That’s when he leaned down and kissed me.

And then he, too, walked away.

Just like Michael.

And that’s when I ran for the safety of…this. Wherever I am now.

I know I should come down. My guests are probably leaving, and it’s rude that I’m not there to say good-bye.

But hello! How many times does a girl get sort-of proposed to? On her birthday? In front of everyone she knows? And then turns the guy down? Sort of? Only not really?

Also…what’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I just say yes? J.P. is clearly the most amazing guy on the planet…he’s wonderful, gorgeous, fantastic, and sweet. And he loves me. He LOVES me!

So why can’t I just love him back, the way he deserves to be loved?

Oh, crud…someone’s coming. Who do I know who’s limber enough to climb all the way up here? Not Grandmère, that’s for sure…

 

Tuesday, May 2, midnight, limo home from my party

My dad isn’t too happy with me.

He’s the one who climbed all the way to the yacht’s bow to tell me I had to stop “sulking” (his word for what I was doing, which isn’t completely accurate, in my opinion…I’d call it venting, since I’m writing in my journal), and come down and say good-bye to all my guests.

That wasn’t all he said, either. Not by a long shot.

He said I have to go to the prom with J.P. He said you can’t go out with a guy for nearly two years, then decide, a week before the senior prom, that you’re not going to go with him, just because you don’t feel like going to the prom.

Or, as he so unfairly put it, “Just because your ex-boyfriend happens to have come back to town.”

I was like, “Whatever, Dad! Michael and I are just friends!”Love, Michael. “Like going to the prom with him had ever even OCCURRED to me!”

Because it totally hasn’t. Who takes a twenty-one-yearold college graduate millionaire robotic-surgical-arm inventor to their high school prom? Who, by the way, broke up with me two years ago, and also clearly doesn’t care about me now either, so it’s not like he’d go if I asked.

And like I’d do that to J.P., anyway.

“There’s a name for girls like you,” Dad said, as he sat down next to me on my precarious perch out over the water. “And what you’re doing to J.P. And I don’t even want to repeat it. Because it’s not a nice name.”

“Really?” I was totally curious. No one’s ever called me a name before. Except for the names Lana routinely calls me—geek and spazoid and stuff like that. Well, and all the stuff Lilly called me on ihatemiathermopolis.com. “What name?”

“Tease,” Dad said gravely.

I have to admit, that made me start laughing. Even though the situation was supposed to be completely and totally serious, with Dad sitting there on the edge of the yacht, talking me down like I was about to commit suicide or something.

“It’s not funny,” Dad said, sounding irritated. “The last thing we need right now, Mia, is for you to get a reputation.”

This just made me laugh even harder. Considering the fact that I happen to be the last virgin in the graduating senior class of Albert Einstein High School (besides my boyfriend). It was just so ironic that my dad was lecturing me—me!—about getting a reputation. I was laughing so hard I had to hold on to the side of the boat to keep from falling into the inky black waters of the East River.

“Dad,” I said, when I could finally speak. “I can assure you, I amnot a tease.”

“Mia, actions speak louder than words. I’m not saying I think you and J.P. should get engaged.That , of course, is completely absurd. I expect you to kindly and gently explain to him that you’re much too young to be thinking of that kind of thing right now—”

“Da-ad,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s apromise ring.”

“Regardless of your personal feelings about the prom,” he went on, ignoring me, “J.P. wants to go, and surely wasn’t wrong to have expected to take you—”

“I know,” I said. “And I told him I wouldn’t mind if he takes someone else—”

“He wants to takeyou . His girlfriend. Whom he’s been seeing for nearly two years. He has certain rights of expectation because of that. One of them is that, barring any sort of gross misconduct on his part, you would go to the prom with him. And so the right thing for you to do is go with him.”

“But, Dad,” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t understand. I mean…I wrote a romance novel, and I gave it to him, and he hasn’t even—”

My dad blinked at me. “You wrote aromance novel ?”

Oops. Yeah, guess I forgot to mention that part to good old Dad. Maybe I could distract him.

“Um,” I said. “Yeah. About that. You don’t have to worry. No one wants to publish it anyway—”

My dad waved a hand like my words were something annoying that was buzzing around his head.

“Mia,” he said. “I think you know by now that being royal isn’t all about being driven around in limos and having a bodyguard and taking private jets and buying the latest handbag or jeans and always being in style. You know what it’s really about is always being the bigger person, and being kind to others. You chose to date J.P. You chose to date him for nearly two years. You cannotnot go to the prom with him, unless he’s been in some way cruel to you…which, from what you describe, it doesn’t sound as if he has. Now, stop being such a—what do you kids call it? Oh, right, a drama queen—and come down from here. My leg is getting a cramp.”

I knew my dad was right. I was being stupid. I’d been acting like an idiot all week (so what else was new?). I was going to the prom, and I was going with J.P. J.P. and I were perfect for each other. We always had been.

I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I needed to stop acting like one. I needed to stop lying to everyone, just like Dr. Knutz said.

But most importantly, I needed to stop lying to myself.

Life isn’t a romance novel. The truth is, the reason romance novels sell so well—the reason why everyone loves them—is because no one’s life is actually like that. Everyonewants their life to be like that.

But no one’s life really is.

No. The truth was, Michael and I were through—even if he did sign his letter to meLove, Michael . But that didn’t mean anything. That little ember of hope I’d been carrying around—partly, I knew, because my dad had told me that love is always waiting right around the corner—needed to die and stay well and truly dead. I needed toallow it to die, and be happy with what I had. Because what I had was pretty freaking great.

