by Meg Cabot
That’s because demand for Moscovitz’s product is growing, and so far his small company has the market all to itself.
The surgical arm, which is controlled remotely by surgeons, was approved by the Food and Drug Administration for general surgery last year.
The CardioArm system is considered to be more precise and less invasive than traditional surgical tools that include small handheld surgical cameras inserted into the body during surgery. Recovery from surgery performed by the CardioArm system is considerably faster than recovery from traditional surgery.
“What you can do with the robotic arm—with the capabilities in manipulation and visualization—you just can’t do any other way,” said Dr. Arthur Ward, head of cardiology at Columbia University Medical Center.
There are already 50 CardioArms operating in American hospitals, with a waiting list of hundreds more, but with a price tag ranging from $1 million to $1.5 million, the systems don’t come cheap. Moscovitz has donated several CardioArm systems to children’s hospitals nationwide, and will be donating a new one to Columbia University Medical Center this weekend, a fact for which the university, his alma mater, is grateful.
“This is a highly perfected, highly sought-after, very unique technology,” said Ward. “In terms of robotics, CardioArm is the clear leader. Moscovitz has done something extraordinary for the field of surgical medicine.”
!!!!!!!!!!
Wow. The ex-girlfriend is always the last to know.
But whatever. It’s not like this changes anything.
I mean, so what? So Michael’s genius is universally acknowledged, the way it always should have been. He deserves all the money and acclaim. He worked really hard for it. I knew he was going to save children’s lives, and now he’s doing it.
I just…I guess I just…
Well, I just can’t believe he didn’t tell me!
On the other hand, what was he going to say in his last e-mail, exactly? “Oh, by the way, my robotic surgical arm is a huge success, it’s saving lives nationwide, and my company has the fastest-trading stock on Wall Street?”
Oh, no, that wouldn’t be too braggy.
And anyway, I’m the one who freaked out and stopped e-mailing him when he asked if he could read my senior project. For all I know, maybe he was going to mention that his CardioArm is selling for $1.5 million a pop and has a stronghold on the robotic-surgical-arm market.
Or, “I’m coming back to America and donating one of my robotic surgical arms to Columbia University Medical Center on Saturday, so maybe I’ll see you.”
I just never gave him the chance, being the super rude one who never wrote back after the last time we corresponded.
And for all I know, Michael’s been back to America a dozen times since we broke up, to visit his family and whatnot. Why would he mention it to me? It’s not like we’re going to get together for coffee or anything. We’re broken up.
And hello, I already have a boyfriend.
It’s just…in the article, it said, Michael Moscovitz, 21, of Manhattan. Not Tsukuba, Japan.
So. He’s obviously living here now. He’s here. He asked to read my senior project, and he’s here.
Panic attack.
I mean, before, when he was in Japan, and he asked to see my senior project, I could have been like, “Oh, I sent it to you, didn’t you get it? No? That’s so weird. Let me try sending it again.”
But now, if I see him, and he asks…
Oh my God. What am I going to do?????
Wait…Whatever. It’s not like he’s asked to see me! I mean, he’s here, isn’t he? And has he called? No.
E-mailed? No.
Of course…I’m the one who owes him an e-mail. He’s politely observed e-mail etiquette and waited for me to e-mail him back. What must he think, since I totally stopped communicating when he asked to read my book? He must think I’m the biggest byotch, as Lana would say. Here he made the nicest offer—an offer my own boyfriend has never made, by the way—and I totally went missing in action….
God, remember that weird thing where I used to want to smell his neck all the time? It’s like I couldn’t feel calm or happy or something unless I smelled his neck. That was so…geek, as Lana would say.
Of course…if I remember correctly, Michael always did smell a lot better than J.P., who continues to smell like dry cleaning. I tried buying him some cologne for his birthday, like Lana suggested—
It didn’t work. He wears it, but now he just smells like cologne. Over dry-cleaning fluid.
