by Meg Cabot
“Nonsense,” Grandmère said crisply. “You spoke in front of the Genovian parliament about the parking meters, remember? As if any of us could forget.”
“Yeah, but they were just old guys in wigs, not Lana Weinberger’s mom! I don’t know about this, Grandmère. I think maybe I should—”
“Of course, Lord only knows what we’ll do about your hair. I don’t suppose it will have grown in by then. Maybe Paolo can fashion some sort of extensions. I’ll phone him in the morning….”
“Seriously, Grandmère,” I said. “I think I—”
But it was too late. She’d already hung up, still muttering about hair extensions.
Great. This is all I need.
Saturday, September 11, 9 a.m., the loft
Inbox: 0
Which isn’t weird. I mean, he’s still got another three hours in the air. And then he has to go through customs.
So I just need to be patient. I just need to be calm. I just need to—
FTLOUIE: TINA!!!! ARE YOU THERE???? If you’re there, write back. I AM DYING!!!!
ILUVROMANCE: Hi, Mia! I’m here. Why are you dying?????
Oh, thank God. Thank God for Tina Hakim Baba.
FTLOUIE: Because while I know the bond Michael and I have is too strong to be torn asunder by a simple misunderstanding, and that he’s going to call when he gets to Japan and tell me he forgives me and everything is going to be all right—what if it isn’t? What if he doesn’t? Oh, God—my palms won’t stop sweating!!!!! And I think I might be having a heart attack….
ILUVROMANCE: Mia! It’s going to be all right! Of course Michael is going to forgive you! You guys will get back together, and everything is going to be just like it used to be. Better, even. Because couples who go through hard times together always come out stronger for it….
FTLOUIE: That’s right! And whatever, right? My ancestresses have faced far harsher adversity. Such as marauding invaders and abductions and being forced to drink wine out of their murdered fathers’ skulls and all of that. Michael and I will be fine!
ILUVROMANCE: Totally! So I take it you’re not going tonight, then?
FTLOUIE: Going to what?
ILUVROMANCE: To the victory party.
FTLOUIE: What victory party?
ILUVROMANCE: You know. Lilly and Perin’s victory party. For winning the student council election.
FTLOUIE: I wasn’t invited to any victory party.
ILUVROMANCE: You didn’t get the e-mail?
FTLOUIE: Noooooo….
ILUVROMANCE: Oh.
FTLOUIE: Oh, what?
ILUVROMANCE: I didn’t think she was serious.
FTLOUIE: Who? What are you talking about?
ILUVROMANCE: Lilly. She was saying she was never speaking to you again because you’re a backstabbing boyfriend-stealer. But I thought she was joking.
!!!!!!
FTLOUIE: WHAT???? HOW CAN SHE SAY THAT??? IT WAS ONLY A PECK!!! IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ON THE CHEEK!!! I ONLY GOT HIS LIPS BY MISTAKE!!!!
ILUVROMANCE: Right. But didn’t you go see Beauty and the Beast with J. P. last night?
FTLOUIE: Well, yes. But it was perfectly innocent. We just went as FRIENDS.
ILUVROMANCE: But didn’t you say in the past that your ideal man is one who can sit through an entire performance of Beauty and the Beast, the most romantic and beautiful story ever told, and not snicker in the wrong places?
FTLOUIE: Yes. But that was a long time ago. And I’ve realized since then that I was wrong. Now my ideal man is one who snickers.
ILUVROMANCE: Well, you’d better tell Lilly that.
FTLOUIE: Why? What’s she saying? Wait a minute—how does she even KNOW what J.P. and I did last night? How do YOU even know?
ILUVROMANCE: Oh…you haven’t seen it?
FTLOUIE: SEEN WHAT????
ILUVROMANCE: The giant photo of you and J.P. coming out of the theater that’s in the New York Post this morning, with the headline “Heartbroken Princess Finds New Love”?
HEARTBROKEN PRINCESS FINDS NEW LOVE
It looks like splitsville for New York’s own Princess Mia Thermopolis (of Genovia) and her longtime boyfriend, Columbia University student—and commoner—Michael Moscovitz.
