by Meg Cabot
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 possibly like 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 never lied 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. Their complete sexual history.
Although I guess he did 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 is not 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 say Love, 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 it LOVE, 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 a
ll 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 about us.
Only not really. Half the stuff in it didn’t even technically happen the way he has it happening.
Can you do 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 make A 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 something I’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 movie Into 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 movie Enchanted, 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 liked A 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’m in 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 make you happy. So you see my motives were completely selfish.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!
An excerpt from Ransom 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 stro
nger 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. I cannot be suffering from major histocompatibility complex for Michael. That is just…that is just ridiculous.
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 my genes, 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’re too close of a genetic match. We even look 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. Offspring could 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!!!!