I just can’t believe Michael’s been back in town and I didn’t even know it! I’m so glad Dad told me! I could have run into him at Bigelow’s or Forbidden Planet and without having any advanced warning he was back, I might have done something incredibly stupid when I saw him. Such as pee myself. Or blurt out, “You look incredible!”
Providing he does look incredible, which I’m guessing he probably does. That would have been awful (although peeing myself would be worse).
No, actually, showing up at either place and bumping into him without any makeup on and my hair a big mess would be worse…except I have to say my hair is looking better than it ever has now that Paolo has layered it and it’s grown out and I’ve got a real proper hairstyle that I can actually tuck behind my ears and give a sexy side part to and put up in a hair band and all. Even teenSTYLE agreed about that in their year-end fashion Hot and Not columns. (I was in the Hot columns for once instead of the Not. I so owe Lana.)
Which isn’t why Dad told me about Michael coming back, of course (so I can make sure I look Hot at all times now, in case I run into my ex).
Dad says he told me so I wouldn’t be caught off guard if the paparazzi asked me about it.
Which, now that there’s been this press release, is bound to happen.
And there was no need to provide that quote for me from the Genovian press office—that I’m truly happy for Mr. Moscovitz and so glad to see that he’s moved on, like I have. I can make up my own quotes for the press, thank you very much.
It’s fine. He’s back in Manhattan, and I’m totally okay with that. I’m more than okay with that. I’m happy for him. He’s probably forgotten all about me, much less about asking to read my book. I mean, senior project. Now that he’s a bazillionaire robot-arm inventor, I’m sure a silly e-mail exchange with a high school girl he used to date is the last thing Michael is thinking about.
Honestly, I don’t care if I ever see him again. I have a boyfriend. A perfectly wonderful boyfriend who is, even now, planning a completely romantic way to ask me to the prom that won’t involve painting a brown horse white. Probably.
I’m going to bed now, and I’m going to go to sleep right away, and NOT lie awake half the night thinking about Michael being back in Manhattan and having asked to read my book.
I’m not.
Watch me.
Friday, April 28, Homeroom
Uck, I feel awful, and I look terrible, I was up all night freaking out about Michael being back in town!
And, to make things worse, I skipped the Atom staff meeting this morning before school. I know Dr. K would highly disapprove, because a brave woman, such as Eleanor Roosevelt, would have gone.
But I didn’t feel very Eleanor Roosevelt this morning. I just didn’t know if Lilly was going to assign someone to cover Michael’s donation of one of his CardioArm’s to the Columbia University Medical Center or not. It seems like she would. I mean, he’s an AEHS grad. An AEHS grad inventing something that’s saving children’s lives and then donating it to a major local university would constitute news….
I couldn’t run the risk that Lilly might assign me to be the person to cover the story in the last issue. Lilly isn’t actively doing stuff to antagonize me—we’re totally staying out of each other’s way.
But she might have done it anyway, just out of a perverse sense of irony.
And I do not want to see Michael. I mean, not as a high school reporter covering the story of his b
rilliant comeback. That would probably kill me.
Plus, what if he asks about my senior project?????
I know it’s highly unlikely he remembers. But it could happen.
Plus, my hair is doing that weird flippy thing in the back this morning. I totally ran out of phytodefrisant.
No, the next time I see Michael, I want my hair to look good, and I want to be a published author. Oh, please, God, make both these things happen!
And I know, okay, I already helped a small European country achieve democracy. And that is a major accomplishment. It’s ridiculous of me to want to be a published author by the age of eighteen (which gives me approximately three days, a totally unrealistic goal), as well.
But I worked so hard on that book! I poured almost two years of my life into that book! I mean, first there was all the research—I had to read, like, five hundred romance novels, so I’d know how to write one myself.
Then I had to read fifty billion books on medieval England, so I could get the setting and at least some of the dialogue and stuff right in mine.
Then I had to actually write it.
And I know one small historical romance novel isn’t going to change the world.
