by Meg Cabot
But I could tell that even though her eyes were all wide and innocent, she was lying. I mean, I don’t know how I could tell, exactly.
Okay, maybe she wasn’t lying. Maybe I was just projecting (which is a term we learned in Psych for when you attribute your own unwanted thoughts to someone else as a defense mechanism). Maybe I was still wound up from what had happened the night before, with Michael leaving the party, and all.
But in any case, I went, “There is too a problem. You think I’m doing the wrong thing, saying yes to J.P. when I still have feelings for Michael.” (Yeah, I know. Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I was like, What are you saying? Shut up, Mia. But I couldn’t shut myself up. I just kept talking. It was like a nightmare.)
“Well,” I went on, “I’ll have you know that I don’t. Have feelings for Michael anymore. I’ve moved on from Michael. Well and truly moved on. Last night when he walked out the way he did was the last straw. And I’ve decided that after the prom, J.P. and I are going to Do It. Yes. We are.” Honestly, I have no idea where this was coming from. I think I just thought of it at that very moment. “I’m tired of being the last virgin girl in our senior class. No way am I going to start college with my innocence still intact. Even though I probably lost it a long time ago on a bike or whatever.”
Tina was still doing the big-eyed, I don’t know what you’re talking about act.
“Okay, Mia,” she said. “Whatever you say. You know I support you whatever you decide.”
ARGH! She is so frustratingly NICE sometimes!
“In fact,” I said, whipping out my iPhone. “I’m going to text J.P. right now. Yes! Right now! And tell him to get a hotel room for after the prom!”
Tina’s eyes were HUGE now. She went, “Mia. Are you really sure you want to do this? You know, there’s really nothing wrong with being a virgin. Lots of people our age—”
“Too late!” I yelled.
I swear I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was because a few minutes before, J.P.’s ring had gotten snagged on Stacey Cheeseman’s eyelet ponytail holder as she walked down the hall. Maybe it was all the PRESSURE that was on me…finals, Dad’s election, everyone telling me I had to choose a college by the end of the week, the thing with Michael, Lilly being so nice to me all of a sudden…I don’t know. Maybe it was just everything.
Anyway, I texted, MAKE SURE WE R GETTING A HOTEL RM 4 AFTR PROM to J.P.
It was right after that that a toilet flushed. And a stall door opened.
And Lilly walked out.
I nearly had a synaptic breakdown right there in the girls’ bathroom. I just stood there staring at her, realizing she’d overheard everything I’d said—about finally being over Michael, and about being a virgin….
…and that I was texting J.P. to get a hotel room for after the prom.
Lilly looked right back at me. She didn’t utter a word. (Neither, needless to say, did I. I couldn’t think of a word to say. Later, of course, I thought of a million things I should have said. Like that Tina and I had just been rehearsing a scene from a play or something.)
Then Lilly turned around, walked over to the sinks, rinsed her hands, dried, tossed her paper towel, and left the room.
All in complete and utter silence.
I looked at Tina, who stared back at me with her huge, troubled eyes…eyes, I realized now, that had never been anything but filled with concern for me.
“Don’t worry, Mia” were the first words from Tina’s lips. “She won’t tell Michael. She wouldn’t. I know she wouldn’t.”
I nodded. Tina knew no such thing. She was just being nice. The way Tina always is.
“You’re right,” I said. Even though she wasn’t. “And even if she does…he doesn’t care anymore. I mean, obviously he doesn’t care anymore, or he wouldn’t have walked out last night like he did.”
This, at least, was true.
Tina bit her lip.
“Of course,” she said. “You’re right. Only, Mia…don’t you think—”
Only I never found out what it was Tina wanted to know that I thought, because my cell phone buzzed. And there was a text message back from J.P.
And it said:
HOTEL ROOM ALREADY SECURED. ALL SYSTEMS GO. LUV U.
So. Great!
That’s taken care of. Yay! I’m about to become devirginized.
Go me.
