Awwww…she still calls itYou Know ! That’s so cute I could die.

Still. Tina brings up some good points. Whydidn’t I ask him? When the ads for the prom started appearing in theAtom , why didn’t I clip one out and stick it on J.P.’s locker door withAre we going to this? written on it?

Why didn’t I just ask him, point-blank, if we were going to the prom, when everybody else was talking about it at lunch? It’s true J.P.’s been distracted with his play and Stacey Cheeseman sucking so majorly in it (it would probably help if he weren’t always rewriting it and giving her new lines to memorize).

I easily could have gotten a yes or no answer out of him.

And, of course, because he’s J.P., it would have been a yes.

Because J.P., unlike my last boyfriend, has nothing against the prom.

The thing is, I don’t need to check in with Dr. K to figure out why I didn’t ask J.P. about the prom. It isn’t exactly a mystery. To Tina, maybe, but not to me.

But I don’t want to get into that right now.

You know, prom’s not that big a deal to me anymore, T. It’s really kind of lame. I actually wouldn’t mind blowing it off. So why waste time shopping for some dress I might not ever wear? You guys have fun shopping without me. I have stuff to do anyway.

Stuff. When am I going to stop calling my novel “stuff”? Seriously, if there’s one person in the world I can be honest about it with, it’s Tina. Tina wouldn’t laugh if I told her I’d written a novel…especially aromance novel. Tina is the person who introduced me to romance novels, who got me to appreciate them and realize how fabulously cool they are, not just as an introduction into the publishing world (although more of them are published than any other genre, so your chances of getting published are statistically higher if you write a romance as opposed to, say, a science fiction novel), but because they’re the perfect story. You have a strong female protagonist, a compelling male lead, a conflict that keeps them apart, and then, after a lot of nail-biting, a satisfying conclusion…the ultimate happy ending.

Why would anyone want to write anything else, really?

If Tina knew I wrote a romance, she’d ask to read it—especially if she knew it was about somethingother than the history of Genovian olive oil presses, a subject no rational person would want to read about….

Well, except one person.

Which, really, every time I think about it, I want to start crying, because it’s just about the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Or e-mailed me, actually, because that’s how Michael sent it to me…his request to read my senior project, I mean. We only randomly e-mail a couple of times a month, anyway, keeping it strictly light and impersonal, like that first message I sent him after he broke up with me: “Hi, how are you? Things are fine, it’s snowing here, isn’t that weird? Well, I have to go, bye.”

I’d been shocked when he’d been all, “Your senior project’s on the history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650? Cool, Thermopolis. Can I read it?”

You could have knocked me over with one of Lana’s pom-poms. Becauseno one had asked to read my senior project. No one. Not even Mom. I thought I’d picked such a safe subject, I was safe fromanybody asking to read it.

Ever.

And here was Michael Moscovitz, all the way in Japan (where he’s been for the past two years, slaving away on his robotic arm—which I’m so sure is never going to get done, I’ve given up asking about it, since it doesn’t seem polite to bring it up anymore, since he barely acknowledges the question), asking to read it.

I told him it was four hundred pages long.

He said he didn’t care.

I told him it was single-spaced and in 9-point font.

He said he’d enlarge it when it came.

I told him it was really boring.

And he said he didn’t believe anything I wrote could be boring.

That’s when I stopped e-mailing him back.

What else could I do? I couldn’t send it to him! Yeah, I can send it to publishers I’ve never even met before. But not my ex-boyfriend! Not Michael! I mean…it’s gotsex in it!

It’s just…how could hesay that? That he didn’t believe anything I wrote could be boring? What was hetalking about? Ofcourse something I wrote could be boring! The history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650. That’s boring! That’s really, really boring!

And okay, that’s not what my book is really about.

But still! He doesn’t know that.

How could hesay something like that? Howcould he? That’s not the kind of thing exes—or even mere friends—say to each other.

And that’s all we’re supposed to be now.

Anyway. Whatever.

It’s not like I can show it to Tina, either, and she’s mybest friend. Although I don’t know what I’m so embarrassed about, really. There are people who slap their novels all over the Internet, begging other people to read them.

But I can’t do that. I don’t know why. Except…

Well, Iknow why: I’m afraid Tina—not to mention Michael, or J.P., orwho ever, really—might not like it.

Just like every single publisher I’ve sent it to hasn’t liked it. Well, except AuthorPress.

But they want me to pay THEM to publish it! REAL publishers are supposed to pay YOU!!

Of course, Ms. Martinez claimed to like it.

But I’m not convinced she even read the whole thing.

The thing is, what if I’m wrong, and I’m a terrible writer? What if I just wasted almost two years of my life? I know everybodythinks I did, writing about Genovian olive oil presses.

But what if Ireally did?

Oh, no. Tina is still texting me about the prom!

Mia! Prom isn’t lame! What’s wrong with you? You’re not going through a depression thingie again, are you?

“Depression thingie.” Great.

Okay. I can’t fight Tina. I can’t. She’s a force too strong for me.

No! No depression thingie. Tina, I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Senioritis, I guess—the same thing that’s keeping all of us from paying attention in class. I just meant—forget it. I’ll talk to J.P. about the prom.

Do you mean it???? You really will????? You’re not just saying that????

Yes, I’ll ask him. I’m sorry. I just have a lot of stuff on my mind.

