by Meg Cabot
Me, hurt him? Hello? Did I need to remind her that her brother was the one who dumped me?
And okay, I acted like a complete jackass and completely deserved to be dumped. But still.
What was going on here, anyway? Was this some kind of continuation of the revenge for whatever it was I did to her last year? Was she going to drag me into that room and then do or say something horrible to humiliate me in front of everyone—especially her brother?
If so, it wasn’t like I had any choice but to let her pull me back into the crowded pavilion. Her grip on my wrist was like iron.
But…what if this wasn’t about revenge? What if Lilly was over whatever it was she’d been so mad at me about for two years? Maybe it was worth the risk.
Because in spite of everything—even ihatemiathermopolis.com—I missed having Lilly as a friend. At least, when she wasn’t trying to get revenge on me for things I’d supposedly done to her.
I saw Lars look up in surprise as we came out of the ladies’ room together, and his eyes widen—he knows perfectly well Lilly and I aren’t exactly bosom buddies anymore. And I guess seeing the way she had hold of my wrist was probably a bit of a tip-off to him that I wasn’t exactly going with her of my own volition.
Still, I shook my head at him to let him know he shouldn’t go for his taser. This was my own mess, and I was going to take care of it. Somehow.
I also saw Tina down the hall notice us, and throw us a startled look. Lilly, thank God, didn’t see her. Tina’s jaw dropped when she spied the way Lilly’s hand was clamped over my wrist, which I suppose did not look exactly friendly-ish. Tina thrust her cell phone to her ear and mouthed, “Call me!”
I nodded. Oh, I was going to call Tina, all right.
Call her and give her a piece of my mind for getting me into this mess in the first place (though I suppose it was my big plan to Do The Princessy Thing that got me here, really).
The next thing I knew, Lilly was dragging me across the Simon and Louise Templeman Patient Care Pavilion toward the stage where Michael and their parents and Nana Moscovitz and Kenny—I mean, Kenneth—and the other employees of Pavlov Surgical were still standing, drinking champagne.
I felt like I was going to die. I really did.
But then I remembered something Grandmère had once assured me of: No one has ever died of embarrassment—never, not once in the whole history of time.
Which I am living proof of, having a grandmother like mine.
So at least I had the assurance I would escape from all of this with my life.
“Michael,” Lilly started bellowing, when we were halfway across the stage. She’d dropped my wrist and taken my hand—which felt so weird. Lilly and I used to hold hands all the time when we were crossing the street together back when we were kids, because our mothers made us, thinking somehow this would ensure we wouldn’t get run over by an M1 bus (instead, it basically meant we’d both get plowed down). Lilly’s hand had always been sweaty and sticky with candy back then.
Now it felt smooth and cool. A grown-up’s hand, really. It was strange.
Michael was busy talking to a whole group of people—in Japanese. Lilly had to say his name two more times before he finally looked over and saw us.
I wish I could say when Michael’s dark eyes met mine, I was completely cool and collected about seeing him again after all this time, and that I laughed airily and said all the right things. I wish I could say after having pretty much single-handedly brought democracy to a country I happen to be princess of, and written a four-hundred-page romance novel, and gotten into every college to which I applied (even if it’s just because I’m a princess), that I handled meeting Michael for the first time again after throwing my snowflake necklace in his face almost two years ago with total grace and aplomb.
But I totally didn’t. I could feel my whole face start to heat up when his gaze met mine. Also, my hands began to sweat right away. And I was pretty sure the floor was going to come swinging up and smack me in the face, I suddenly felt so light-headed and dizzy.
“Mia,” Michael said, in his deep Michael-y voice, after excusing himself from the people he’d been talking to. Then he smiled, and my light-headedness increased by about ten million percent. I was positive I was going to pass out.
“Um,” I said. I think I smiled back. I have no idea. “Hi.”
“Mia’s here representing the Atom,” Lilly explained to Michael, when I didn’t say anything more. I couldn’t say anything more. It was all I could do just to keep from falling over like a tree that had been gnawed on by a beaver. “She’s doing a story on you, Michael. Aren’t you, Mia?”