Tuesday, May 2, 6 p.m., the loft
Daphne Delacroix
1005 Thompson Street, Apt. 4A
New York, NY 10003
Dear Ms. Delacroix,
We regret that we are unable to publish the enclosed material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read it.
Sincerely,
The Editors
And…the hits just keep coming.
I walked into the loft and found (besides this letter) Mom with every college-acceptance packet I’ve ever received spread out on the floor and Rocky sitting in the middle of it all like the stamen of a flower (if the stamen of a flower ever drank from a Dora the Explorer sippy cup). Mom looked at me and went, “We’re picking a college for you. Tonight.”
“Mom,” I said crankily. “If this is about J.P. and the ring thing—”
“This is about you,” Mom said. “And your future.”
“I’m going to college, all right? I said I’d choose one by the election. I’ve got till then. I can’t handle this right now, I’ve got a Trig final tomorrow I have to study for now.”
Also, I’m going to be devirginized after the prom on Saturday. Only I didn’t mention this part to her. Obviously.
“I want to discuss this now,” Mom said. “I want you to make an informed choice, not just pick any old place because your father is pressuring you.”
“And I don’t want to go to some Ivy League college,” I said, “that I didn’t deserve to get into and that just let me in because I’m a princess.” I was fully stalling for time, because all I wanted to do was go into my room and try to digest the whole losing-my-virginity-on-Saturday thing. And the fact that Lilly Moscovitz, my ex-best friend, knew about it. Was she going to tell her brother?
No. She wouldn’t. She didn’t care about me anymore. So why would she?
Except to totally and completely annihilate me in his eyes even further than I have been already by my own idiotic behavior.
“Then don’t go to some Ivy League college,” Mom said. “Go to some college you might have had a shot at getting into without the princess thing. Let me help you pick a place. Please, Mia, for the love of God. Don’t tell me your future degree is an MRS.”
“What’s that?” I asked her.
“Mrs. Reynolds-Abernathy IV,” she said.
“It’s a PROMISE ring,” I yelled at her. God! Why doesn’t anyone listen to me? And why, when I’d been getting my feet done with all those girls who’d had sex, hadn’t I asked them more questions about it? I know I wrote about it in my romance novel. I’ve certainly READ about it quite a bit.
But that’s not the same as actually doing it, you know?
“Good,” Mom said, about the promise ring thing. “Then PROMISE me you’ll let me help narrow it down a little so I can tell your father I’m on this. He’s called me twice about this today. And he only just got back to Genovia a few hours ago. And I’m slightly worried about it myself, you know.”
I made a face at her. Then I went around the room and picked up the acceptance packets to the schools I thought I could bear spending four years attending. I tried to pay special attention to the ones that didn’t count SAT scores (I looked them up on the computer, per Michael’s suggestion…even though I didn’t do it for HIM. I just did it because…well, it was good advice), and that might possibly have let me in despite the whole princess thing.
It was probably the most mature thing I did all day. Besides organize my thank-you notes for all my birthday gifts. I didn’t exactly come to a final decision about where I want to go, but I narrowed it down quite a bit so that pos
sibly, maybe by election day slash prom, I might be able to tell them I’d decided on someplace.
I think. Sort of.
I was in the middle of getting my Trig notes ready when I got an IM from J.P.
JPRA4: Hey! How’d it go today? With finals, I mean.
FTLOUIE: Good, I think. I just had World History and English Lit, so nothing too stressful. It’s tomorrow I’m worried about. Trig! You?
It seemed so weird that we were IM’ing about finals when in less than a week we’re going to be…you know.
And we’ve never even been undressed in the same room together before.
JPRA4: Okay. I’m worried about tomorrow, too…tomorrow night.
FTLOUIE: Oh, right, your big performance in front of the senior project committee! Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s going to go great. I can’t wait to see it!
How can he even care about his stupid senior project when we’re going to have sex? What’s wrong with boys?
JPRA4: It’ll go great as long as you’ll be there.
WHAT IS HE EVEN TALKING ABOUT???? IS HE INSANE?????? SEX!!!! WE’RE GOING TO HAVE SEX!!!! WHY CAN’T WE TALK ABOUT IT?????
