by Meg Cabot
J.P. just sighed.
“Mia,” he said. “What are you doing?”
I blinked. “Doing? What do you mean?”
“I mean, why are you selling yourself short? Why are you writing commercial fiction?”
I had to admit, he completely lost me there. What was he talking about, “selling myself short”? And commercial fiction? What other kind of fiction was I supposed to write? Fiction based on real-life people? I’d tried that once…a long time ago. I wrote a short story based on real people—it was about J.P., as a matter of fact, before I had gotten to know him.
And I’d had the character based on him kill himself at the end by throwing himself under the F train!
Thank GOD I’d realized at the last minute—just before the story was about to be distributed to the entire school via Lilly’s literary magazine—that you just can’t do that. You can’t write stories based on real people and have them throwing themselves under the F train at the end.
Because you’ll just end up hurting their feelings if they happen to read it and recognize themselves in it.
And I don’t want to hurt anybody!
But I couldn’t tell J.P. that. He didn’t know about the short story I’d written about him. I’d kept that a secret this whole time we’d been going out.
So, in answer to his commercial-fiction question, I said, “Well. Because…it’s fun. And I like it.”
“But you’re so much better than that, Mia,” he said.
I have to admit, this kind of stung. It was like he was saying my book—which I’d spent almost two years working on, and which he hadn’t even read yet—wasn’t worth anything.
Wow. This was really not the reaction I’d hoped for from him.
“Maybe you should read it first,” I said, trying to keep the tears that had suddenly popped into my eyes—I don’t know from where, I’m really not usually that sensitive—from spilling over, “before you make judgments about it.”
J.P. sounded instantly contrite.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re right. Sorry. Listen…I have to get back to rehearsal. Can we talk more about this tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I said. “Call me.”
“I will,” he said. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” I said. And hung up.
The thing is, it’s going to be fine. I know it will. He’ll read Ransom My Heart, and he’ll love it. I know he will. Just like I’ll see A Prince Among Men on opening night next week, and I’ll love it. Everything’s going to be fine! That’s why we’re so well suited for each other. Because we’re both so creative. We’re artists.
I mean, J.P. will probably have a few editorial notes to make about Ransom My Heart. No book is perfect. But that’s okay, because that’s how creative couples are. Like Stephen and Tabitha King. I welcome his input! I’ll probably have a few notes on A Prince Among Men as well. We’ll go over his notes on my book together tomorrow, and—
OH MY GOD I’M MEETING MICHAEL FOR COFFEE TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!
How am I ever going to get to sleep NOW?????
Sunday, April 30, 3 a.m., the loft
Questions to ask Michael for the Atom:
1. What inspired you to invent the CardioArm?
2. What was it like to live in Japan for twenty-one months, assuming you were there this whole time and not actually back in this country before now and just not calling me, which would have been totally fine because we’re broken up anyway?
3. What did you miss most about America?
4. What did you like best about Japan?
(I can’t ask him this! What if he says Micromini Midori? I won’t be able to bear it! Plus, I can’t put that answer in a school paper! Oh…maybe I should just ask it anyway…he could say something like sushi…)
4. What did you like best about Japan? (PLEASE DON’T LET HIM SAY MICROMINI MIDORI!!!!)
5. How long is the wait list for one of Pavlov Surgical’s CardioArms?
I can’t ask this either! Because it sounds like I’m asking to see how long it would take Genovia to get one, and that I’m hinting that I want one….
5. Hypothetically, if a very small country were to request a CardioArm for one of their hospitals (and were willing to pay cash for it, of course), what type of procedure would they follow? Does Pavlov Surgical accept checks or could a country pay with a black American Express card and if so could I possibly pay for it now?
6. If you could be any animal what would it be and why? (God, this is the stupidest question, but it seems like everyone who ever interviews me asks this, so I guess I’d better ask it, too.)
