If Dr. Moscovitz didn’t completely hate me right now—for dumping her son, and then ALLEGEDLY dating her daughter’s boyfriend—I’d call her.

But given the current state of our relationship, that is probably not the wisest course of action.

Sunday, September 12, 11 a.m., the loft

Inbox: 0

But then my cell rang!

But it wasn’t Michael. It was just J.P.

J.P.: “Hey! How are you?”

It was kind of hard to hide my crushing disappointment.

Me: “Fine. You?”

J.P.: “What’s wrong? Wait—don’t tell me he hasn’t called.”

Me: “He hasn’t called.”

Unintelligible muttering from his end of the phone. Then:

J.P.: “Don’t worry. He’ll call.”

Me: “I hope so.”

J.P.: “Are you kidding? He’d be a fool not to. So how was your night last night?”

Me: “Fine. I mean, I didn’t do much. Just played Tuck with my brother.”

J.P.: “You played WHAT?”

See, Michael knows what Tuck is. Not only that, he’s PLAYED it with Rocky. I think he even LIKES playing it. It relaxes him as much as it relaxes me.

Me: “It’s—Never mind. Did you hear about Lilly?”

J.P.: “No. What about her?”

I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news about J.P.’s ex, but I figured it was better he heard it from me than from someone in school on Monday.

Me: “She hooked up with some random muay thai fighter at her party last night.”

Instead of the inhalation of horror I expected to hear, however, J.P. sounded…well, almost as if he werelaughing.

J.P.: “That sounds like Lilly, all right.”

I was shocked. I mean, sure, it sounded like the OLD Lilly—the pre–J.P. Lilly. But not the new and improved Lilly.

And he waslaughing !

Me: “J.P., don’t you see? Lilly’s just acting out because she’s so crushed and brokenhearted over what she perceives as our betrayal of her! This whole muay thai fighter thing is directly related to thatNew York Post article. We’ve got to do something before she descends into an ever-increasing downward spiral of self-destructive behavior, like Lindsay Lohan!”

J.P.: “Well, I don’t see what we can do. Lilly’s pretty much old enough to make her own decisions. If she wants to hook up with random muay thai fighters, that’s really her business, not ours.”

I couldn’t believe he was stilllaughing.

Me: “J.P., it’s not funny.”

J.P.: “Well, it kinda is.”

Me: “No, it’s not, it’s—”

Sunday, September 12, noon, the loft

I had to stop writing just then because my cell phone rang again. It was Michael.

He’s in Japan. He got my e-mail.

He also saw the picture of J.P. and me in thePost.

He said that it didn’t make any difference, though. He said he was sorry that we had to do this over the phone, but that there was no other way.

I asked him what he meant by “this,” and he said he’d been thinking about it the whole way to Japan, and that he really feels it would be better if he and I just went back to being what we used to be before we started going out—friends.

He said that he thought that we both probably had some growing up to do, and that maybe some time apart—and seeing other people—would do us good.

I said okay. Even though every word he was saying was like a stab wound to my heart.

And then I said good-bye and hung up. Because I was afraid he would hear me sobbing.

And that isn’t how I want him to remember me.

Sunday, September 12, 12:30 p.m., the loft

WHY DID I SAY OKAY?????????????????

Why didn’t I say what I really felt, that I understand the part about having some growing up to do and spending some time apart…

…but not the part about just being friends and seeing other people????

Why didn’t I say what I was thinking, which is that I’d rather DIE than be with anybody but him?????

Why didn’t I tell him the truth?????

And I KNOW it wouldn’t have made any difference, and I just would have come off as exactly what he thinks I am—an immature little girl.

But at least he wouldn’t think I’m okay with this.

Because I am NOT okay with this.

I will NEVER be okay with this.

I don’t think I will ever be okay again.

Monday, September 13, 8 a.m., the loft

Mom came into my room just now to say she understands that I’m grieving about having lost the love of my life.

She said she understands how upsetting it must have been for me to have experienced such a hideous breakup as well as the loss of my best friend in one week.

She said she completely sympathizes with my plight, and appreciates that I feel the need to mourn my loss.

She says she has tried to give me the time and freedom I need in order to grieve.

But she said a whole day in bed is long enough.

Also that she’s sick of seeing me in my Hello Kitty flannel pajamas which, if she wasn’t mistaken, I haven’t changed out of since Saturday. Also that it’s time to get up, get dressed, and go to school.

I had no choice but to tell her the truth:

That I am dying.

Of course I know I’m not really dying.

But why does it feel that way?

I keep hoping it will all just…go away.

But it won’t. It doesn’t. When I close my eyes and go to sleep, I keep hoping that when I open them again, it will have been a terrible nightmare.

Only it never is. Every time I wake up, I’m still in my Hello Kitty pajamas—the same ones I was wearing when Michael said he thought we should just go back to being friends—and WE’RE STILL BROKEN UP.

Mom told me I’m not dying. Even after I had her feel my clammy palms and erratic pulse. Even when I showed her the whites of my eyes, which have gone noticeably yellow. Even when I showed her my tongue, which is basically white, instead of a healthy pink. Even when I informed her that I went to wrongdiagnosis.com, and that it’s obvious I have meningitis.

In which case, Mom said, I had better get dressed so she could take me to the emergency room.

I knew then she’d called my bluff. So I just begged her to let me stay in bed for one more day. And she finally relented.

I didn’t tell her the truth: that I am never getting out of bed again.

