by Meg Cabot
“Then I think you have your answer,” Dr. K said.
“But I’d much rather spend my whole day in bed,” I said quickly. “Reading,” I added. “OR WATCHING TV.”
“Back on the ranch,” Dr. Knutz said, in his good-old-boy drawl, “we’ve got a mare named Dusty.”
I think my mouth actually fell open. Dusty? After all that, he was telling me a story about a mare named Dusty? What kind of weird psychological technique was this?
“Whenever it’s a hot summer day and Dusty passes a certain pretty little pond on my property,” Dr. Knutz went on, “she wades off into the middle of it. It doesn’t matter if she’s saddled up and has a rider on her. Dusty doesn’t care. She’s got to get into that water. Want to know why?”
I was so shocked by the fact that a trained psychologist would tell me a story about a HORSE in a professional setting that I just nodded dumbly.
“Because,” Dr. Knutz said, “she’s hot. And she wants to cool off. She’d rather spend the day in that pond than carry somebody around on her back. But we don’t always get to do what we want to do. Because it’s not necessarily healthy or practical. Besides, saddles are ruined when they get wet.”
I stared at him.
And this guy was supposed to be the nation’s preeminent adolescent and child psychologist?
“I want to go back to something you said yesterday,” Dr. Knutz said, without waiting for me to respond to the Dusty story, thank God. “You said, and I quote—” And he DID quote. He actually read from his notes. “Maybe it’s a little more complicated than a normal teenager’s breakup, because I’m a princess, and Michael is a genius, and he thinks he has to go off to Japan to build a robotic surgical arm in order to prove to my family that he’s worthy of me, when the truth is, I’m not worthy of him, and I suppose because deep down inside, I know that I completely sabotaged our relationship.”
He looked up from his notes. “What did you mean by that?”
“I meant…” This was all going too fast for me. I’d barely gotten over being shocked by the Dusty story, and still hadn’t been able to figure out what it had to do with me going bra shopping with Lana Weinberger tomorrow. “…that I guess I figured he was going to dump me for a smarter, more accomplished girl anyway. So I beat him to the punch by dumping him first. Even though I regretted it later. The whole Judith Gershner thing…I mean, the reason it upset me so much is because I know deep down inside that’s who he should really be with. Someone who can clone fruit flies. Not someone like…like m-me, who’s j-just a p-princess.”
And before I knew it, I was crying again. Man! What was it about this guy’s office that made me weep like a baby?
Dr. Knutz passed me the tissues. Not in an unkind way, either.
“Did he ever do or say anything to make you think this?” he wanted to know.
“N-no,” I sobbed.
“Then why do you think you feel that way?”
“B-because it’s true! I mean, being a princess is no big accomplishment! I was just BORN this way! I didn’t EARN it, the way Michael is going to earn fame and fortune from his robotic surgical arm. I mean, anyone can be BORN!”
“I think,” Dr. Knutz said a little dryly, “you’re being a bit hard on yourself. You’re only sixteen. Very few sixteen-year-olds actually—”
“JUDITH GERSHNER HAD ALREADY CLONED HER FIRST FRUIT FLY BY THE TIME SHE WAS SIXTEEN!” I shouted.
Then I felt ashamed of myself. I mean, for shouting. But I couldn’t help it.
“And look at Lilly,” I went on. “She’s sixteen, and she has her own TV show. And sure, it’s on public access, but whatever, it’s been optioned. And she has thousands of loyal viewers. And she made that show all by herself. No one even helped her. Well, except for me and Shameeka and Ling Su and Tina. But we just helped with the camera work, really. So saying I’m only sixteen—that doesn’t mean anything. There are lots of sixteen-year-olds who have accomplished loads more than me. I can’t even get published in Sixteen magazine.”
“Supposing I take your word for it,” Dr. Knutz said. “If you really feel that way—that you aren’t worthy of Michael—hadn’t you better do something about it?”
Truly. He said that. He didn’t say, Gosh, Mia, how can you say you’re not worthy of Michael? Of course you’re worthy! You’re a fabulous human being, so giving and full of life.
Which is basically what everyone else has been saying to me whenever I have brought up this subject.