At least Michael would talk about it.
FTLOUIE: You know I wouldn’t miss it! And it’ll be awesome.
JPRA4: You’re the awesome one.
We went on like that for a while, each one saying who was the more awesome, but neither of us saying what we really NEEDED to say (or at least what I felt like we needed to say), until I got an IM from Tina interrupting us.
ILUVROMANCE: Mia, I know you said not to talk about this anymore, but this isn’t talking about it. It’s IMing about it. I really don’t think Michael left the party last night because he doesn’t care about you. I think he left because he DOES care about you and he couldn’t stand to see you with another. I know you don’t want to hear that, but that’s what I think.
I do love Tina. So, so much.
But sometimes I want to strangle her.
ILUVROMANCE: I mean, I was just wondering if you’ve really considered all the implications of what you’re about to do with J.P. on prom night. Take it from someone who’s been there. I know Lana and Trisha might make it sound like it’s nothing, but sex is a deeply emotional experience your first time, Mia—or it should be. This is a really big step and you shouldn’t take it with just anyone.
FTLOUIE: Like with my boyfriend of almost two years whom I love to distraction, you mean?
ILUVROMANCE: Okay, I see what you’re saying, and you guys have been going out for a long time. But what if you’re making a mistake? What if J.P. isn’t the One?
FTLOUIE: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? Of course J.P. is the One. BECAUSE HE HASN’T BROKEN UP WITH ME. LIKE MICHAEL DID. REMEMBER?
ILUVROMANCE: Yes, but that was a long time ago. And now Michael’s back. And I was just thinking…maybe you shouldn’t make any hasty decisions. Because what if Lilly tells Michael what she heard in the bathroom today?
I knew Tina was lying today.
FTLOUIE: YOU SAID SHE WOULDN’T.
ILUVROMANCE: Well, she probably won’t. But…what if she does?
FTLOUIE: Because Michael doesn’t care, Tina. I mean, he broke up with me. He left the party last night. What would he care if I’m going around saying I’m still a virgin but I’m going to sleep with my boyfriend after the prom and that I only just got over still liking him? If he cared, he’d do something about it, right? I mean, Michael has my phone number, right?
ILUVROMANCE: Right.
FTLOUIE: And the phone’s not ringing, is it? ILUVROMANCE: I guess not.
FTLOUIE: No. It isn’t. So. No offense, Tina. I love romance, too, but in this particular case, it’s OVER. MICHAEL DOESN’T CARE ABOUT ME ANYMORE. As his behavior at my party clearly illustrates.
ILUVROMANCE: Well. Okay. If you say so.
FTLOUIE: I do. I do say so. Case closed.
That’s when I told both Tina and J.P. that I really had to go. I had to log off, or I thought my head was going to spin out into the courtyard of our building and go whizzing off into space to be with all the space satellites that keep hurtling down to rain upon us.
That’s not what I told them, of course. I said if I don’t study, I won’t pass Trig. Truthfully, if I don’t pass Trig, then maybe one of these colleges that let me in based on my actual grades and essays and extracurriculars and all really won’t let me in.
J.P. IMed me a million good-bye kisses. I sent them back in return. Tina just IMed “Bye.” But I could tell there were ten thousand more things she wanted to say. Like about how J.P. wasn’t my One, undoubtedly.
Nice of her to mention that NOW. Not that there’s anything I can do about it.
I suppose she thinks my One is Michael. Why does my best friend have to think my One is a guy who is categorically uninterested in me?
Tuesday, May 2, 8 p.m., the loft
Crud. There is stuff all over the gossip websites about my “engagement” to J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV.
It’s all tied in with how Dad is still losing in the Genovian election polls…and how maybe flying to the U.S. for a day for his daughter’s eighteenth birthday party wasn’t the best idea, seeing as how he really can’t afford to be spending the time away from the campaign.
On the other hand, a lot of the articles say maybe if he did spend more time with his daughter, she wouldn’t be getting herself engaged at such a young age.
