by Meg Cabot
Then she started in about Sarah Lawrence (again) and how she knows I have to pick a college by election day (also PROM), and if I’d just pick Sarah Lawrence (the college she would have gone to if she’d bothered going to college), then everything would be all right.
I let out a shriek of frustration and stormed right past Grandmère and straight into Dr. Knutz’s office without waiting to hear any more. Because really, how ridiculous can that woman be? Besides, I was in crisis mode, what with this thing with Michael. I don’t have time for Grandmère’s histrionics.
Anyway, Dr. Knutz listened calmly to what had just happened—with me and Grandmère, I mean—and said he was sorry, and that obviously, since this was my last session, it wouldn’t happen again, but that he’d speak to Grandmère if I wanted. For what good that will do.
Then he listened to me describe what had just happened with Michael.
And his response was to ask me if I’d given any thought to the story he’d told me last week about his horse, Sugar.
“Because as I was explaining, Mia,” Dr. Knutz went on, “sometimes a relationship that seems perfect on paper doesn’t always work out in reality, just like Sugar looked like a perfect horse on paper, but in real life, we just didn’t click.”
SUGAR! I pour my heart out about my romantic travails (and pain-in-the-butt grandmother), and Dr. Knutz still can’t talk about anything but his stupid horses.
“Dr. K,” I said. “Can we talk about something else besides horses for a minute?”
“Of course, Mia,” he said.
“Well,” I said. “My parents have told me I have to pick out a college to go to by Dad’s election—and my prom. And I can’t decide. I mean, it seems as if every school that let me in only did so because I’m a princess—”
“But you don’t know that to be true,” Dr. Knutz said.
“No, but with my SAT scores, it’s pretty obvious—”
“We’ve discussed this before, Mia,” Dr. Knutz said. “You know you’re supposed to be concentrating on not obsessing over things you have no control over. What, in fact, are you supposed to do instead?”
I raised my gaze to the painting behind his head, of a herd of stampeding mustangs. How many hours have I gazed at that painting over the past twenty-one months, wishing it would fall on his head? Not enough to hurt him. Just enough to startle him.
“Accept the things I cannot change,” I said. “And pray for the courage to change the things I can, as well as the wisdom to know the difference.”
The thing is…I know this is good advice. It’s called the Serenity Prayer, and it really does put things in perspective (it’s supposed to be for recovering alcoholics, but it helps recovering freakoutaholics, like me, as well).
But honestly, it’s something I could have told myself.
What’s becoming more clear to me every day now is that I’ve graduated. Not just from high school and princess lessons, but from therapy, too. Not that I’m self-actualized or anything, because Lord knows, I’m not…I don’t believe anyone can ever achieve self-actualization anymore. Not and still be a thinking, learning human being.
I’ve just realized the truth, which is: No one can help me. My problems are just too weird. Where am I going to find a therapist with experience helping an American girl who finds out she is, in fact, a princess of a small European country, who also has a mother who married her Algebra teacher, a father who can’t commit to romantic relationships at all, a best friend who won’t speak to her, an ex-boyfriend she can’t stop kissing in a Central Park carriage, a boyfriend who wrote a play revealing intimate details about them, and a grandmother who is certifiably insane?
Nowhere. That’s where.
I have to solve my own problems from now on. And you know what? I’m pretty sure I’m ready.
But I didn’t want Dr. Knutz to feel bad, because he had helped me a lot, in the past. So I said, “Dr. Knutz. Would you mind looking at a text message with me?”
“Not at all,” he said.
So we opened Michael’s message together.
It said:
Mia,
I’m not sorry.
And I’ll wait.
Love,
Michael
Wow.
Also…wow.
Even Dr. Knutz agreed. Although I doubt Michael’s note made his heart pound faster—Mi-chael, Mi-chael, Mi-chael—the way it did mine.
“Oh, my,” Dr. Knutz said, about Michael’s text. “That’s very direct. So. What will you do?”