No, he was like, Yeah, you’re right. You do kind of suck. Now what are you going to do about it?
I was so shocked I stopped crying and just sat there staring at him with my mouth hanging open.
“Aren’t you…aren’t you supposed to say that I’m great just the way I am?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “What would be the point? You wouldn’t believe it, anyway.”
“Well, aren’t you at least supposed to say I should want to improve my worth for myself? As opposed to for some boy?”
“I assumed that was a given,” Dr. K said.
“Well,” I said. I was still kind of trying to get over my shock. “I mean, it’s true. I do have to do something to prove I’m more than just a princess. Only…what? What can I do?”
Dr. Knutz shrugged. “How should I know? I still have to watch the movies of your life in order to get to know you as well as you claim they’ll make me. But I’ll tell you one thing I do know: You’re not going to find out by lying around in bed, not going to school…or by continuing to hold grudges against people simply because they’ve said some unpleasant things to you in the past.”
Unpleasant? Wait till he gets a load of ihatemiathermopolis.com. Not that I’ve told him the URL. Or that Lana’s behind it.
But still. He doesn’t know from unpleasant.
So. My assignment?
Go shopping with Lana.
Figure out what I was put on this planet for (besides being a princess).
Come back and see Dr. Knutz next Friday after school.
I think I can handle the last one. The first two, though? Might actually kill me.
Friday, September 17, 7 p.m., the loft
Inbox: 0
Not that I actually expected to hear from either Michael OR Lilly. Especially not after I deleted Michael’s e-mail without even replying to it, and seeing the way Lilly ignored me in G and T.
Still. I had kind of hoped…I mean, this is the longest she’s not spoken to me. Ever.
I just can’t believe it’s basically over between us.
And because of a BOY.
Tina just IMed me, though. At least I still have Tina.
ILUVROMANCE: Mia! How ARE you? I barely got to talk to you at school today. Are you feeling better?
FTLOUIE: Yes, thanks!
Whatever. I lie all the time anyway.
ILUVROMANCE: I’m so glad! You looked so sad at school.
FTLOUIE: Well. Yeah. I guess that’s kind of to be expected, considering I’ve lost the love of my life and all.
ILUVROMANCE: I know. I’m so, so sorry. Hey, I know what might cheer you up! Some retail therapy! I mean, you did grow an inch and gained a whole size! You need new clothes! Do you want to go shopping tomorrow? My mom’ll take us. You know how she loves to shop!!!
Which is so totally what I get for ever having agreed to go shopping with Lana. Because Tina’s mom is practically a shopping GENIUS, being a former model and all. And she knows all the designers.
FTLOUIE: Oh, I’d love to! But I have to do something with my grandmother.
The lies just keep mounting and mounting. But whatever. I can’t tell TINA I’m doing something with LANA WEINBERGER. She’d never understand it. Even if I explained about the do-one-thing-every-day-that-scares-you thing. And the thing about Domina Rei.
ILUVROMANCE: Oh. Okay. Well, what are you doing tomorrow night, then? Want to come over? My parents are going out and I have to babysit, but we can watch some DVDs or something.
For some
reason—well, okay, I guess because I’m depressed—this invitation almost made me cry. I mean, Tina is just so sweet.
Also, it sounded like something I could handle, emotionally. As opposed to going out with the guy I’d recently been accused of being in love with by the media. When the truth is, I’ve only ever loved one guy, and he is currently in Japan, sending me random e-mails about how hard it is to find egg sandwiches there.
Yeah. Nice.
FTLOUIE: I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.
Except lie in my own bed and watch TV.
But my TV got taken away. So I can’t even do that.
ILUVROMANCE: Yay! I was thinking we should re-examine the Drew Barrymore oeuvre. Her less recent works, like Ever After and The Wedding Singer.
FTLOUIE: That sounds PERFECT. I’ll bring the popcorn.
I really don’t feel guilty about not telling Tina about Michael’s e-mail…or about the fact that I’m in therapy. Because I’m just not ready to talk about those things with anybody yet.
Maybe someday I will be.
But first? I’m going to take a really long nap.
Because I’m exhausted.
Saturday, September 18, 10 a.m., Henri Bendel luxury department store
What am I doing here?