I think what happened tonight finally killed that ember of hope about Michael I’ve been carrying around. I really do.

At least, I’m almost positive when I climbed down and found J.P. (talking to Sean Penn again, of course) and I went up to him and said, “Yes,” and showed him that I was wearing the ring, that killed it. Killed it pretty much dead.

He gave me a big hug and lifted me up and swung me around. Everyone standing around cheered and clapped.

Except my mom. I saw her give my dad a look, and he shook his head, and she narrowed her eyes at him, like,You are so gonna get it , and he gave her a look, like,It’s just a promisering, Helen.

I suspect I’m due for a breakfast lecture on post-modern feminism from Mom tomorrow morning. As Lana would say, whatevs. Like any lecture of Mom’s can make me feel worse than the sight of Michael’s back did a little while ago.

Tina and Lana and Trisha and Shameeka and Ling Su and Perin were all over the ring, though Ling Su mainly wanted to know if I could cut plates in half with my new diamond, since she’s doing a new installation piece that involves pieces of broken ceramic (we experimented on some of the dishware from the caterer and the answer is yes, my ring can cut plates in half).

The person who seemed most interested was Lilly. She came over and really looked at it and was like, “So what are you now, like, engaged?” and I was all, “No, it’s just a promise ring,” and Lilly went, “That’s some bigpromise ,” meaning the diamond. Which I’m pretty sure she meant in a semi-insulting way…

And she succeeded.

What I couldn’t figure out was why Lilly hadn’t sprung her “surprise” on me yet…the one she’d said she could only give me if she came to my party. I’d assumed that meant she was going to give it to meat my party—or at least on my birthday itself. But so far she’d showed no sign of doing so.

Maybe I’d misunderstood.

Or maybe—just maybe—there was still some sliver of affection for me somewhere in her, and whatever diabolical scheme she’d been planning, she’d decided not to launch it after all.

So remembering what Dad had said about how being royal is about being the bigger person, I refused to take offense at her “That’s some bigpromise ” remark.

And I also refused to ask her where her brother had gone. Though Tina, of course, sidled up to me and pointed out—in case I’d missed it, somehow—that he’d left…and that he’d done it as soon as J.P. had whipped out the ring.

“Do you think,” Tina whispered, “Michael left because he couldn’t stand to see the woman he’s loved for so long promising herself to another man?”

Really, this was too much.

“No, Tina,” I said flatly. “I think he left because he just doesn’t care about me.”

Tina looked shocked.

“No!” she cried. “That’s not why! I know that’s not why! He left because he thinks YOU don’t care about him, and knew he couldn’t control his unbridled passion for you! He was probably afraid if he’d stay, he’d KILL J.P.!”

“Tina,” I said. It was sort of hard to stay calm, but I remembered my new motto—life is not a romance novel—and that made it a little easier. “Michael doesn’t care about me. Face the facts. I’m with J.P. now, the way I always should have been. And please don’t talk to me that way about Michael anymore. It really upsets me.”

And that was the end of it. Tina apologized for having upset me—about a million times—and was really concerned about having hurt my feelings, but we hugged it out, and everything was fine after that.

The party went on for a little while longer, but then pretty much fizzled out when the dock master came along and said Madonna’s band had to unplug due to complaints from the neighborhood associations of nearby waterside condos (I guess they’d have preferred Pavarotti).

In all, it was a pretty good party. I cleared some excellent loot: a ton of Marc Jacobs and Miu Miu totes, clutches, and wallets and stuff; a lot of scented candles (which you can’t even take with you to the dorm—whatever college I end up in—since candles are considered a fire hazard); a Princess Leia cat costume for Fat Louie, which won’t be too confusing for him, gender-wise; a Brainy Smurf T-shirt from Fred Flare; a Cinderella Disney castle pendant; diamond and sapphire hair clips (from Grandmère, who always says my hair is in my face now that it’s long); and $253,050 in donations to Greenpeace.

Oh, yeah, and one three-carat blood-free diamond promise ring.

I’d add one broken heart to the list, but I’m trying not to be a “drama queen,” like Dad said. Besides, Michael broke my heart a long time ago. He can’t break itagain . And all he did was say he liked my book and writeLove, Michael at the end of his note to me about it. That hardly constitutes wanting to get back together. I have no idea why I got my hopes up in such a ridiculous, girly manner.

Oh, right: Because I’m a ridiculous, girly girl.

 

Tuesday, May 2, World History final

It probably wasn’t such a good idea to have my eighteenth birthday soirée the actual nightof my birthday, seeing as how finals start today. I’ve seen more than a few people wandering around, looking all bleary-eyed, like they could have used a couple more hours of sleep. Including me.

Thank God the schedules are all topsy-turvy for finals week and I just have World History and English Lit today, my easiest classes. If I had Trig or French finals today, I’d die.

Literally. My mom’s speech about how women have come a long way from the time when they used to have to get married right out of high school because females weren’t allowed in universities, nor were there any jobs open to them either, went on for a really long time. And every time I started to doze during it, she poked me awake again.

I said, “Mom, duh! J.P. and I aren’t getting married after graduation! I’m ambitious, all right? I totally got into every college I applied to already and I wrote a novel and I’m trying to get it published! What more do you want from me?”

But somehow none of this seemed to comfort her. She kept saying, “But you haven’tchosen a school. You have less than a week to decide which one you’re going to,” and “It’s aromance novel,” like somehow either of these made a difference.