And you’ll go shopping with us today after school?

Oh, man. I so don’t want to go shopping with them today after school. Anything but that. I’d takeprincess lessons over that.

Wow. I can’t believe I just wrote that.

Yeah. Sure. Why not.

YAY! We’re going to have so much fun! Don’t worry, we’ll make you forget ALL about what’s going on with your dad—eep!

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Je ne ferai pas le texte dans la classe.

Wow. Madame Wheeton has been on thewarpath this month.

I swear they’re going to take away all our iPhones and Sidekicks one of these days.

Except, if you ask me, the teachers all have senioritis, too, because they’ve been threatening for weeks, and so far nobody’s actually carried out that threat.

 

Thursday, April 27, Psychology

Okay! So I told someone the truth about something…

And nothing earth-shattering happened (well, except that Madame Wheeton flipped out over finding us texting each other while she was trying to do her review session for the final).

I told Tina the truth about J.P. not having asked me to the prom…and my not really wanting to go anyway. And nothing earth-shattering happened. Tina didn’t faint dead away.

She did try to convince me I’m wrong, of course.

But what else did I expect? Tina is such a romantic, of course she thinks the prom is the height of teen l’amour.

I know there was a time when I thought so, too. All I have to do is look through the pages of my old journals. I used to becrazy for the prom. I would sooner have DIED than missed it.

I guess in a way I wish I could recapture that old excitement.

But we all have to grow up one day.

And the truth is, I really don’t see what the big deal is about going to a dinner (rubbery chicken and wilted lettuce under disgusting dressing) and dance (to bad music) at the Waldorf (which I’ve been to a million times before anyway, most notably last time where I gave a speech that may have ruined my family’s reputation, not to mention my native country, for all time).

I just wish—

AHHHHH!!!! God, Ihave to get used to that thing vibrating in my pocket….

Ameliaaaaaaa—I need an updated guesssssst list from you for Mondayyyyyy. I’m quite put outtttttttt.Everyone I’ve invited has RSVP’d yesssssss, according to Vigo. Even your cousin Hankkkkkkkkkkkk is coming in from the Milan shows to attend. And I just heard from your motherrrrrrrr that your dreadful grandparents from Indianaaaaaaaaaa will be flying into town for the event. I am most upset about thisssssssss. Of course they had to be invited, but I never expected them actually to sayyesssssssssssss . It’s all most disturbing…I may need for you to disinvite a few of your guests. You know the yacht only holds three hundred comfortably. Call me immediately.—Clarisse, your grandmotherrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

God! Why did Dad get Grandmère a BlackBerry? Is he trying to ruin my life? And who, exactly, was stupid enough to show her how touse it? I could kill Vigo.

Bystander effect—a psychological phenomenon in which someone is less likely to intervene in an emergency situation when other people are present and able to help than when he or she is alone. See Kitty Genovese case, in which a young woman was brutally attacked within hearing of a dozen neighbors, but none of them called the police, each thinking someone else would do it.

HOMEWORK

World History: Whatever

English Lit: Bite me

Trig: God, I hate this class

G&T: I know Boris is playing at Carnegie Hall for his senior project, but WHY WON’T HE STOP ALREADY WITH THE CHOPIN?????

French:J’ai mal à la tête

Psychology II: I can’t believe I even bother taking notes in this class. I have lived this class.

 

Thursday, April 27, Jeffrey

Great.

J.P. saw us in the hallway heading out toward the limo and was all, “Where are you girls going, looking so happy?” and Lars went, before I could stop him, “Prom dress shopping.”

And then Lana and Tina and Shameeka and Trisha looked at J.P. expectantly with their eyebrows raised, like,Hello? Prom? Remember? Did you forget something? Would you like to ask your girlfriend to go with you?

I guess news travels fast. The part about J.P. not having asked me to the prom, I mean. Thanks, Tina!

Not that she doesn’t mean well.

Of course J.P. just smiled at us tolerantly and went, “Well, have fun, girls, Lars.” Then he kept walking toward the auditorium, where he was holding play rehearsal.

They were all totally flabbergasted—Lana and those guys, I mean. That he didn’t smack himself in the forehead and go, “D’oh! Prom! Of course!” Then drop to one knee and take my hands tenderly in his and ask me to forgive him for being a churlish lout and beg me to go with him.

But I told them they shouldn’t be so shocked. I don’t take it personally. J.P. can’t think aboutanything but his play,A Prince Among Men.

Which I totally understand, because when I was writing my book, I felt the same way. I couldn’t think aboutanything else. Every chance I got, I just curled up in bed with my laptop and with Fat Louie at my side (he proved to besuch an excellent writing cat) andwrote.

I mean, that’s why I didn’t keep up with my journal, or anything, not for almost two whole years. It’s hard, when you’re really concentrating on a creative project, to keep your mind on anything else.

Or at least it was for me.

Which, in a way, I guess, was why Dr. K suggested it. That I write a book. To get my mind off…well, other things.

Or other people.

And it wasn’t like I had anythingelse to do, since my parents took away my TV, and it was really hard to watch my shows out in the living room. It’s kind of embarrassing to veg out in front ofToo Young to Be So Fat: The Shocking Truth when people know you’re watching it.

Anyway, writing my book was great therapy, because it really worked. I didn’t feel like writing in my journal once while I was writing and researching it. Everything just went intoRansom My Heart .