7. How long do you plan on staying in New York? Is this a permanent move or do you think you’ll go back to Japan? Or do you see yourself moving, perhaps, to Silicon Valley in California, which is where all the young computer titans, such as the founders of Google and Facebook, seem to live these days?
8. As an AEHS grad, what is your best memory of your time at our school? (Nondenominational Winter Dance. Please say Nondenominational Winter Dance your senior year.)
9. Do you have any words of inspiration for this year’s AEHS graduating class?
AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH THESE ARE SO LAME!!!!!!
Sunday, April 30, noon, the loft
Okay, I still haven’t thought of any better questions for Michael, but those were the best I could come up with after what happened with J.P. being all You wrote a romance? Not to mention the nine hundred text messages I’ve received from Tina telling me we have to talk “in person.” I have no idea what could be so important that we can’t discuss it over the phone.
But Tina is totally convinced that René might have hackers secretly taping my cell phone transmissions (just like Prince Charles and Camilla and the “tampon” incident), so for the moment, she won’t say or text anything too inflammatory to me via cellular transmission.
Which makes me think whatever it is that’s on her mind, I probably don’t want to hear it.
Possibly the reason that I can’t come up with any better questions for Michael might have something to do with the fact that I woke up this morning to Rocky banging on my face with his fist, yelling, “Soopwise!”
I was “soopwised” all right. Surprised he was in my room, since he isn’t supposed to be allowed in it—and he isn’t supposed to be able to get in it with the special slippy thing I put over the doorknob that only adults know how to work.
Only it turned out an adult had opened the door for him. An adult who was peering down at me with a big happy grin on her face.
“Well, hey there, Mia! How you doin’?”
Oh my God. It was Mamaw. With Papaw right next to her. In my room. My BEDROOM.
That’s it. I’m moving out of this place. Just as soon as I can figure out where I’m going to go to college. Which I have a little less than a week to decide.
“Happy birthday, in advance!” Mamaw yelled. “Look atchoo, lying in bed at ten o’clock! Who do you think you are, anyway? Some kinda princess?”
This caused Mamaw and Papaw to explode with laughter. At their own joke. It caused me to pull the covers up over my head and yell, “MO-O-OOOM!!!”
“Mother.” I could hear Mom show up. “Please. I’m sure Mia’s very excited to see you, but let’s give her a chance to get up and greet you properly. You’ll have plenty of time to visit each other.”
“I don’t see when,” Mamaw said. I could tell by her voice that she was scowling. “Y’all have us visitin’ so many museums and tours and whatnot.”
“Well, I’m sure Mia will be more than happy to go on some of those tours with you,” I heard Mom say.
It was at that point I flipped the covers down and glared at her. Mom just glared right back.
So, apparently, I’m taking Mamaw and Papaw to the Central Park Zoo later today.
I understand that it’s the least I can do in my capacity as their only granddaughter. Still. It’s not like I don’t exactly have other things to do.
One of
them being get ready for my coffee date, I mean interview, with Michael. Which I need to continue doing right now. Even though it’s hard because my hands are trembling so much I can barely hold my eye pencil to outline my lids.
And I really wish Lana would quit texting me to tell me what to wear because that’s not helping, either.
Although I refuse to take her advice, and I’m going with something casual. Just my 7 For All Mankind jeans, the Christian Louboutin boots, my off-the-shoulder Sweet Robin Alexandra top, all my bangles, my Subversive lava bead cameo choker, and my chandelier earrings. That’s not too much at all! I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to get him to like me in a sexy way. We’re just friends now.
I’m going to brush my teeth one more time, though, just to be safe.
Mr. G and Rocky are putting on a drum recital for Mamaw and Papaw.
Please, let me get out of here without developing a cluster headache.
Sunday, April 30, 12:55 p.m., Caffe Dante,
MacDougal Street
My hands are sweating so much. This kind of weakness is insufferable, especially in a member of the House of Renaldo. We’re all feminists. Even Dad. He has the endorsement of NOWG, National Organization of the Women of Genovia, after all. Even Grandmère is a member.