I don’t belong in a store like this. Stores like this are for FANCY people.
And okay, I’m a princess. Which is admittedly pretty fancy.
But I am currently wearing a pair of my MOM’s jeans, because none of my own fit me.
People who are wearing MOM jeans do not belong in stores like these, which are all golden and sparkly and filled with attractive model types carrying bottles of perfume who come up to you and go, “Trish McEvoy?”
And when you go, “No, my name is Mia—” they spritz you with something that smells like Febreze, only fruitier.
I’m not kidding. This is not the Gap. It’s more of the kind of store Grandmère hangs out in. Only more crowded. Because usually when Grandmère shops, she calls ahead and has the store opened up for her after hours so she can shop without having to rub elbows with any commoners.
Mom about had a coronary when I told her where I was going this morning—and why I needed to borrow her jeans.
“You’re going shopping with WHOM????”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “It’s something I have to do. For therapy.”
“Your therapist is making you go shopping with Lana Weinberger?” Mom exchanged glances with Mr. G, who was refilling Rocky’s cereal bowl with Cheerios, and who had gotten so distracted by our conversation that he’d accidentally caused Cheerios to overflow from the bowl and all the way down the sides of Rocky’s booster chair. Which delighted Rocky no end. “This is supposed to help ALLEVIATE your depression?”
“It’s a long story,” I said to her. “I’m supposed to do something every day that scares me.”
“Well,” Mom said, handing over her Levi’s. “Shopping with Lana Weinberger would scare me.”
Mom’s right. What am I doing here? Why did I listen to Dr. K, anyway? What does HE know about the long, torrid history between Lana and me? Nothing! He’s never even seen the movies of my life! He doesn’t know all the heinous things she’s done to me and my friends in the past! He has no way of knowing that this whole shopping thing is probably a trick! That Carrot Top is the only one who is going to show up! That making me come here and stand among the perfume spritzers waiting for Carrot Top is Lana’s idea of a grand, final joke—
Oh. Here she comes.
More later.
Saturday, September 18, 3 p.m., bathroom at Nobu 57
For reasons that are completely beyond me, Lana Weinberger and her clone, Trisha Hayes, are actually being nice to me.
Well, the reasons aren’t completely beyond me. Lana already told me why she’s being so nice to me: “Because I’m finally over the Josh thing. It wasn’t your fault.”
When I pointed out—as politely as possible—that she hated me well before her boyfriend ever dumped her to date me (then went back to her when I, in turn, dumped him), she said, while we were sorting through size 36Cs (I’m a 36C!!!! Not a 34B anymore!!!! Lana insisted on my getting measured by an actual intimate apparel expert, and the expert confirmed what I’ve been suspecting, that I’ve grown a whole cup size and an inch around as well!), “Well, it wasn’t you so much I hated as that jerky friend of yours.”
To which Trisha added, “Yeah, how can you like that Lilly girl, anyway? She’s so full of herself.”
I wanted to burst out laughing at that. Because, hello, the Evil Death Twins, calling LILLY full of herself?
But I started thinking about it, and it IS kind of true. Lilly CAN be a little judgmental and bossy.
But that’s why I like her! I mean, at least she HAS opinions about stuff. Stuff that matters, anyway. Most of the rest of the people in our class don’t care about anything except who wins on American Idol and what Ivy League school they get into.
Or, in Lana’s case, which shade of lip gloss looks best on her.
But I didn’t say anything in Lilly’s defense because the truth is, even though I miss her and all—though not so much that it hurts sometimes, the way I do Michael—I need to figure out how to get out of this hole I’m in without the help of the Moscovitzes. Because as recent developments prove, neither Lilly nor Michael is going to be around to help me when I need them. I’ve got to learn to stand on my own two feet, without Lilly OR Michael to lean on as emotional crutches.
So I didn’t say anything when Lana and Trisha were (mildly) badmouthing Lilly. The truth was, I could see their point. It’s not like Lilly’s ever tried to put herself in Lana’s size 8 Manolos and see what it’s like to be Lana.
But I have.
And the view from Lana’s size 8s? It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s gorgeous and every guy in the store who wasn’t gay (of which there were approximately two) followed her around with his gaze like he couldn’t help it.
