by Meg Cabot
a thing for Grandmere, because I'm pretty sure we got more moon rocks than Monaco or anybody else.'
'Mia,' Michael said. 'It's a rock. From the moon.'
'Right,' I said, not certain what he was getting at. Did he not like it? It was kind of weird, I guess, to give your boyfriend
a rock for his birthday. But it wasn't just any rock. And Michael wasn't just any boyfriend. I'd really thought he'd like it.
'It's a rock,' he said again, 'that came from two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles away. Two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles away from our planet.'
'Yes,' I said, wondering what I had done. I had only just gotten Michael back, after having spent a whole week convinced
he was going to dump me over one thing, only to discover that he was going to dump me over something else entirely? There
is seriously no justice in the world. 'Michael, if you don't like it, I can give it back. I just thought—'
'No way,' he said, moving the box out of my grasp. 'You're not getting this back. I just don't know what I'm going to get
you for your birthday. This is going to be a hard act to follow.'
Was that all? I felt my blush receding.
'Oh, that,' I said. 'You can just write me another song.'
Which was kind of vixenish of me to say, because he had never admitted that song, the first one he'd ever played me,
'Tall Drink of Water', was about me. But I could tell by the way he was smiling now that I'd guessed correctly. It was.
It totally was.
So then we ate our sundaes and watched the rest of the movie, and when it was over and the credits were rolling,
I remembered something else I'd meant to give him, something I'd thought of in the cab on the way down from the
contessa's, when I'd been trying to think up what I was going to say to him if he broke up with me.
'Oh,' I said. 'I thought of a name for your band.' 'Not,' he groaned, 'the X-Wing Fighters. I beg of you.' 'No,' I said. 'Skinner Box.' Which is this thing this psychologist called Skinner had used to torture all these rats and monkeys and prove there's such a thing as a conditioned response. Pavlov, the guy Michael had named his dog after, had done the same thing, but with dogs and bells. 'Skinner Box,' Michael said, carefully. 'Yeah,' I said. 'I mean, I just figured, since you named your dog Pavlov . . .'
'I kind of like it,' Michael said. I'll see what the guys say.' I beamed. The evening was turning out so much better than I had originally thought it would, I couldn't really do anything but beam. In fact, that's why I locked myself in the bathroom. To
try to calm down a little. I am so happy, I can barely write. I—
Saturday, January 23,
the Loft
Oops. I had to break off there last night, because Lilly started banging on the bathroom door, wanting to know whether
I'd suddenly become bulimic or something. When I opened it (the door, I mean) and she saw me in there with my journal
and my pen, and she went, all crabby (Lilly is more of a morning person than a night person), 'Do you mean to say you've
been in here for the past half-hour writing in your journal?'
Which I'll admit is a little weird, but I couldn't help it. I was so happy, I HAD to write it down, so I would never forget
how it felt.
'And you still haven't figured out what you're good at?' she asked.
When I shook my head, she just stomped away, all mad.
But I couldn't be annoyed with her, because . . . well, because I'm so in love with her brother.
The same way I can't really be mad at Grandmere, even though she did, in essence, try to foist me on to this homeless prince last night. But I can't blame her for trying. She's only trying to keep the Renaldo bloodline clean. Grandmere has obviously never studied inbreeding, like we did in Bio. last semester.
Besides, she called here a little while ago, wanting to know if I was feeling all right after the bad truffle I'd ingested. My mom, playing along, assured her that I was fine. So then Grandmere wanted to know if I could come over and have tea with her
and the contessa . . . who was just dying to get to know me better. I said I was busy with homework. Which ought to impress the contessa. You know, with my diligent work ethic.
And I can't be mad at Rene, either, after the way he fully came to my aid last night. I wonder how he and Lana got along.
It would be pretty funny if she broke up with Josh on Monday, on account of finally having found her own handsome prince.
And I can't even be mad at Thompson Street Cleaners for losing my Queen Amidala underwear, because this morning there was a knock on the door to the loft, and when I opened it, our neighbour Ronnie was there with a big bag of our laundry, including Mr. G's brown cords and my mom's Free Winona T-shirt. Ronnie says she must have accidentally picked up the wrong bag from the vestibule, and then she'd gone to Barbados with her boss for the holidays, and only just now noticed
that she had a bag of clothing not her own.
Although I am not as happy about getting my Queen Amidala underwear back as you might think. Because, clearly, I can
get along without them. I was thinking about asking for more of them for my birthday, but now I don't have to, because Michael, even though he doesn't know it, has already given me the greatest gift I've ever gotten.
And no, it's not his love - although that is probably the second greatest thing he could have given me. No, it's something
that he said after Lilly went stomping away from the bathroom.
'What was that all about?' he wanted to know. 'Oh,' I said, putting away my journal, 'she's just mad because I haven't
figured out what my secret talent is.'
'Your what?' Michael said.
'My secret talent.' And then, because he'd been so honest with me, about the whole being in love thing, I decided to be
honest with him, too. So I explained, 'It's just that you and Lilly, you're both so talented. You guys are good at so many
things, and I'm not good at anything, and sometimes I feel like . . . well, like I don't belong. At least not in Gifted and
Talented class, anyway.'
'Mia,' Michael said. 'You're totally gifted.'
'Yeah,' I said, fingering my dress. At looking like a snowdrop.'
'No,' Michael said. Although now that you mention it, you're pretty good at that, too. But I meant writing.'
I have to admit, I kind of stared at him, and went, in a pretty unprincesslike manner, 'Huh?'
'Well, everyone knows,' he said, 'that you like to write. I mean, your head is always buried in that journal. And you always
get A's on your papers in English. I think it's pretty obvious, Mia, that you're a writer.'
And even though I had never really thought about it before, I realized Michael was right. I mean, I am always writing in this journal. And I do compose a lot of poetry, and write a lot of notes and emails and stuff. I mean, I feel like I am always
writing. I do it so much, I never even thought about it as being a talent. It's just something I do all the time, like breathing.
But now that I know what my talent is, you can bet I am going to start working on honing it. And the first thing I'm going to write is a bill to submit before the Genovian Parliament to get some rights for those sea turtles . . .
Right after I get home from going bowling with Michael and Lilly and Boris. Because even a princess has to have fun sometimes.
FB2 document info
Document ID: bfd0f5ef-26ef-4635-ae58-9eaef6dfd1c3
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 18.4.2011
Created using: calibre 0.7.52 software
Document authors :
Meg Cabot
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