I nodded. Story? Atom? What was she talking about?
Oh, right. The school paper.
“How are you doing?” Michael asked me. He was talking to me. He was talking to me in a friendly, nonconfrontational manner.
And yet no words would formulate in my head, much less come out of my mouth. I was mute, just like Rob Lowe’s character in the TV movie of Stephen King’s The Stand. Only I wasn’t as good-looking.
“Why don’t you ask Michael a question for your story, Mia?” Lilly poked me. Poked me. In the shoulder. And it didn’t not hurt.
“Ow,” I said.
Wow! A word!
“Where’s Lars?” Michael asked, with a laugh. “You better watch out, Lil. She generally travels with an armed escort.”
“He’s around here somewhere,” I managed to get out. Finally! A sentence. Accompanied by a shaky laugh. “And I’m fine, thanks for asking before. How are you doing, Michael?”
Yes! It speaks!
“I’m great,” Michael said.
Right then his mother came up and said, “Honey, this man over here is with The New York Times. He wants to talk to you. Can you just—” Then she saw me, and her eyes went totally huge. “Oh. Mia.”
Yeah. As in: Oh. It’s You. The Girl Who Ruined Both My Children’s Lives.
I seriously don’t think it was my imagination, either. I mean, it would take an imagination the size of Tina’s to turn it into: Oh. It’s You. The Girl for Whom My Son Has Secretly Been Pining Away the Past Two Years.
Which, having seen Micromini Midori, I knew wasn’t the case.
“Hi, Dr. Moscovitz,” I said, in the world’s smallest voice. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” Dr. Moscovitz said, smiling and leaning over to kiss my cheek. “I haven’t seen you in so long. It’s lovely you were able to come.”
“I’m covering the event for the school paper,” I explained hastily, knowing even as I said it how incredibly stupid it sounded. But I didn’t want her to think I’d come for any of the real reasons I’d actually come. “But I know he’s busy. Michael, go talk to the Times—”
“No,” Michael said. “That’s okay. There’s plenty of time for that.”
“Are you kidding me?” I would have liked to have reached out and pushed him toward the reporter, but we’re not going out anymore, so touching isn’t allowed. Even though I really would have liked to put my hand on that suit coat sleeve, and felt what was underneath it. Which is really shocking, because I have a boyfriend. “It’s the Times!”
“Maybe you two could get together for coffee or something tomorrow,” Lilly said casually, just as Kenneth—ha! I finally remembered!—came sauntering up. “For, like, a private interview.”
What was she doing? What was she saying? It was like Lilly had suddenly forgotten how much she hated me. Or Evil Lilly had been replaced, when no one was looking, by Good Lilly.
“Hey,” Michael said, brightening. “That’s a good idea. What do you say, Mia? Are you around tomorrow? Want to meet at Caffe Dante, say, around one?”
Before I knew what I was doing, buoyed by popular sentiment, I was nodding, and saying, “Yes, one tomorrow is fine. Okay, great, see you then.”
And then Michael was walking away…only to turn at the last minute and say, “Oh, and bring that senior project of yours. I still ca
n’t wait to read it!”
Oh my God.
I fully thought I was going to be sick all over Kenneth’s shiny dress shoes.
Lilly must have noticed, since she poked me in the back (again, not very gently), and asked, “Mia? Are you all right?”
Michael was out of earshot by then, talking to the Times reporter, and his mom had drifted off to talk to his dad and Nana Moscovitz. I just looked at Lilly miserably and said the first thing that popped into my head, which was, “Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?”
Lilly opened her mouth and started to say something, but Kenneth put his arm around her and glared at me and went, “Are you still going out with J.P.?”
I just blinked at him in confusion. “Yes,” I said.
“Then never mind,” Kenneth said, and swung Lilly away from me like he was mad at me, or something.
And she didn’t try to stop him.
Which is weird because Lilly isn’t exactly the type of girl to let a guy tell her what to do. Even Kenneth, who she really likes. More than likes, I’m pretty sure.