But it would be lovely if it made a few people as happy reading it as it made me when I was writing it.
Oh, God, why am I obsessing about this when I don’t even care? I’ve already got a wonderful boyfriend who tells me constantly that he loves me and takes me out all the time and who everyone in the entire universe says is perfect for me.
And, all right, he forgot to ask me to the prom. And then there’s that other thing.
But I don’t even want to go to the prom anyway, because the prom is for children, which I’m not, I’ll be eighteen in three days, at which point I’ll legally be an adult….
Okay. I need to get a grip.
Maybe Hans can go get me another chai latte. I don’t think my first one took this morning. Except Dad says I have to stop sending my limo driver out on personal errands. But what else am I supposed to do? Lars totally refuses to duck out and get me hot foamy drinks, even though I’ve explained to him it’s highly unlikely anyone is going to kidnap me between the time he leaves for Starbucks and the time he gets back.
No one has mentioned the CardioArm story yet, and I’ve seen Tina, Shameeka, Perin, and, of course, J.P.
Maybe it hasn’t broken anywhere but international business CNN.com.
Please, God, let it not break anywhere else.
Friday, April 28, third-floor stairwell
I just got a 911 text from Tina telling me to grab a bathroom pass and meet her here!
I can’t imagine what could have happened! It has to be serious because we’ve really been good about not skipping lately, considering the fact that we’ve all gotten into college and there’s basically no reason to attend classes anymore, except to admire what kind of shoes we’re buying to wear for commencement.
I really hope she and Boris haven’t had a fight. They’re so cute together. He does get on my nerves sometimes, but you can tell he just adores T. And he asked her to the prom in the cutest way, by presenting her with a prom ticket attached to a single half-blown red rose with a Tiffany’s box dangling from it.
Yes! It wasn’t even from Kay Jewelers, which has always been Tina’s favorite. Boris decided to upgrade. (Good for him. Her attachment to Kay’s was starting to get kind of sad.)
And inside the box was another box, a velvet ring box. (Tina said she nearly had a heart attack when she saw it.)
And inside that was the most gorgeous emerald ring (a promise ring, not an engagement ring, Boris hastened to assure her). And inside the band of the ring were Tina’s and Boris’s initials entwined, and the date of the prom.
Tina said she’d have nearly thrown up a lung if such a thing were physically possible, she was that excited. She came into school on Monday and showed the ring to all of us. (Boris gave it to her at dinner at Per Se, which is, like, the most expensive restaurant in New York right now. But he can afford it because he’s recording an album, just like his idol, Joshua Bell. His ego hasn’t been too inflated ever since. Especially since he also got asked to play a gig at Carnegie Hall next week, which is going to be his senior project. We’re all invited. J.P. and I are going as a date. Except I’m bringing my iPod. I’ve already heard everything in Boris’s repertoire, like, nine hundred million times, thanks to his playing it in the supply closet in the Gifted and Talented room. I can’t believe anyone would pay money to hear him, to be honest, but whatever.)
Tina’s dad wasn’t too thrilled about the ring. But he was plenty thrilled about the shipment of frozen Omaha steaks Boris had sent to him. (That part was my suggestion. Boris so owes me.)
So Mr. Hakim Baba might even come around to the idea of Boris being part of the family one day. (Poor man. I feel so bad for him. He’ll have to listen to that mouth breathing every time he sits down with his daughter and her boyfriend for a meal.)
Oh, here she comes—she’s not crying, so maybe it’s—
Friday, April 28, Trig
Yeah. Okay. So it wasn’t about Boris.
It was about Michael.
I should have known.
Tina has her phone set to receive Google alerts about me. So this morning she got one when the New York Post ran an item about Michael’s donation to the Columbia University Medical Center (only, because it was the Post and not CNN international business news, the primary focus of the story was that Michael used to go out with me).
Tina’s so sweet. She wanted me to know that he was back in town before someone else told me. She was afraid I might hear it from a paparazzo, just like my dad was.
