certainly not SATs (obviously).

And I’ve NEVER been able to figure out Lilly.

And I can’t figure out her brother, either. For instance, why doesMichael care whether she starts being nice to me or not?

Oh, great. I hear clapping! I’d better get back to my seat….

Friday, May 5, midnight, the loft

I was wrong about being able to stay away from my MHC match.

Everyone went up onto the stage after Boris’s fantastically successful concert (standing ovations all around) to congratulate him.

That’s how I found myself standing next to J.P., talking to Tina and Boris, when Michael and Lilly came up to congratulate Boris as well.

Which wasn’t a bit awkward.

Considering Lilly was Boris’s ex (remember when he dropped the globe on his head over her?) and J.P. was Lilly’s, and Michael was mine. Oh, and Kenny’s my ex, too!

Ah, good times.

Not.

Fortunately Michael didn’t try to hug me. Or say anything like, “Oh, hey, Mia, see you at lunch tomorrow.” It was kind of like he knew this wasn’t something I’d discussed with my boyfriend.

Although he was perfectly cordial, and didn’t storm off like he did the night of my birthday. (Whydid he do that? It can’t be because of what Tina said, because he couldn’t stand to see me with J.P. Because he seemed just fine seeing me with J.P. tonight.)

Lilly, on the other hand, stonily ignored J.P.—although she cracked a little bit of a smile at me.

Tina, meanwhile, was so nervous about the whole thing (which was weird, because she was the only person there whodidn’t have an ex present) that she began talking in a very high-pitched voice about the senior project committee—who were looking a little haggard, possibly from their night out with Sean Penn—and I had to take her by the arm and start steering her away, gently murmuring, “It’s going to be okay. Shhhh. It’s all over now. Boris passed with flying colors….”

“But,” Tina said, flinging a glance over her shoulder. “Why are Michael and Lilly here?Why? ”

“Michael’s friends with Boris. Remember? They’re living together next year until Boris gets his single through the waiting list.”

“I need a vacation,” Tina whimpered. “I really need a vacation.”

“You’re getting one,” I said. “Tomorrow’s Senior Skip Day.”

“Are you really going to sleep with J.P.?” Tina wanted to know. “Are you really, Mia? Really?”

“Tina,” I whispered. “Could you say it a little louder? I don’t think all of Carnegie Hall heard you.”

“I just don’t think you’re doing it for the right reasons,” Tina said. “Don’t do it because you think you have to, or because you don’t want to be the last girl in our class who is still a virgin, or because you don’t want to be the only girl in your college who hasn’t slept with someone. Do it because youwant to, because you feel a burning passion to. When I look at the two of you together, I just don’t think…Mia, I don’t think youwant to. I don’t feel like there’s anypassion . You write about passion in your book, but I don’t think you actuallyfeel it. Not for J.P.”

“Okay,” I said, patting her on the arm. “I’m going to go now. Tell Boris he did a lovely job. Bye, now.”

I got Lars and J.P., told everyone else we were leaving, stayed far enough away from Michael that I couldn’t smell him, then left, dropping J.P. off at his place on our way home.

I tried really hard to feel passion as I kissed him good night.

I think I even did. I definitely felt something.

It might have been the staple from the dry cleaner the Reynolds-Abernathy family uses on the back of J.P.’s shirt collar though. I think it was scratching my finger as I tried to cling to him passionately.

Friday, May 5, 9 a.m., the loft

I don’t believe it.

Mom just poked her head in here and went, “Mia. Wake up.”

And I was like, “MOM. I’m not going to school. It’s Senior Skip Day. I don’t care if it’s not an officially sanctioned school holiday. I’m a senior. I’m skipping. Which means I don’t HAVE TO GET UP.”

And she went, “It’s not that. There’s someone on the house line, asking for Daphne Delacroix.”

I thought she was joking. I really did.

But she swore she was serious.

So I crawled out of bed and took the phone she was holding and put it to my ear and was like, “Hello?”

“Is this Daphne?” asked a way too cheerful woman’s voice.

“Um,” I said. “Sort of.” I really hadn’t woken up enough to be able to deal with the situation.

“Your real name isn’t Daphne Delacroix, is it?” asked the voice, laughing a little.

“Not exactly,” I said, stealing a glance at the caller ID on the handset. It said Avon Books.

Avon Books was the name on the spines of half of the historical romances I’d read while doing research for my own. It’s a huge publisher of romance novels.

“Well, this is Claire French,” the cheerful voice said. “And I’ve just finished reading your book,Ransom My Heart , and I’m calling to offer you a publishing contract.”

I swear I did not think I could have heard her right. It sounded like she said she was calling to offer me a publishing contract.

But that could not possibly be what she had said. Because people don’t call and offer me book deals. Especially first thing in the morning. Ever.

“What?” I said intelligently.

“I’m calling to offer you a publishing contract,” she said. “We’d like to offer you a book deal. But we’ll need to know your real name. Whatis your real name, if you don’t mind telling me?”

“Um,” I said. “Mia Thermopolis.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, hi, Mia.” She then went on to say some things about money, and contracts, and due dates, and some other things I didn’t understand because I was in too much of a daze.