OH.

MY.

GOD.

Wednesday, September 8, Corner Bistro

I have to write fast. Michael just went up to the counter for more napkins. I don’t know where our waitress disappeared to. This place is a zoo. Someone must have spilled the beans about the burgers in some guidebook. A Big Apple double-decker tour bus just pulled up and puked about a hundred tourists into the restaurant.

Anyway, right as Michael arrived to pick me up, it hit me. What Grandmère was REALLY doing, giving me that key:Use the rooms to stage a very private and very romantic good-bye? Grandmère HAD to be implying what I think she was implying.

Grandmère has given me her suite at the Ritz for

SEX!!!!

Seriously! Grandmère’s giving me her suite at the Ritz so I can use it to “say good-bye” to Michael. In the kind of privacy we could never find anywhere else, what with neither of us having our own place.

In other words, my grandmother has given me her own version of the Precious Gift: THE most precious gift any teenager could ask for:

MY GRANDMOTHER HAS GIVEN ME MY OWN SEX PLACE!!!!!

I know it seems unbelievable. But it’s true. There’s no other explanation for it. Grandmère wants me to have sex with my boyfriend the night before he leaves for Japan.

Only why would my own grandmother beencouraging me to give away my Precious Gift when I am still just a teen? Grandmothers are supposed to be old-fashioned and want their grandchildren to wait until marriage before consummating their relationships. Grandmothers don’t believe in trying the pants on before you buy them. Grandmothers all say the same thing: “He isn’t going to buy the cow if he can get the milk for free.” Grandmothers are supposed to want what’s best for their offspring’s offspring.

And could Grandmère really think having good-bye sex with my boyfriend in her abandoned suite at the Ritz is what’s BEST for me?

Unless…

OH MY GOD. This just hit me:What if Grandmère is trying to help me keep Michael from going to Japan????

Seriously. Because what guy, given the choice between sex and no sex, would choose no sex? I mean, Michael is basically moving to Japan because of the whole no-sex thing.

Well, aside from the whole saving-thousands-of-livesand-making-millions-and-proving-his-worth-to-my-familyand-Us-Weeklything.

But if he knew he had a chance at sex, wouldn’t he…stay?

I know. It’s CRAZY.

So crazy, in fact, it just might work.

No. NO!!!! I can’t believe I wrote that!!!! It’s wrong!!!! I mean, to use sex as a means to manipulate someone. It goes against my feminist principles. God, what could Grandmère be THINKING?

Except, of course, Grandmère doesn’t HAVE any feminist principles. Well, I mean, she does, she just doesn’t think of them that way.

And then, of course, there’s the whole Waiting Until Prom Night thing. I mean, I promised Tina. We PROMISED each other we’d hold on to our Precious Gifts until prom night.

But that was before. Before Michael decided he had to go on this crazy robot arm quest.

Surely Tina would understand—

Wait. Am I really considering this? No! No, it’s wrong! It’s horrible! I could never do something like that! I would be robbing the world of Michael’s robotic arm thingie! I can’t do something like that. I’m a PRINCESS, for crying out loud.

But what if—just what if—Michael and I had sex in Grandmère’s abandoned suite at the Ritz, and he liked it so much, he decided not to go after all? Wouldn’t that be WORTH compromising my feminist principles? Wouldn’t it, actually, be MORE feminist, because by keeping Michael around, I will be able to smell his neck, and therefore release serotonin into my brain on a regular basis, making me a calmer and more well-rounded individual, and a better student leader and role model to young girls everywhere?

AHHHHHH Michael’s back with the napkins. More later.

Wednesday, September 8, 11 p.m., the loft

Well. That was very nice. We had a lovely dinner, followed by cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery (yes, the one from “Lazy Sunday” onSaturday Night Live ).

Then we made out all emotionally for half an hour in the vestibule of my apartment building, while Lars pretended to be putting money in the parking meter, even though the limo has diplomatic plates and we never get ticketed.

I really don’t think it’s the extremely high levels of serotonin batting around in my brain right now due to smelling Michael’s neck for so long (not to mention oxytocin, a hormone that rushes to the brain in moments of intense sexual pleasure, and which is why in Health and Safety they advised us not to have sex with anyone we hadn’t known for a while, due to the fact that oxytocin can cloud your judgment and make you feel like you’re in love with someone, when in fact it’s really just the oxytocin and you really have nothing in common at all, or even actually like each other. Which actually explains why Grandpère married Grandmère).

No. I really think this is it. I am ready. Ready to give away my Precious Gift. Ready for the Big S.

Which is why I said to Michael, as he was getting ready to leave, “Don’t make any plans for tomorrow night. I have a surprise for you.”

And Michael was all, “Really? What is it?”

But I said, “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

And Michael just smiled and said, “Okay,” and kissed me again and said good night.

And left.

Oh, he’s going to be surprised, all right.

And Iknow that technically Michael and I making love is illegal, since at sixteen I am still one year away from the age of consent in the state of New York.

I also realize that deciding to make love to my boyfriend two years before I actually planned to just because I don’t want him to move to Japan and I think there is a very strong possibility that he won’t go if he knows he has access to free sex whenever he wants is manipulative and anti-feminist.

ButI DON’T CARE.

I CAN’T let him move to Japan. I just CAN’T. I am very sorry for all the open-heart surgery patients who may suffer because of this very selfish decision on my part.

