by Meg Cabot
The tea is here. Grandmère is making me pour. She is going on about some argument she once had with Elizabeth Taylor about whether or not pantsuits are proper attire for women attending afternoon tea. Elizabeth Taylor thinks they are. Grandmère thinks not (no surprise there).
Something is bothering me. I mean something besides the fact that my boyfriend and I are broken up because he slept with Judith Gershner, and that an hour or so ago he caught me making out (well, sort of) with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend.
I can’t stop thinking about Dad’s little speech. You know, the one about how he once let someone he cared about go without a fight. He’d just looked so…sad.
And my dad is not really a sad sort of guy. I mean, would YOU be sad, if you were a prince and had Gisele Bündchen’s private cell phone number?
Which is why I interrupted Grandmère’s tirade against pantsuits to ask if she knew who Dad was talking about.
“Someone he cared about and let go without a fight?” Grandmère looked thoughtful. “Hmmm. It could have been that housewife woman….”
“Grandmère,” I said. “That thing in Us Weekly about Dad dating Eva Longoria was just a rumor.”
“Oh. Well, then I have no idea. The only woman I’ve ever known him to mention more than once is your mother. And that, of course, is because she’s your mother. If it weren’t for you, of course, he’d never have seen her again, once she turned down his proposal. Which, of course, was the stupidest mistake SHE ever made. Saying no to a prince? Pfuit! Of course, it was a good thing in the end. Your mother would never have fit in at the palace. Pass the Sweet ’n Low, please, Amelia.”
God. That is so weird. Who could it have been, then? I mean, who could my dad have cared about that he let walk away? Who—
Friday, September 10, the steps outside of the Four Seasons
I can’t believe this. How stupid I’ve been, I mean.
Dad tried to tell me. EVERYONE tried to tell me. But I was just so STUPID—
But I can fix this. I KNOW I can. I just have to get to him before he gets on the plane, and I’ll tell him—
Well, I don’t know what I’ll tell him. But I’ll figure it out when I see him. If I can just smell his neck one more time, I know—I KNOW—everything will be all right.
And that I’ll know what to tell him when I see him.
IF I can get to him before he gets on the plane. Because it’s the middle of the afternoon and my dad’s got the limo over at the UN, which means Lars and I have to take a cab, only we can’t find one because they’ve all seemed to have disappeared, which is ALWAYS what happens when you really need one, which is why shows like Sex and the City can be so bogus sometimes, because those girls ALWAYS get a cab, and the fact is, there are just way more people who need cabs than there are cabs and
WHAT AM I GOING TO SAY TO HIM????
God, I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. How stupid and blind and dumb and ignorant and judgmental and WHAT DOES IT MATTER???? Seriously, what does any of it MATTER, when I love him, and I’ll never love anyone else, and it’s not like he cheated on me and WHY AREN’T THERE ANY CABS????
I tore out of Grandmère’s suite without even saying good-bye. I just yelled, “We’re leaving!” to Lars and bolted. He ran after me, looking confused. It wasn’t until we ran into the lobby that I finally got Lilly on her cell, and was like, “WHAT AIRLINE?”
And Lilly was like, “What are you talking about?”
“WHAT AIRLINE IS MICHAEL FLYING ON?” I screamed.
“Continental,” she said, sounding confused. “Wait—Mia, where are you? We have Assembly—you have to give your speech! Your speech for student council president!”
“I can’t,” I yelled. “This is more important. Lilly, I have to see him—”
I was crying again. But I didn’t even care. I’ve been crying so much, it’s basically my natural state now. Which means maybe I’m not a nihilist after all. Because nihilists don’t cry. “Lilly. I just want to tell him—I just want to—” Except, of course, I still don’t even KNOW what I want to tell him. “Just tell me what time his plane is leaving—please?”
Something in my voice must have convinced her I was sincere.