Anyway, that was the end of my big first meeting with Michael after almost two years. I got down off the stage with as much dignity as I could (it helps when you have a bodyguard to escort you), and we headed to the limo where the girls were waiting, and they demanded every detail, which I was able to give them as I wrote this (although I left out a few details in the version I told them, of course).
I have to take them to Nobu, where they say we’re going to sample every type of sushi on the menu.
But I don’t know how I’m going to be able to concentrate on appreciating the subtle flavors of Chef Matsuhisa when the whole time I’m going to be all, What am I going to do about showing my book to Michael?
Seriously. Not to sound common—as Grandmère would say—but I am pretty much screwed right now.
Because I can’t give my book to Michael. He invented a robotic arm that saves people’s lives. I wrote a romance novel. One of these things is not like the other.
And I really don’t want the guy who just got an honorary master’s degree in science from Columbia (and who’s had his hand down my shirt on numerous occasions) reading my sex scenes.
Talk about embarrassing.
Saturday, April 29, 7 p.m., the loft
I decided that Dr. K is right.
I really have to stop lying so much. I mean, if I’m going to meet Michael tomorrow for this newspaper interview thing (which there’s no way I can get out of, because if I don’t do it then I have to admit that I wasn’t there today to interview him for the Atom, and there is absolutely no way I’m fessing up that I was really there to ask him for a CardioArm…or, worse, to spy on him with my giggling girlfriends), then I’m going to have to give him a copy of my senior project.
I’m just going to have to. There’s no way I can get around it. He totally remembered—don’t ask me how, when he’s obviously the busiest man in the universe.
And if I’m going to come clean with my ex-boyfriend regarding the truth about my senior project, well, that means I have to tell the truth about it to the people in my life who are more important than he is. Such as, my best friend, and my actual boyfriend.
Because otherwise, it’s just not fair. I mean, for Michael to know the truth about Ransom My Heart, but not Tina or J.P.?
So I decided that I’m just going to bite the bullet and give ALL of them a copy. This weekend.
In fact, I e-mailed Tina hers just now. I’ve got nothing but free time tonight, since J.P. is at rehearsal, and I’m babysitting Rocky while Mom and Mr. G are at a community meeting to discuss NYU’s rampant expansionism and what they can do to stop it before the only people who can afford to live in the Village are twenty-year-old Tisch film students with trust funds.
I sent Tina a copy of my manuscript with this message:
Dear T,
I hope you won’t be mad, but remember when I said my senior project was about Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650? Well, I was sort of lying. Actually, my senior project was a four-hundred-page medieval romance novel called Ransom My Heart set in 1291 England about a girl named Finnula who kidnaps and holds for ransom a knight just back from the Crusades, so she can get money for her pregnant sister to buy hops and barley to make beer (a common practice in those days).
However, what Finnula doesn’t know is that knight is really the earl of her village. And Finnula has some secrets the earl doesn’t know, as well.
I’m sending Ransom My Heart to you now. You don’t have to read it or anything (unless you want to). I just hope you’ll forgive me for lying. I feel really stupid for that. I don’t know why I did it, I guess because I was embarrassed because I wasn’t sure if it was any good. Plus, there are a lot of sex scenes in it.
I really hope you’ll still be my friend.
Love,
Mia
I haven’t heard back from her, but that’s because the Hakim Babas usually have dinner all together this time of day, and Tina’s not allowed to check her messages at the table. It’s a family rule that even Mr. Hakim Baba follows now that his doctor warned him about his high blood pressure.
I kind of feel sick—sick and excited at the same time. About sending Ransom My Heart to Tina, I mean. I can’t imagine what she’s going to say. Will she be mad at me for lying to her? Or stoked, because romance novels are her favorite thing in the whole world? It’s true she prefers contemporary romance novels, and usually ones with sheiks in them.
But it’s possible she might like mine. I put a ton of references to the desert in it.
More importantly, what’s J.P. going to say about it when I tell him? I mean, he knows I love writing, and that I want to be an author someday.
But I’ve never actually mentioned romance writing to him before.
Well, I guess I’m going to find out what he thinks soon enough. I’m sending him a copy, too.