“Do?” I said sadly. “I’m not going to do anything. I’m going out with J.P.”
“But you aren’t attracted to J.P.,” Dr. Knutz said.
“I am, too!” I said. How did he know that? I’d never admitted that. To him, anyway. “Or, at least…Well, I’m working on it.”
Science. The problem is, it’s science. Which I’ve never been very good at.
But there are ways to beat science. That’s what scientists, like Kenneth Showalter, do. All day long. Find ways to beat science. I have to beat this thing with Michael. Because I can’t hurt J.P. I can’t. He’s been too kind to me.
“Mia,” Dr. Knutz asked, with a sigh. “Are we not actually done here?”
Uh…yeah. We totally are.
“I can’t break up with a perfectly nice guy,” I said, wondering if I was going to have to explain my dad’s theory about me being a tease, “just because my old boyfriend wants to get back together with me.”
“You not only can, but must, if you’re still in love with that old boyfriend,” Dr. Knutz said. “It isn’t fair to the perfectly nice guy, otherwise.”
“Oh!” I dropped my face into my hands. “Look, I know, okay? I don’t know what to do!”
“You do,” Dr. Knutz said. “And you’ll do it, when the time is right. Speaking of time…ours is up.”
AAAAARGH!!!!
And what is he talking about, I’ll know what to do when the time is right? I have no idea what to do!
Actually, I do: I want to move to Japan and have food in real plates delivered to my door, living under an assumed name (Daphne Delacroix).
Friday, May 5, 9:30 p.m., the loft
Tina just called. She wanted to know how my lunch date with Michael went. She’s called a few times before, actually, but I didn’t pick up (J.P.’s called a few times, too). I just couldn’t face speaking to either of them. The shame, you know? How could I possibly tell her?
And how can I possibly ever speak to J.P. again? I know I’ll have to, eventually. But…not now.
Anyway, I didn’t tell her now when I spoke to her, either. I just went, “Oh, lunch was fine,” all breezy and casual. I didn’t say a word about old-timey carriages or making out for blocks on end or anything about below-the-neck fondling.
GOD! I’m such a slut!
“Really?” Tina said. “That’s so great! So…what about MHS?”
“MHC, you mean? Oh, fine, fine. All under control.”
A slut and a LIAR!
“Well…” Tina sounded like she couldn’t believe it. “That’s great, Mia! So, you and Michael really can just be friends, then.”
“Sure,” I said. Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Twelve. “No problem.”
“That’s great,” Tina said. “It’s just that…”
“What?” I said. Oh, no. What had she heard? Had Lana and Trisha finally gotten their rowing under control and followed us? I’d gotten a text from Lana that just said,)(&$#! Which I took to mean Lana had had too much sake at Nobu, a usual event on a Friday.
“Well, I was talking to Boris,” Tina said. “And did you know, he was telling me that the whole time Michael was in Japan—you’re going to laugh when you hear this, I suppose—he had Boris kind of…well, keeping an eye on you. You know, while you guys were in Gifted and Talented together? I can’t believe Boris didn’t tell me before. But he said Michael said not to say anything to me. They’re better friends than I thought, I guess. Anyway, Boris says he
thinks Michael’s seriously in love with you, and always has been. That he never stopped loving you, even after you guys broke up. I guess he just thought it wasn’t fair to ask you to wait for him while he was away, trying to prove himself to your dad, or whatever, you know? God, it’s just…it’s so romantic.”
I had to move the phone away from my face, because I’d started to cry. And I was afraid Tina would hear my sniffling.
“Yeah,” I said. “That is romantic.”
“Not like Boris was spying on you, or anything,” Tina said. “I mean, I’ve never told him any of the stuff you and I have talked about. Anyway, Boris told me the reason Michael left your birthday party the other night when J.P. pulled out that ring was exactly why I said…because he couldn’t stand seeing you get engaged-to-be-engaged to another guy. Boris didn’t say Michael said this, but I don’t think Michael likes J.P. very much. On account of him being jealous, because J.P.’s with you now. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing you ever heard?”