Moscovitz is rumored to have accepted a yearlong appointment at a Japanese robotics firm in Tsukuba, where he’ll be working on a top secret project.
But her Royal Highness doesn’t appear to be pining for her onetime love—or wasting any time getting back into the dating scene. Her former beau has already been replaced by a mystery man who accompanied the young royal to a performance of the long-running Broadway show Beauty and the Beast Friday evening. Undisclosed sources say that the young man is none other than John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy IV, son of the wealthy theater promoter and producer John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy III.
A fellow theater patron who observed the young couple in their private box asserted, “They certainly seemed cozy up there,” while another stated, “They make a very attractive couple. They’re both so tall and blond.”
When asked for a statement, a Genovian palace spokesman has said, “We do not comment on the princess’s personal life.”
Saturday, September 11, 10 a.m., the loft
Well. At least now I know why I haven’t heard from Lilly.
Which is so messed up on so many levels. I mean, first of all, it was only a peck.
And second of all, they were already broken up when the peck took place. And third of all, WE WENT TO THE SHOW AS FRIENDS. How could anyone in their right mind think I’m GOING OUT with J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth?
I mean, sure, he’s funny and cute and a nice guy and all. Don’t get me wrong.
But my heart belongs to Michael Moscovitz, and always will!
None of this makes any sense. Lilly is supposed to be my best friend. How can she believe something so horrible of me?
And it’s true, I was pretty awful to her brother this week. But that was only because I (stupidly) didn’t realize what a great thing we had, until I went and lost it.
But I APOLOGIZED to him. It’s only a matter of time (two hours) until he gets my e-mail and calls me (please, God) and we patch things up and he sends me back my snowflake necklace and we’re back together and everything’s fine again.
Unless he happens to check Google News and sees the giant article about me and J.P.
But why would he believe it? He never believed any of the lies the paparazzi was always reporting about me and James Franco. Why would he believe THIS one?
He wouldn’t. He can’t.
So what is Lilly’s problem?
Anyway. I am not going to freak out. It’s true that in the past, I would be hysterical over something like this. I’d be calling my dad and begging him to have our lawyers demand a retraction. I’d be trying to get to the bottom of who’d tipped the papers off—as if I didn’t know (Grandmère). I’d be frantically e-mailing Michael, hysterically explaining that none of it’s true.
But not now. I’m way too mature for all that. Also, I’m used to it.
And besides: I am way too freaked out as it is. How could I possibly freak out any more? I can barely hold on to my pen to write this, my hand is so drenched in sweat.
So…whatever. I’m going to allow Lilly a little cooling-off period. I’m sure when she’s having her party and everyone is there but me (I called Tina after I ran out and got the paper. I told her that of COURSE she has to go to Lilly’s party, even though she was going to boycott out of solidarity with me. But I actually need her to go so I can find out what Lilly is saying about me. I swear, if Lilly’s bad-mouthing me, I will call the Federal Communications Commission and report the fact that she used the S word on last week’s episode of Lilly Tells It Like It Is, while she was describing the current state of affairs in Iraq), she’ll start missing me and invite me over.
And then I’ll go and we’ll hug it out and it will all be fine.
I’ll just sit here and do my Precalculus homework
until then. Because God knows I didn’t pay much attention last week, so I have NO IDEA what’s going on in that class. Or any of my classes, really. The last thing I need, on top of everything else that’s going on, is to flunk out of high school.
And I think while I’m doing that, I’ll finish off the rest of the pork dumplings left over from Number One Noodle Son (this meat thing is unreal. Once you start eating it, you really can’t stop).
Because that’s how a mature person would handle the situation.
TWO HOURS TILL HE LANDS!!!!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Saturday, September 11, 10:15 a.m., the loft
So I just put my name in the Google News search engine to see how many stories there were about me, and what the likelihood of Michael seeing that piece about me and J.P. is and…
…there are 527 RSS articles about it.
And that’s not all.