But sometimes, a girl has to do what a girl has to do just to stay sane in a topsy-turvy world where one minute, you’re eating cold sesame noodles, and the next minute, your boyfriend is leaving for Japan.

That’s just how it’s going to have to be.

Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Should I do this? SHOULD I DO THIS????

As usual, asking questions of my journal is no help whatsoever. I don’t even know why I bother.

 

ME, A PRINCESS???? YEAH, RIGHT.

A Screenplay by Mia Thermopolis

(first draft)

Scene 16

INT/DAY—The penthouse suite at the Plaza Hotel. A scary-looking old woman with tattooed eyeliner (DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE) is glaring at MIA, who cowers across from her in a chair. A hairless toy poodle (ROMMEL) shivers nearby.

DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE

Now, let’s see if I’ve got this straight. Your father tells you that you are the princess of Genovia, and you burst into tears. Why is this?

MIA

I don’t want to be a princess. I just want to be me, Mia.

DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE

Sit up straight in that chair. Do not drape your legs over the arm. And you are not Mia. You are Amelia. Are you telling me you have no desire to assume your rightful place upon the throne?

MIA

Grandmère, you know as well as I do that I’m not princess material. So why are we even wasting our time?

DOWAGER PRINCESS CLARISSE

You are the heir to the crown of Genovia. And you will take my son’s place on the throne when he dies. This is how it is. There is no other way.

MIA

Yeah, whatever, Grandmère. Look, I got a lot of homework. Is this princess thing going to take long?

Thursday, September 9, Homeroom

I’m going to do it. I mean, Do It. Tonight. I was up all night thinking about it, and I know now—this is the only way.

I know it’s selfish. I know I will be keeping a shining beacon of hope from all of the many heart patients Michael could be helping with his invention.

But that is just too bad for them. Plenty of people have had open-heart surgery and were just fine. Look at David Letterman. And Bill Clinton. People are just going to have to suck it up. Maybe if they ate less meat, they wouldn’t NEED open-heart surgery. Did anyone think of that?

Oh, God. Did I really just write that? I can’t believe I just wrote that. WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME? I’m becoming one of those militant vegetarians, the ones who think the Heifer Project, an organization that gives cows and goats to poor widows so they will have an income from selling the milk, and be able to buy food for their children, is bad because it enslaves animals.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s like I’ve gone mental. I even checked to make sure I still had my condoms left over from when we were forced to go buy them during Health and Safety as part of our Safer Sex project. Of course, I made my selections on the basis of color. I mean, there were just SO MANY to choose from. I knew I should have gone to Duane Reade and not Condomania. I have strawberry and piña colada in my backpack right now (I didn’t realize the ones I bought were FLAVORED until I checked their expiration dates this morning. Thank heaven they’re still good).

I am willing to sacrifice my virginity for the sake of keeping my love in the same hemisphere as me.

But I just realized, that during the course of this, I may actually have to Touch It.

For the first time, however, this prospect is not making me say, or even think, the wordEw.

I must be maturing.

Thursday, September 9, Intro to Creative Writing

Describe a person you know:

His hair, at first glance, appears merely dark, but upon closer inspection is actually many strands of chestnut brown, gold, and black. He wears it long, for a guy, not because doing so is “in,” but because he’s too busy with his many interests to remember to get it cut regularly. His eyes seem dark at first glance, as well, but are actually a kaleidoscope of russets and mahoganies, flecked here and there with ruby and gold, like twin lakes during an Indian summer, into which you feel as if you could dive and swim forever. Nose: aquiline. Mouth: imminently kissable. Neck: aromatic—an intoxicating blend of Tide from his shirt collar, Gillette shaving foam, and Ivory soap, which together spell: my boyfriend.

B–

Better. I would have liked more description on what exactly about his mouth you find so imminently kissable.

—C. Martinez

Thursday, September 9, English

Now the big question is: Do I tell Tina?

I mean, obviously, I can’t tellLilly. She’ll see right through my plan and know what I’m trying to do. Which is not to express my undying love and devotion for her brother, but to try to control him.

With sex.

I highly doubt she’d approve.

Plus, she’ll totally accuse me of violating the feminist code by using feminine wiles instead of my brain as a means to get what I want.

But isn’t that what Gloria Steinem did when she went undercover as a sex kitten to expose the poor wages and long hours of the Playboy Bunnies, helping to improve their working conditions in the Grotto? I’m doing the same thing, basically. I am sacrificing my virginity in order to keep a valuable asset of our community from leaving it for a far-off shore. In the long run, my sleeping with Michael tonight will only benefit the U.S. economy.

You could almost say it’s my duty as a citizen to Do It.

On the other hand, if Lilly and J.P. really did consummate their relationship over the summer (although I have been observing them both closely at lunch, the only period we all three share together, and beyond the Yodel exchange, I have seen no overt signs of shared intimacy. They don’t even hold hands in the hallway or kiss when they see each other in the morning. Which may just be because they save all the lovey-dovey stuff for when they’re alone together. OR it may be because they haven’t gotten as far, intimacy-wise, as rumor would have it), Lilly ought to totally understand.

I mean, hormones are VERY POWERFUL things. It’s not easy to fight them. Surely Lilly, of all people, would understand.

Except, of course, if you give up fighting them for the Wrong Reason.

Mia—what are you doing? Are you taking notes? I thought you readFranny and Zooeyalready!