It’s true. I mean, think about it: Now that Michael’s gone from my life, there’s no actualreason for me to get out of bed. Such as, for instance, to go to school.

It’s true. I am the princess of Genovia. I will ALWAYS be the princess of Genovia, whether I go to school or not.

So what does it matter if I go to school? I’m always going to have a job—Princess of Genovia—whether I graduate from high school or not.

And, since I’m sixteen now, no one can FORCE me to go to school.

Therefore, I’ve decided I’m not going. Ever again.

Mom said she’ll call the school and tell them I won’t be coming in today, and that she’ll call Grandmère and tell her I won’t be able to make it to princess lessons this afternoon, either. She even said she’d tell Lars he has the day off, and that I can spend one more day wallowing in my bed if I want to.

But that tomorrow, no matter what I say, I’m going to school.

To which all I have to say is, that’s what SHE thinks.

Maybe Dad will let me move to Genovia.

Monday, September 13, 5 p.m., the loft

Tina just stopped by. Mom let her in to see me.

I really wish she hadn’t.

I guess the fact that I haven’t bathed in two days must show, since Tina’s eyes got very wide when she saw me.

Still, she pretended like she wasn’t shocked by the amount of grease in my hair, or anything. She went, “Your mom told me. About Michael. Mia, I’m so sorry. When are you coming back to school? Everyone misses you!”

“Lilly doesn’t,” I said.

“Well,” Tina said, wincing. “No, that’s true. But still. You can’t stay shut up in your room for the rest of your life, Mia.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ll be back in school tomorrow.” But this was a total lie. Even as I said it, I could feel my palms getting sweaty. Just the thought of going to school made me want to hurl.

“I’m so glad,” Tina said. “I know things didn’t work out with Michael, but maybe that’s for the best. I mean, he’s so much older than you are, and you two are in such different places in your lives, you still in high school, and him in college and all.”

I couldn’t believe it. Even Tina—always my staunchest supporter where my love for Michael is concerned—was betraying me. I tried not to let my shock at this show, however.

“Besides,” Tina went on, blithely unaware of the pain she was causing me, “now you can really concentrate on writing that novel you’ve always wanted to write. And you can work harder at school and your grades and get into a really great college, where you’ll meet a really great guy who will make you forget all about Michael!”

Yeah. Because that’s what I want to do. Forget all about Michael. The only guy—the only PERSON—I’ve ever felt completely calm around.

I didn’t say that, though. Instead, I said, “You know what, Tina? You’re right. I’ll see you at school tomorrow. I promise.”

And Tina went away all happy, thinking she’d cheered me up.

But I don’t actually believe that. You know, that anything Tina said is true.

And I’m not really going to school tomorrow. I just said it to get Tina to go away. Because having to talk to her made me feel so tired. I just wanted to go back to sleep.

In fact, that is what I’m going to do now. Writing all this has totally exhausted me.

Justliving exhausts me.

Maybe this time, when I wake up, it really will all turn out to have been a bad dream….

Tuesday, September 14, 8 a.m., the loft

No such luck, with the bad dream thing. I could tell by the way Mr. Gianini came in here with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, going, “Rise and shine, Mia! Look what I’ve got! Hot cocoa! With whipped cream! But you can only have it if you get out of bed, get dressed, and get in the limo for school.”

He’d never have done that if I hadn’t been brutally dumped by my longtime boyfriend, and currently in the throes of despair.

Poor Mr. G. I mean, you have to give him points for trying. You really do.

I said I didn’t want any hot cocoa. Then I explained—very politely—that I am not going to school. Anymore.

I checked my tongue in the mirror just now. It’s not as white as it was yesterday. It’s possible I don’t have meningitis after all.

But what else can explain the fact that whenever I think about how Michael isn’t in my life anymore, my heart starts beating very fast and won’t slow down again for sixty seconds, or sometimes even longer?

Unless I have lassa fever. But I’ve never even been to West Africa.

Tuesday, September 14, 5 p.m., the loft

Tina came by again after school today. This time she brought all my homework assignments that I’ve missed.

Also, Boris.

Boris was a little surprised to see me in my current condition. I know because he said so. He said, “Mia, it is very surprising to me that a feminist like you would be so upset over the fact that a man had rejected her.”

Then he said, “Ooof!” because Tina elbowed him so hard in the ribs.

He didn’t believe my lassa fever story.

So then, even though I really don’t want to hurt anyone—because God knows I myself am in enough pain for everyone—I was forced to remind Boris that back when a certain ex-girlfriend of his had rejected him, he’d dropped an entire globe on his head in a misguided attempt to get her back. I said that in comparison, me refusing to bathe or get out of bed for a few days was really nothing.

To which he agreed. Although he did keep sniffing the air in my bedroom and going, “May I open a window? It seems a little…warm in here.”

I don’t care that I smell. The truth is, I don’t care about anything. Isn’t that sad?

This made it hard for Tina to engage me in mindless conversation, something I can tell she’d been charged with doing, no doubt by my mother. Tina tried to get me interested in going back to school by telling me that both J.P. and Kenny had been asking about me…particularly J.P., who’d given Tina something to give to me—a tightly folded note that I had zero interest in reading.

After what seemed like forever—I know! It’s pretty sad when even your best friend’s attempts to cheer you up fall flat—Tina and Boris finally went away. I opened the note J.P. gave Tina to give to me. It said a lot of stuff like,Come on, it can’t be THAT bad andWhy won’t you return any of my calls? andI’ll take you to see Tarzan! Orchestra seats!andJust come back to school. I miss you.