“Six o’clock,” Lilly said, her tone softening. “But he probably already left for the airport. You have to check in, like, three hours early for international flights. Something I realize someone who only flies by royal Genovian jet wouldn’t know.”
So he was already at the airport.
But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I hung up and ran outside and told Lars to flag down a cab.
Then I called my dad on his emergency number.
“Mia?” he whispered when he picked up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “Was it Mom?”
“Nothing’s wrong? Mia, this is my emergency line—I’m in the middle of the General Assembly—the committee for disarmament and international security is speaking right now. I know you’re going through a hard time right now dealing with the loss of your boyfriend, but unless you’re actually bleeding, I’m hanging up.”
“Dad, don’t! I need to know,” I said urgently. “The person you said you loved—the person you let go without a fight. Was it Mom?”
“What are you talking about?”
“WAS IT MOM? Was Mom the person you loved and regret letting go without a fight? It was, wasn’t it? Because she said she never wanted to get married, and you HAD to get married in order to provide an heir to the throne. You didn’t know you’d end up getting cancer and I’d be your only kid. And you didn’t know you’d never meet anyone you loved as much as her. So you let her go without a fight, didn’t you? It was her. It’s always been HER.”
There was silence for a moment on my dad’s end of the phone. Then he said, “Don’t tell her,” very quietly.
“I won’t, Dad,” I said. Because of my tears I could barely see Lars out on the curb with the Four Seasons doorman, both of them frantically waving their arms at cabs that were all currently filled with passengers. “I promise. Just tell me one more thing.”
“Mia, I really have to go—”
“Did you ever used to smell her neck?”
“What?”
“Mom’s neck. Dad, I have to know…. Did you ever used to smell it? Did it smell really good to you?”
“Like freesia,” Dad said faintly. “How did you know that? I never told anyone that.”
Mom’s neck smells nothing like freesia. Mom’s neck smells of Dove soap and turpentine. Oh, and coffee, because she drinks so much of it.
Except to Dad. Dad can’t smell any of that. Because for him, Mom was the One.
Just like Michael is my One.
“Dad,” I said. “I gotta go. Bye.”
I hung up just as Lars yelled, “Princess! Here!”
A cab! At last! I’m saved!
Friday, September 10, cab on the way to John F. Kennedy International Airport
I don’t believe this. It doesn’t seem possible. But there’s no mistake: We’re in Ephrain Kleinschmidt’s taxicab.
Yes. The same Ephrain Kleinschmidt in whose taxicab I wept so many bitter tears the other night.
Ephrain took one look at me in the rearview mirror and went, “YOU!”
Then he tried to hand me his Kleenex again.
“No Kleenex!” I yelled. “JFK!!! Take us to JFK, as fast as you can!”
“JFK?” Ephrain balked. “I’m about to go off duty!”
That’s when Lars showed him his sidearm. Well, really, he was just reaching for his wallet, saying there was an extra twenty in it if Ephrain got us to the airport in under twenty minutes.
But I’m pretty sure the Glock spoke more than the twenty.
Ephrain didn’t hesitate. He put the pedal to the metal. Well, at least until we got to the first traffic light.
This is excruciating. We’re never going to make it.
Except that we HAVE to. I can’t let Mi
chael go—not without a fight. I can’t end up like my dad, with no one special in my life, dating supermodel after supermodel, because I allowed the person I really loved to slip through my fingers!
And sure, it’s possible that when I get to the airport, Michael will be like, “Get away.” Because, let’s face it—I screwed up. Not that I didn’t have a right to be hurt by what Michael did.
But I guess I should maybe have been a little bit more understanding and a little less judgmental.
Everyone TRIED to tell me. Mom. Tina. Lilly. Dad.
But I wouldn’t listen.
Why didn’t I listen?
And WHY did I kiss J.P.???? WHY WHY WHY?????
All I can do is try to explain. That it didn’t mean anything—that J.P.’s just a friend. That I’m a horrible, terrible person, and that I deserve to be punished.