I’m like the Jamie Lynn Spears of the Renaldo family! Minus the pregnancy!
I’m going to crawl under the covers and never come out.
It’s a PROMISE RING! Who told them it was an engagement ring anyway?
Seriously, when is it all just going to go away?
Oh, that’s right: Never.
Tuesday, May 2, 9 p.m., the loft
Grandmère just called. She wanted to know if I had a dress for the prom yet.
“Um,” I said, suddenly remembering that, in fact, I didn’t. “No?”
“I figured as much,” Grandmère said, with a sigh. “I’ll put Sebastiano on it, since he’s here in town.”
Then she said if I’d just given J.P. the speech she’d made me memorize so long ago, none of the gossip stuff would be happening. I guess they’d said something about it on Entertainment Tonight. Grandmère never misses an episode, since she’s obsessed with Mary Hart’s posture, which she says is perfect, and I should emulate. (I would, but I’d have to jam a broomstick up my butt.)
“On the other hand,” she went on, “if you had to get yourself engaged to anyone, Amelia, at least you picked someone with breeding and his own fortune. It could be worse. I suppose,” she added, with a cackle, “it could have been That Boy.”
By That Boy, Grandmère meant Michael. And I don’t frankly see what’s so funny about that.
“I’m not engaged,” I told her. “It’s a promise ring.”
“What in God’s name,” Grandmère wanted to know, “is a promise ring? And what is this your father tells me about you having written a romance novel?”
I really was not in the mood to discuss Ransom My Heart with Grandmère. I still had about twenty chapters of Trig to review. Oh, and my devirginization to map out. I had to figure out what I was going to buy at CVS to keep a whole Juno scenario from breaking out. The next novel I write does not need to be titled Pregnant Princess.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” I snapped. “Since no one wants to publish it anyway.”
“Well, thank the Lord for that,” Grandmère said. “The last thing this family needs is some tawdry paperback novel writer—”
“It’s not tawdry,” I interrupted her, stung. “It’s a very humorous and moving romance about a young girl’s sexual awakening in the year twelve ninety-one—”
“Oh my God.” Grandmère sounded as if she’d swallowed the wrong way. “Please tell me if you do get published, you’ll be using a pen name.”
“Of course I am,” I said. How much can one person be expected
to take, anyway? “But even if I wasn’t, what’s wrong with it? Why does everyone have to be such a prude? You know, I’ve put up with doing what everybody else wants me to do for nearly four years now. It’s about time I got to do something I want to do—”
“Well, for the love of God,” Grandmère said, “why can’t you take up skiing, or something? Why does it have to be novel writing?”
“Because I like it,” I said. “And I can do it and still have time to be princess of Genovia, and not have paparazzi chase me around, and it isn’t bad for me, and why can’t you just be happy for me that I’ve found my calling?”
“Her calling!” I could tell Grandmère was rolling her eyes. “Her calling, no less. It can’t be your calling if no one will even buy the wretched thing from you, Amelia. Listen, if you want a calling, I’ll pay for you to have cliff-diving lessons. I hear it’s all the rage with the young people down in—”
“I don’t want cliff-diving lessons,” I said. “I’m going to write novels and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. And I’m going to go to college to learn to do it better. I just don’t know where yet. But I will by the prom and the election—”
“Well,” Grandmère said, sounding offended. “Someone didn’t get her beauty sleep!”
“Because I was at your party,” I said. Then I softened my tone, remembering what my dad had said about princesses being kind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It was very nice of you to have that party for me, and it was lovely to see Dad, and you and Vigo did an awfully nice job. I just meant—”
“I suppose,” Grandmère said stiffly, “I ought to be relieved I don’t have to have an engagement party for you. No one gives promise-ring parties…do they? But I imagine you’ll expect a book party someday.”
“If I get published,” I said, “it would be nice.”
Grandmère sighed gustily and hung up. I could tell she was going to go have a Sidecar, even though her physicians have expressly ordered her to cut back on them (and I saw her with one in her hand throughout the night last evening. Either her glass was magic and never emptied, or she had several).