Speaking of Grandmère, she’s e-mailed me, like, FOUR times today about the party and/or Dad’s election. I’ve deleted each one. I don’t have time to read her insane messages! And why can’t she learn to e-mail properly? I realize she’s four hundred years old, and I have to respect my elders (even though if you ask me, she is in no way deserving of my respect). But still, she could let go of the R button once she’s pressed it the first time.
Where IS Michael? Lars and I are here. And I realize we’re five minutes early. (I wanted to get rid of the paparazzi if I had to, but there’s none here, strangely. I also wanted to have the first choice of seat so I could make sure I got the best lighting. Lana assures me this is vitally important in boy/girl meetings, even of the Friends Only variety. Also, I wanted to snag a table close by for my bodyguard, yet far enough away that he wasn’t breathing down our necks, no offense, of course, Lars, if you’re reading this over my shoulder, which, don’t lie, I know you do when the battery on your Treo runs down.) So where is—
Oh, God. There he is. He’s looking around for us.
He looks SO good. Even better than yesterday, because today he’s wearing jeans and they’re fitting him SO PERFECTLY in all the right places.
Wow. I’m turning into Lana.
And he’s also wearing a totally nice black short-sleeved Polo shirt and I’m just going to come right out and say that everything we suspected lay under the sleeves of his suit jacket yesterday REALLY DOES. As in, muscles. Not hideous bulked up steroidy ones, either.
But Lana was not far off in her Christian Bale Batman assessment.
And I know I have a boyfriend. I am merely observing this in my capacity as an investigative journalist.
!!!!!
He’s seen me!!!!! He’s coming!!!!!
I’m dying now, good-bye.
Interview with Michael Moscovitz for the Atom, as recorded by Mia Thermopolis on Sunday, April 30, via iPhone (to be transcribed later)
Mia: So, it’s okay if I record this?
Michael (laughing): I said it was.
Me: I know, but I need to record you saying it. I know it’s stupid.
Michael (still laughing): It’s not stupid. It’s just kind of weird. I mean, to be sitting here being interviewed by you. First of all, it’s you. Second of all…well, you were always the celebrity.
Mia: Well, now it’s your turn. And thanks again, so much, for doing this. I know how busy you must be, and I want you to know I really appreciate you taking the time out to meet with me.
Michael: Mia…of course.
Mia: Okay, so first question: What inspired you to invent the CardioArm?
Michael: Well, I saw a need in the medical community and felt I had the technical knowledge to fill it. There’ve been other attempts in the past to create similar products, but mine is the first to incorporate advanced imaging technology. Which I can explain to you if you want, but I don’t think you’re going to have room for it in your article, if I remember how long the stories are in the Atom.
Mia (laughing): Uh, no, that’s okay—
Michael: And, of course, you.
Mia: What?
Michael: You asked what my inspiration was for inventing the CardioArm. Part of it was you. You remember, I told you before I left for Japan, I wanted to do something to show the world I was worthy of dating a princess. I know it sounds dumb now, but…that was a big part of it. Back then.
Mia: R-right. Back then.
Michael: You don’t have to put that in the article if it embarrasses you, though. I can’t imagine you’d want your boyfriend reading that.
Mia: J.P.? No…no, he’d be fine with that. Are you kidding? I mean, he knows about all that. We tell each other everything.
Michael: Right. So he knows you’re here with me?
Mia: Um. Of course! So where was I? Oh, right. What was it like to live in Japan for so long?
Michael: Great! Japan’s great. Highly recommend it.
Mia: Really? So are you planning on…Oh, wait, that question’s later…Sorry, my grandmother woke me up really early this morning and I’m all disorganized.
Michael: How is the Dowager Princess Clarisse?
Mia: Oh, not her. The other one. Mamaw. She’s in town for my birthday party.