Only not by Michael’s never speaking to me again. ANYTHING but that.
And even if Michael is like, “Get away,” at least maybe I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Because I’ll have tried. I’ll have tried to make things right.
And maybe just knowing I tried will be enough.
Lars was just like, “Princess. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
That’s because we’re currently stuck behind a stalled tractor-trailer on the bridge.
“Don’t say that, Lars. We’re going to make it. We HAVE to make it.”
“Maybe you should call him. To let him know we’re on our way. So he doesn’t go through security right away.”
“I can’t CALL him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll never pick up if he sees it’s me. After what he saw me do outside Chemistry?”
Lars raised his eyebrows. “Oh,” he said. “Right. I forgot about that. But what if he’s already gone through security?” Lars wanted to know. “You won’t be able to get through without a ticket.”
“Then I’ll buy a ticket.”
“To JAPAN? Princess, I don’t think—”
“I won’t actually GO to Japan,” I assured him. “I’ll just go to the gate to find him.”
“You know I can’t let you go alone.”
“I’ll buy a ticket for you, too.” Fortunately I have my emergency-only royal Genovian black American Express card on me. I’ve never actually used it before. But this IS what my dad gave it to me for: emergencies.
And this is an emergency, all right.
“I think you should just call him,” Lars said. “He might pick up. You never know.”
I looked Lars dead in the eye. “Would you?” I asked. “If it were you?”
“Er,” he said. “Well, no. Probably not.”
“Hey.” Ephrain Kleinschmidt glared at us in the rearview mirror. Ephrain had gotten out from behind the tractor-trailer and was making serious time along the highway now. “I’m not turning around. We’re almost there.”
“I’m not calling him, Lars,” I said. “Not unless I have to. I mean, Arwen wouldn’t call Aragorn.”
“Who?”
“Princess Arwen. She wouldn’t call Aragorn. Something like this requires a BIG GESTURE, Lars. I’m no Arwen. I haven’t saved any hobbits from peril or outraced any Ringwraiths. I already have a lot of strikes against me—I acted like a snotty jerk, I kissed another guy, AND I haven’t made any particularly valuable contributions to society…not like Michael will, when his robotic surgical arm revolutionizes heart surgery as we know it. I’m just a princess.”
“Wasn’t this Arwen just a princess?” Lars wanted to know.
“Yes. But her hair didn’t look as stupid as mine does right now.”
Lars looked at my head. “True.”
I couldn’t even get offended. Because when you’re already at rock bottom, nothing hurts anymore.
“Plus,” I added, “Arwen never tried to keep Aragorn from completing his quest, the way I tried to keep Michael from completing his. Arwen played a crucial role in the destruction of the One Ring. What have I ever done?”
“You built houses for the homeless,” Lars pointed out.
“Yeah, so did Michael.”
“You got parking meters installed in Genovia.”
“Big whoop.”
“You saved the Genovian bay from killer algae.”
“No one cares about that but the fishermen.”
“You got recycling bins installed all over the school.”
“And bankrupted the student government in doing so. Face it, Lars: I’m no Melinda Gates—donating millions of dollars to help eradicate malaria, the biggest health crisis facing the globe, causing over a million children to die needlessly every year, just from a lack of a three-dollar mosquito net. I’m really going to have to start working on becoming something special if I’m going to hang on to Michael. I mean, if he’ll even take me back after this.”
“I think Michael likes you the way you are,” Lars said, grabbing the handle of the passenger door to keep from sliding over and crushing me as Ephrain Kleinschmidt swerved into the exit lane.
“He DID,” I said. “Before I blew it by dumping him. And kissing his sister’s ex-boyfriend right in front of him.”
“True,” Lars said.
Which is, in a way, one of the reasons I love Lars so much. You don’t have to worry about him saying anything just to make you feel better. He always tells the truth. As he sees the truth, anyway.
“What airline?” Ephrain Kleinschmidt wanted to know.