Tears were totally streaming down my face. But I pretended like they weren’t.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Sweet!”
“But he didn’t say anything about that at lunch?” Tina asked. “You guys didn’t talk about it at all?”
“Nope,” I said. “I mean, Tina…I’m with J.P. now. I would never do that to him.”
Liar!
“Gee,” Tina said. “Well, of course not. You’re not that kind of girl!”
“Nope,” I said. “I gotta go. I’m gonna hit the hay early to get my beauty sleep for the prom.”
“Oh, sure,” Tina said. “Me too! Well, see you tomorrow!”
“See you,” I said, and hung up.
Then I bawled like a baby for, like, ten whole minutes, until Mom came into my room looking all bewildered, and was like, “What’s the matter now?”
And I just went, “Hold me, Mommy.”
And even though I’m eighteen and a legal adult, I crawled into my mom’s lap and stayed there for, like, ten minutes, until Rocky came over and went, “YOU’RE not the baby! I am!”
And Mom said, “She gets to be the baby sometimes.”
So then Rocky thought about it, and finally said, “Okay,” and patted me on the cheek and said, “Good baby.”
Somehow, this made me feel better.
At least a little bit.
Saturday, May 6, midnight, the loft
I just got the following e-mail from J.P.
Mia,
I’ve tried to call you a few times, but you aren’t picking up. I know you’re probably really mad at me, but just, please, listen to what I have to say…. I know you asked me notto, but I spoke to Sean anyway about your book. Please don’t be mad. I only did it because I love you, and I want what’s best for you.
And when you hear what Sean just called and told me, I think you’re going to be pleased that I spoke to him: He’s good friends with the president of Sunburst Publishing (you know, they do all those novels that get reviewed in The New York Times that you never read, the ones that got turned into movies starring all Sean’s friends). And they would LOVE to publish your book (providing they can do so under HRH Princess Amelia Renaldo of Genovia). Sean says they’d be willing to offer a quarter of a million dollars for it.
Isn’t that fantastic, Mia? Don’t you think you should reconsider that other offer you got? I mean, it’s a tiny percentage of that.
Anyway, I just thought I’d try to help. Sweet dreams, and…I can’t wait until tomorrow night.
I love you,
J.P.
So.
The thing is, I probably should take Sunburst Publishing’s offer. That quarter of a million dollars…that’s a ton more money that I could donate to Greenpeace. But…Sunburst Publishing has never even read my book. They have no idea if it’s any good. They’re just offering to publish it because of who I am.
And that’s just not how I want to get a publishing contract. That’s like…writing a play about your girlfriend, the princess. In a way.
I know baby seals and the rain forests are going to suffer because of my selfishness, but…
I just can’t do it. I CAN’T.
I suck. I suck more than any human being on the planet.
Saturday, May 6, 10 a.m., the loft
All I could think about all night long was J.P. and the baby seals I’m not saving by not taking Sunburst Publishing’s money.
And Michael, of course.
I don’t think I slept for more than a few hours. It was terrible.
I woke with a splitting headache and still no idea what I’m going to do about the two of them, to find exit polls in Genovia showing my dad totally tied with René in today’s election for prime minister.
Almost all the news outlets I’ve seen credit Lilly’s commercial (although they don’t name her, of course) and the donation of new state-of-the-art medical equipment to the Royal Genovian Hospital as reasons for Dad’s sudden boost in the polls.
I seriously can’t believe it if it’s true. The Moscovitzes saved the prime ministry for my dad?
And yet…
Has there ever been anything either of them hasn’t been able to accomplish if they’ve set their mind to it?
No. Not really. It’s scary, actually.
The polls close at noon our time (which is six Genovia time). So we’ve got two more hours to go. Mr. G is making waffles (regular ones this time, not heart-shaped) while we wait for the call.
I’m keeping everything I have crossed for luck.
There’s no way René can win. I mean…no way. Not even Genovians can be that stupid.