I went to Google Blog Search to see if anyone was blogging about me, and there’s a new website up: www.ihatemiathermopolis.com.
There’s a list there of the top ten stupidest things about Mia Thermopolis. Number one is my hair.
Number ten is my name.
The stuff in between gets progressively worse.
I know I’m supposed to ignore my negative press. Grandmère told me if I react to it or acknowledge it in any way, I’m only feeding into it, and giving the haters MORE to write about.
But this. This is really…
Great. Just great. Like I don’t have ENOUGH to worry about.
Now somebody out there in the world hates me enough to point out for the whole world to read that with my new haircut, my ears resemble teapot handles.
Just what I need.
Saturday, September 11, 10:30 a.m., the loft
Dear Michael,
By now you’ve probably seen
Dear Michael,
Hi! I was just wondering if you’d seen
Dear Michael,
Whatever you do, don’t look at
Dear Founder of ihatemiathermopolis.com,
IF YOU HATE ME SO MUCH WHY DON’T YOU JUST TELL IT TO MY FACE, YOU COWARD????
Saturday, September 11, noon, the loft
Inbox: 0
My cell phone just rang. I was so certain it was Michael (his plane has landed by now) that I almost dropped it, my hands were so sweaty, plus shaking so badly (also they were so greasy from the chicken leg I found in the back of the fridge and was gnawing).
But it was only J.P. He wanted to know if I’d seen the paper.
“Yes, isn’t that funny?” I tried to sound all breezy. Which is hard to do with a leftover fried chicken leg in your mouth. “They think we’re in love. Ha ha.”
“Yeah,” J.P. said. “Ha ha.”
I’m lucky he’s such a good sport.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “It’s sort of a hazard of hanging out with me. I mean, that you’re going to end up in the paper.” I didn’t mention ihatemiathermopolis.com. I figured he’d find out soon enough about that.
“I don’t mind,” J.P. said, “being associated with a princess, the heir to a royal throne. And my parents are totally impressed. They think I’ve finally accomplished something.”
It was my turn to go, “Ha ha.” Although the truth is I was feeling kind of sick. Maybe on account of all the meat I’d consumed in the past hour and a half. Basically everything that was in the fridge. I seriously don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve gone from a vegetarian to practically a cannibal in less than a week.
Well, okay, not a cannibal. But whatever you call an excessive meat eater.
Except that I knew the truth. My sick feeling had nothing to do with all the meat I’d eaten, and everything to do with the fact that Michael’s plane had totally landed, and that he’d conceivably be checking his messages at any minute.
“Listen,” J.P. said. “I was wondering if you’d heard about Lilly’s party.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m not invited. Obviously.”
“I figured,” J.P. said with a sigh. “I was hoping she’d gotten over that by now.”
“Well, seeing our pictures plastered all over the news together isn’t going to help the situation any,” I said.
“No,” J.P. said. “Maybe if we give her the weekend…”
“Maybe.” I hope so. But I don’t really think the weekend is going to do it.
“Want to get together and have a party of our own tonight?” J.P. asked. “You know, show them how it’s done?”
“Oh my gosh, that is so sweet of you,” I said. “But I think I’d better stay here. Because Michael’s plane has landed, so he should be checking his e-mail soon. And I really want to be here when he calls.” If he calls.
But he has to call. Right??????
“Oh.” J.P. sounded kind of taken aback. “Well, wouldn’t it be better if you weren’t there when he calls? So he realizes how sought-after and popular you are?”
I laughed. J.P. really does have a twisted sense of humor.
“Funny! But I think there’s a good chance he’s going to realize that when he sees the paper. If that photo of us makes it to Japan. Besides, I really do need to work on my Precalculus if I’m going to pass.”
“Well, if you need help, I’ll be happy to come over,” J.P. offered. “I’m a whiz at the summation of infinitesimal differences.”
Isn’t he the sweetest? Imagine, offering to give up his Saturday to help me with Precalculus!