“Continental,” I said. I had to hang on to the safety strap to keep from being hurled from one side of the backseat to the other. “Departures!”
Ephrain put his foot on the accelerator.
Can’t write anymore. Fear for my life.
Friday, September 10, JFK International Airport, limo shelter
Well. That really didn’t work out the way I’d hoped it would.
I’d really hoped that what would happen was, I’d walk into the airport and see Michael standing in the security line. I would call his name and he would turn around and see me, and duck out of the security line and come over, and I would tell him how sorry I was for being such a total ass, and he would forgive me instantly and wrap me in his arms and kiss me and I would smell his neck and he would be so moved he’d decide to stay in New York.
Well, I wasn’t actually hoping for that last part. Well, I mean, of course I WAS. But I didn’t really think it would HAPPEN. I would have settled for just his forgiving me.
But it turned out none of it happened. Because Michael’s flight was taking off as we got to the ticket counter.
We were too late.
I was too late.
Now Michael’s gone. He’s on his way to another country—another CONTINENT—another HEMISPHERE.
And I’ll probably never see him again.
Of course, I did the only sensible thing I could, under the circumstances: I sat down on the airport floor and cried.
Lars had to half drag, half carry me to the limo stand, where we’re waiting for Hans and my dad to come pick us up. Because Lars says over his dead body is he ever getting in another taxicab.
At least there’s a bench here, so I can sit on it and cry, instead of on the ground.
I just don’t understand how any of this happened. A week ago—five days ago—I was so filled with hope and excitement. I didn’t even know what pain was. Not real pain.
And now it’s like my whole world has come collapsing down around my ears. And some of it I didn’t have anything to do with—like Michael’s decision to go to Japan.
But a lot of it is my own fault.
And for what?
How am I going to go on without him? Seriously?
Oh. The limo’s here.
I’m going to see if we can go through the McDonald’s drive-through on the way home. Because I think the only thing that might make me feel even slightly better is a Quarter Pounder.
With cheese.
Friday, September 10, 7 p.m., the loft
Wh
en I got home, Mom and Mr. G were just getting ready to order dinner. Mom took one look at me and was like, “Bedroom. Now,” because Rocky had pulled all the pots and pans from the kitchen cupboards and was banging on them (a trait he no doubt inherited from his father, whose drum set still has a prominent place in our living room).
So I dragged myself into my bedroom and collapsed onto my bed, startling Fat Louie, who was so surprised when I landed on him, he actually hissed at me.
But I didn’t care. I think I have dysthmia, or chronic depression, since I have all the symptoms:
Emotional numbness
Perpetual, low-level melancholy
Feeling of merely going through the motions of everyday life with very little enthusiasm or interest
Negative thinking
Anhedonic (unable to savor or enjoy anything; except cheeseburgers)
“Your father tells me you were sent home from school in the middle of the afternoon,” Mom said, after shutting the door, so that the sound of at least some of the banging was lessened. “And I understand from Lars that you went to the airport to try to say good-bye to Michael.”
“Yeah,” I said. Seriously, I have zero privacy. I can’t do ANYTHING without the whole world finding out about it. I don’t know why I even try to keep anything secret. “I did.”
“I think that was the right thing to do,” Mom said. “I’m proud of you.”
I just stared at her. “I missed him. His flight had left already.”
Mom winced. “Oh. Well. You can still call him.”
“Mom,” I said. “I can’t call him.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you can.”
“Mom. I can’t call him. I kissed J.P. And Michael saw me do it.”
Now it was Mom’s turn to stare at me. “You kissed your best friend’s boyfriend?”
“Actually,” I said, “Lilly and J.P. broke up today. So he’s her ex-boyfriend. But yes.”
“And you did this in front of Michael.”
“Yes.” I’m not sure the Quarter Pounder with cheese was actually the best idea. “I didn’t mean to, though. It just sort of…happened.”