And she’s a SUPER MEGA EXCELLENT shopper—I mean, I would never in my life have tried on a pair of True Religion jeans. Just because Paris Hilton wears them, and even though I don’t know Paris personally, she doesn’t seem to do a lot for charities or the environment, that I know of.
But Lana insisted they would look good on me and made me try on a pair and so I did and…
I look AWESOME in them!!!
And don’t even get me started on what a difference having the right size/style bra makes. In my Agent Provocateur demi-cup underwires, I actually have breasts now. Like breasts that balance out the rest of my body so I don’t look pear-shaped or like a Q-tip. I actually look curvy.
And, okay, not like Scarlett Johansson curvy.
But like Jessica Biel curvy.
With each Marc Jacobs babydoll top Lana threw over my arm and commanded me to try on, I began to feel less and less like this whole thing was a trick, and more and more like Lana really was trying to make amends for past wrongs, and really did want me to look good. Every time she or Trisha made me try on something—like a faux tiger fur miniskirt or a gold Rachel Leigh link hip belt—and they went, “Oh, yeah, that’s hot,” or “No, that’s not you, take it off,” I felt like…well, like they cared.
And I will admit, it felt good. I didn’t feel like it was fake, or like I was Katie Holmes and they were Tom Cruise’s Scientologist friends love-bombing me, because there was plenty of, “Oh my God, Mia, you can NEVER wear red. Okay? Promise me. Because you look like crap in it,” to ground me.
It was just…girl stuff. The kind of thing Lilly would have totally looked down on. She’d have been all, “Oh my God, how many bras do you need? No one’s ever going to see them, so what’s the point? Especially when so many people are starving in Darfur,” and “Why are you buying jeans that have HOLES in them? The point is that you’re supposed to wear your OWN holes into your jeans, not buy a pair someone ELSE already made hole
s in.” And, “Oh my God, you’re getting one of THOSE TOPS? THOSE TOPS are made in sweatshops by little Guatemalan children who are only paid five cents an hour, just so you know.”
Which isn’t even true, because Bendel’s doesn’t carry products made in sweatshops. At least, none of the ladies at the trunk show do. I asked.
And seriously, it wasn’t like Lana and Trisha and I ran out of things to talk about. They were like, “So are you going out with that J.P. guy or what?” and I was like, “No, we’re just friends,” and they were like, “Well, he’s pretty cute. Except for the thing with the corn.”
And then I explained about Michael and I having just broken up and how I feel completely empty inside, like someone shoveled out the inside of my chest with an ice cream scoop, and threw the contents out on the West Side Highway, like a dead hooker.
And they didn’t even think that was weird. Lana went, “Yeah, that’s how I felt when Josh dumped me for you,” and I was like, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” and Lana went, “Whatever. I got over it. And you will too.”
Even though she’s wrong. I’ll never get over Michael. Not in a million trillion years.
But I’m trying—if you call putting all of his letters, cards, photos, and gifts in a plastic I NY shopping bag and stuffing it as far under my bed as it would go last night trying to get over him. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. I just couldn’t.
Anyway, it was…surprisingly normal talking to Lana and Trisha. It was a lot like the way Tina and I talk to each other. Only with thongs (which by the way are pretty comfortable if you get the right size).
And okay, Lana and Trisha have never read Jane Eyre (and gave me a funny look when I mentioned it as being my favorite book of all time) or seen Buffy (“Is that the one with the girl from The Grudge?”).
But they aren’t bad people. I think they’re more…misunderstood. Like, their obsession with eyeliner could very well be taken for shallowness, but it’s really just that they’re not very curious about the world around them. Unless it has to do with shoes.
And I sort of feel sorry for them—for Lana, at least—because when it came time to ring up what we were buying and Lana’s bill came to $1,847.56, and Trisha inhaled and went, “Dude, your mom is going to KILL you,” since Lana had been given a thousand-dollar spending limit, Lana just shrugged and went, “Whatever, if she says anything I’ll just bring up Bubbles,” and I was like, “Bubbles?” and Lana looked all sad and went, “Bubbles was my pony,” and I was like, “Was?”