Although, who knows when he’ll actually open it up and read it. His play rehearsals have been known to go on until midnight.
And now Rocky is begging me to watch Dora the Explorer with him. I understand that millions of kids love Dora and have learned to read or whatever from her show. But I wouldn’t mind if Dora fell off a cliff and took her little pals with her.
Saturday, April 29, 8:30 p.m.
I just got a text from Tina!
OMG I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WROTE A ROMANCE NOVEL AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME!!!!!!!!!! YOU R SO AWESOME!!!!!!!!! I LUV U!!!!!!!!! ROMANCE NOVELS 4EVER!!!! I’VE STARTED IT ALREADY AND IT’S SO CUTE!!!! YOU HAVE TO TRY TO GET THIS PUBLISHED!!!!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WROTE A WHOLE BOOK!!!!!!!! Tina
P.S. I have to talk to you about something. It’s nothing I can put in a text. It’s not a bad thing. But it’s something I thought of because of your book. CALL ME ASAP!!!!!
It was as I was reading this that my phone rang, and I saw it was J.P. I picked up, and before I could say anything, even “Hello,” he was all, “Wait…you wrote a romance novel?”
He was laughing. But not in a mean way. In an affectionate, I can’t believe it way.
Before I knew it, I was laughing, too.
“Yeah,” I said. “Remember my senior project?”
“The one about the history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650?” J.P. sounded incredulous. “Of course.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, actually, I sort of…lied about that.” Oh, dear God in heaven, I prayed. Don’t let him hate me for lying. “My senior project was really a historical romance novel. The one I just sent you. It’s medieval, set in 1291 England. Do you hate me?”
“Hate you?” J.P. laughed some more. “Of course I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. But a romance novel?” he said, again. “Like the kind Tina reads?”
“Yeah,” I said. Why did he sound like that? It wasn’t that strange. “Well, not exactly like the kind she likes to read. But sort of. See, Dr. K told me it was great that I helped Genovia become a constitutiona
l monarchy, and all, but that I should really do something for myself, not just for the people of Genovia. And since I love writing, I thought—and Dr. K agreed—maybe I should write a book, because I want to be an author, and all, and I was always writing in my journal anyway. And, well, I love romance novels…they’re so satisfying, and proven to be stress relievers—did you know many of the Domina Rei, leaders in the business and political world, read romance novels to relax? I did some research, and over twenty-five percent of all books sold are romances. So, I figured if I was going to write something that had a hope of being published, statistically, a romance had the best shot—”
Okay. I was babbling. I mean, did I really just tell him over twenty-five percent of all books sold were romances? No wonder he wasn’t saying anything.
“You wrote a romance novel?” he finally said. Again.
Weirdly, J.P. was turning out to be less upset about the fact that I’d lied to him than he was about the fact that I’d written a romance novel.
“Um, yeah,” I went on, trying not to focus too much on how stunned he sounded. “See, I did a whole lot of research on medieval times—you know, like when Princess Amelie lived? Then I wrote my book. And now I’m trying to get it published—”
“You’re trying to get it published?” J.P. echoed, his voice breaking a little on the word published.
“Yes,” I said, a little surprised by his surprise. What was up with that? Isn’t that what you did when you wrote a book? I mean, he’d written a play, and I was pretty sure he was trying to get it produced. Right? “Only not very successfully. No one seems to want it. Except vanity presses, of course, who want me to pay them. But that’s not unusual, I guess. I mean, J.K. Rowling’s first Harry Potter novel got rejected numerous times before she—”
“Do the publishers know the book is by you?” J.P. interrupted. “The princess of Genovia?”
“Well, no, of course not,” I said. “I’m using a pseudonym. If I said it was by me, they’d totally want to publish it. But then I wouldn’t know for sure if they really liked it and thought it was good and worth publishing, or if they just wanted to publish a book written by the princess of Genovia. Do you see the difference? I don’t even want to be published if it’s going to happen that way. I mean, I just want to see if I can do it—be a published author—without it happening because I’m a princess. I want it to happen because what I wrote is good—maybe not the best. But okay enough to be sold at Wal-Mart or wherever.”