by Meg Cabot
Which leaves who?
Oh, yeah. Me.
And God knows I’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 my last boyfriend). I mean, for one thing, J.P. is the epitome of gentlemanlike behavior. He is completely unlike Michael in that regard. He has never let his hands drift below my neck for so much as a second 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’t want 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 the Bourne movies look like Oliver from Hannah 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 the Other 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 the Atom. 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. I miss 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 water
s 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 to give 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 something I 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 really are 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 is hot. 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 if Ransom My Heart got 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 letter Love.
Love, Michael.
That doesn’t mean anything, of course. People sign things Love all the time. That doesn’t mean they love you in a romantic way. My mom signs all her notes to me Love, Mom. Mr. G writes notes to me and signs them Love, 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 said something.
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.
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 I should 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).