Oh, wait. Did I just write that?
Tonight is the prom. I know I have to go…I can’t get out of it.
And yet there’s never been anything I’ve less wanted to do in my entire life.
And that includes becoming a princess.
Saturday, May 6, noon, the loft
The polls are closed.
Dad just called.
It’s officially too close to tell.
I wish I hadn’t eaten so many waffles. I feel totally sick.
Saturday, May 6, 1 p.m., the loft
Grandmère is here. She brought Sebastiano and all the dresses I’m supposed to choose from for the prom as her excuse for why she showed up.
But you can tell she’s here because she just didn’t want to wait alone in her condo at the Plaza for the results.
I know how she feels.
Rocky is thrilled, of course. He’s all, “Gwandmare, Gwandmare,” and blowing her air kisses the way she taught him. She’s pretending to catch them, and clutch them to her heart.
I swear, when she’s around babies, Grandmère is a totally different person.
We’re all just sitting here waiting for the phone call.
This is excruciating.
Saturday, May 6, 6 p.m., the loft
Still no word from Dad.
I finally told them all I had to go. Get ready, I mean. Paolo was coming by with all his equipment to give me the perfect blowout. Plus, I had to shave my legs and do all the other stuff you have to do to get beautified before an evening out…purifying mud mask, Crest Whitestrips, Bioré pore strips, etc. (I didn’t even want to think about what might be coming after my evening out tonight.)
Every twenty minutes or so I poked my head out of my room and asked if they’d heard anything, though.
But Dad didn’t call. I can’t tell if this is a good sign or a bad sign. The vote shouldn’t be this close. Should it?
Finally I was ready to choose a dress. I had my hair done—Paolo put the front up in the diamond and sapphire clips Grandmère had given me for my birthday, but left the back hanging loose in a sort of flip—and everything was clean and moisturized and polished and shaved and smelled nice.
Not that it matters, really, because I’ve already decided no one is going to get close enough to inspect any of those parts of me. I mean, I have enough problems as it is—I don’t need sex compou
nding them.
Actually, I was trying very hard not to think about what was going to happen after the prom—or what I was getting myself into. I mean, the whole after-prom thing just had this big DO NOT ENTER sign over it in my brain. I had decided the only way to get through this night was to take it—literally—one minute at a time. I had even e-mailed J.P. back and said, “Thanks!” for his Sunburst Publishing offer.
I didn’t say that I’d already taken the other offer, or decided against taking his, or anything like that. It just didn’t seem worth arguing about. We were going to have a nice, worry-free evening at our senior prom, I’d decided.
Because I owed him that much, at least.
Everything was going to be okay. No one had to know I’d spent a big chunk of yesterday making out with my ex-boyfriend in an old-timey horse carriage. Except my ex-boyfriend and bodyguard and the horse-carriage driver.
Who I really, really hoped wouldn’t turn out to have recognized me and gone running to TMZ about it.
I tried on a bunch of Sebastiano’s dresses and did a little mini fashion show for Grandmère, Mom, Mr. G, Rocky, Lars, Sebastiano, and Ronnie from next door, who’d come over (and kept going, “Girl, you look poppin’ fresh!” and, “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown since you were just a knock-kneed little thing in overalls and Ralph Nader buttons!”).
In the end, everyone agreed on this short tight black lace kind of retro eighties cocktail number, which isn’t very princessy or very promlike, but sort of suited the fact that I’m a girl who yesterday totally cheated on her boyfriend (even though, of course, nobody knows that but me and Lars, and possibly the carriage driver).
If kissing counts as cheating. Which technically I really don’t think it does. Especially if it’s with your ex.
We won’t even get into the below-the-neck fondling part.
So now I’m just waiting for J.P. to show and pick me up. And then we’ll be off to the Waldorf to fulfill all my prom night dreams of rubbery chicken and dancing to lame music. Just like I always said I didn’t want to be doing tonight. Yay! I can so wait.