I let her know I already knew.
This was a mistake.
“You knew?” Tina cried. “And didn’t tell me right away? Mia, how could you?”
See? I can’t do anything right anymore. Every time I tell the truth, I get in trouble!
“I just found out myself,” I assured her. “Last night. And I’m okay with it. Really. I’m over Michael. I’m with J.P. now. It’s completely cool with me that Michael’s back.”
God, I’m such a liar.
And not even a very good one. At least not about this. Because Tina didn’t look very convinced.
“And he didn’t tell you?” Tina demanded. “Michael didn’t say anything in any of his e-mails about how he was coming back?”
Of course I couldn’t tell her the truth. About how Michael offered to read my senior project and that freaked me out so much I stopped e-mailing him.
Because then Tina would want to know why that freaked me out. And then I’d have to explain that my senior project is actually a romance novel I’m trying to get published.
And I’m just not ready to hear the amount of shrieking this response would elicit from Tina. Not to mention her demand to read the book.
And when she gets to the sex scene—okay, sex scenes—I think there’s a good chance Tina’s head might actually explode.
“No,” I said, in response to Tina’s question, instead.
“That’s just weird,” Tina said flatly. “I mean, you guys are friends now. At least, that’s what you keep telling me. That you’re friends, just like you used to be. Friends tell each other if one of them is moving back to the same country—the same city—as the other. That has to mean something that he didn’t say anything.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said quickly. “It probably happened really fast. He just didn’t have time to tell me—”
“To send you a text message? ‘Mia, I’m moving back to Manhattan.’ How long does that take? No.” Tina shook her head, her long dark hair swinging past her shoulders. “Something else is going on.” She narrowed her eyes. “And I think I know what it is.”
I love Tina so much. I’m going to miss her when I go away to college. (No way am I going to NYU with her, even though I got in there. NYU just seems way too high-pressure for me. Tina wants to be a thoracic sur
geon, so odds are, with all the premed classes she’ll be taking, I’d hardly ever see her anyway.)
But I really wasn’t in the mood to hear another one of her wacky theories. It’s true sometimes they’re right. I mean, she was right about J.P. being in love with me.
But whatever she was going to say about Michael—I just didn’t want to hear it. So much so, I actually put my hand over her mouth.
“No,” I said.
Tina blinked at me with her big brown eyes, looking very surprised.
“Wha?” she said, from behind my hand.
“Don’t say it,” I said. “Whatever it is you’re about to say.”
“It’s nofing bad,” Tina said against my palm.
“I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it. Do you promise not to say it?”
Tina nodded. I dropped my hand.
“Do you need a tissue?” Tina asked, nodding at my hand. Because, of course, my fingers were covered in lip gloss.
It was my turn to nod. Tina handed me a tissue from her bag. I wiped off my hand, purposefully not acknowledging the fact that Tina looked as if she were literally dying to tell me what she wanted to tell me.
Well, okay, maybe not literally dying. But metaphorically.
Finally Tina said, “So. What are you going to do?”
“What do you mean, what am I going to do?” I asked. I couldn’t help feeling this total sense of impending doom…not unlike what I felt concerning J.P.’s forthcoming prom invitation. Well, I guess that wasn’t as much doom as it was dread. “I’m not going to do anything.”
“But, Mia—” Tina appeared to be choosing her words with care. “I know you and J.P. are totally and blissfully happy. But aren’t you the least bit curious to see Michael? After all this time?”
Fortunately it was right then that the bell rang and we had to grab our stuff and “skeedaddle,” as Rocky is fond of saying. (I have no idea where he picked up the word “skeedaddle,” much less “skeedaddling shoes,” which are what he calls his sneakers. Oh, God, how am I going to go away to college for four whole years and miss out on all his formative development…not to mention, his cuteness? I know I’ll be back for holidays—the ones I don’t spend in Genovia—but it won’t be the same!)