Michael: Oh, right. I wanted to thank you for the invitations to your party.
Mia:…the invitations to my party?
Michael: Right. Mine arrived this morning. And my mom said hers and Dad’s and Lilly’s came last night. That was really nice of you, to let bygones be bygones with Lilly. I know she and Kenny are planning on going tomorrow night. My parents, too. I’m going to try to make it, as well.
Mia (under breath): Grandmère!
Michael: What was that?
Mia: Nothing. Okay…so what did you miss most about America while you were gone?
Michael: Uh…you?
Mia: Oh, ha ha. Be serious.
Michael: Sorry. Okay. My dog.
Mia: What did you like best about Japan?
Michael: Probably the people. I met a lot of really great people there. I’m going to miss some of them—the ones I haven’t brought over here with the rest of my team—a lot.
Mia: Oh. Really? I mean…so you’re moving permanently back to America now?
Michael: Yeah, I have a place here in Manhattan. Pavlov Surgical will have its corporate offices here, though the bulk of the manufacturing will be done out of Palo Alto in California.
Mia: Oh. So—
Michael: Can I ask you a question now?
Mia: Um…sure.
Michael: When am I going to get to read your senior project?
Mia: See, I knew you were going to ask me that—
Michael: So, if you knew, where is it?
Mia: I have to tell you something.
Michael: Uh-oh. I know that look.
Mia: Yeah. My project’s not about the history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650.
Michael: It’s not?
Mia: No. It’s actually a four-hundred-page medieval historical romance novel.
Michael: Sweet. Hand it over.
Mia: Seriously. Michael—you’re just being nice. You don’t have to read it.
Michael: Have to? If you don’t think I want to read it now, you’re high. Have you been smoking some of Clarisse’s Gitanes? Because I’m pretty sure I got high once on the secondhand smoke from those.
Mia: She had to quit smoking. Look, if I e-mail you a copy, will you just promise to not start reading it until I’ve left? Michael: What, now? You mean this minute? To my phone? I completely and totally swear.
Mia: Okay. Fine. Here it is.
Michael: Outstanding. Wait. Who’s Daphne Delacroix?
Mia: You said you wouldn’t read it!
Michael: Oh my God, you should see your face. It’s the same color red as my Converse.
Mia: Thanks for pointing that out. Actually, I changed my mind. I don’t want you to have a copy anymore. Give me your phone, I’m deleting it.
Michael: What? No way. I’m reading this thing tonight. Hey—cut it out! Lars, help, she’s attacking me!
Lars: I’m only supposed to intervene if someone is attacking her, not if the princess is attacking someone else.
Mia: Give it to me!
Michael: No—
Waiter: Is there a problem here?
Michael: No.
Mia: No.
Lars: No. Please excuse them. Too much caffeine.
Mia: Sorry, Michael. I’ll pay for dry cleaning….
Michael: Don’t be stupid…are you still recording this?
End recording.
Sunday, April 30, 2:30 p.m., a bench in
Washington Square Park
Yeah, so, that didn’t work out so well.
And it got even worse when I was saying good-bye to Michael—after I’d tried, then failed, to wrestle his iPhone away from him so I could delete that copy of my book I’d so stupidly sent him—and we got up to leave, and I stuck out my hand to shake his hand good-bye, and he looked at it and said, “I think we can do a little better than that, can’t we?”
And held out his arms to give me a hug—an obviously friendly hug, I mean, it was nothing more than that.
And I laughed and said, “Of course.”
And I hugged him back.
And I accidentally smelled him.
And it all came rushing back. How safe and warm I’d always felt in his arms, and how every time he’d held me like that, I’d never wanted him to let go. I didn’t want him to let go of me there, right in the middle of Caffe Dante, where I was just interviewing him for the Atom, not on a date or anything. It was so stupid. It was so awful. I mean, I had to practically force myself to let go of him, to stop breathing in his Michael-y smell, which I hadn’t smelled in so long.