“Aw,” I said. “That’s so nice. But I’m good. I have an actual Algebra instructor living here, who I can turn to if I start pulling out my hair in despair. I mean, what’s left of my hair.”
“Well,” J.P. said. “Okay. But if you change your mind…”
“I’ll know who to call,” I said. I was kind of trying to hurry him off the phone. Because Michael could have been calling at that very moment. Not that my cell wouldn’t have told me. But. You know.
“Okay,” J.P. said. “Well, just remember. We make a ‘very attractive’ couple.”
“Because we’re both so tall and blond,” I said, laughing. J.P. laughed too, and then hung up.
When the Yellowstone caldera last erupted six hundred and forty thousand years ago, it released a thousand cubic kilometers of debris, basically covering half of North America in ash piles six feet deep.
This is totally what’s going to happen when J.P. finally finds his one true love.
I know this is totally selfish to say, but I just hope that when he finds his, I still have mine.
Saturday, September 11, 4 p.m., the loft
Inbox: 0
Phone messages: 0
I can’t believe this. He hasn’t e’d or called yet.
Mom just looked in here and went, “Mia? Aren’t you going out tonight?”
I guess she could tell by the fact that I’m wearing my Hello Kitty flannel pajamas that I’m in for the night.
“Nah,” I said, managing to sound more carefree than I really feel. WHY HASN’T HE CALLED? “I’m just going to hang here and catch up with my Precalculus homework.”
“Precalculus homework?” Mom actually reached out and felt my forehead. “You don’t feel feverish….”
“Ha ha.” Everyone around me is turning into such a comedian lately. I totally put my hands behind my back so she couldn’t see how sweaty they were.
“Mia,” Mom said, putting on her maternal face. “You can’t sit around in this apartment pining for Michael forever.”
“I know that,” I said, looking shocked. “God, Mom! Do you think I’d do that? I’m a feminist, you know. I don’t need a man to make me happy.” It’s just, you know, when that particular one is around, and I smell his neck, my oxytocin levels rise, and I feel calmer and more relaxed than I do when I’m
alone. Or with anyone else.
“Well.” Mom seemed skeptical. She knows about the oxytocin thing. “I don’t know. You’re not staying in now because of that silly news article, then, are you?”
“You mean the one accusing me of dating my best friend’s ex-boyfriend when my own boyfriend and I have barely been broken up a week?” I asked lightly. “Gee, no, why on earth would I let that bother me?”
“Mia.” Mom’s lips started getting thin, a sure sign she was unhappy with me. “You can’t let the fact that Michael is moving on with his life keep you from moving on with yours. Of course it’s important to mourn the loss, but—”
“WHAT LOSS? MAYBE MICHAEL HASN’T GOTTEN MY APOLOGY E-MAIL YET. FOR ALL WE KNOW, HE COULD BE OPENING HIS E-MAIL RIGHT NOW AND SEEING THAT I APOLOGIZED AND BE GETTING READY TO CALL TO TAKE ME BACK. ANY SECOND NOW.”
“Stop yelling,” Mom said. “Are you really feeling all right? You look a little peaked. Have you eaten anything today?”
“Um.” I wasn’t sure how to break it to her that I’d polished off all the lunch meat and the Canadian bacon she’d been saving for breakfast. There wasn’t a piece of meat left in the loft. Or any ice cream, either. And I’d also finished all the Girl Scout cookies. “Yes.”
“Well, if you’re sure you’re feeling all right and you’re going to stay here anyway,” Mom said, “Frank and I might head on over to the Angelika to see that new grunge rockumentary. Would you mind watching Rocky while we’re gone?”
“Sure,” I said. In lieu of smelling Michael’s neck, I figured I could use a few hours of Rocky’s favorite game, which involves pointing at various pieces in his Tonka collection and shouting “Tuck!” which means truck in Rocky-speak. It might relax me.
So now I’m here babysitting my brother.
If only the photographers from the New York Post could see me now. The glamorous life of America’s favorite princess: sitting on the living room floor with her baby brother, playing “Tuck” in her flannel Hello Kitty pajamas…