Tears were totally streaming down my face. But I pretended like they weren’t.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Sweet!”
“But he didn’t say anything about that at lunch?” Tina asked. “You guys didn’t talk about it at all?”
“Nope,” I said. “I mean, Tina…I’m with J.P. now. I would never do that to him.”
Liar!
“Gee,” Tina said. “Well, of course not. You’re not that kind of girl!”
“Nope,” I said. “I gotta go. I’m gonna hit the hay early to get my beauty sleep for the prom.”
“Oh, sure,” Tina said. “Me too! Well, see you tomorrow!”
“See you,” I said, and hung up.
Then I bawled like a baby for, like, ten whole minutes, until Mom came into my room looking all bewildered, and was like, “What’s the matter now?”
And I just went, “Hold me, Mommy.”
And even though I’m eighteen and a legal adult, I crawled into my mom’s lap and stayed there for, like, ten minutes, until Rocky came over and went, “YOU’RE not the baby! I am!”
And Mom said, “She gets to be the baby sometimes.”
So then Rocky thought about it, and finally said, “Okay,” and patted me on the cheek and said, “Good baby.”
Somehow, this made me feel better.
At least a little bit.
Saturday, May 6, midnight, the loft
I just got the following e-mail from J.P.
Mia,
I’ve tried to call you a few times, but you aren’t picking up. I know you’re probably really mad at me, but just, please, listen to what I have to say…. I know you asked me notto, but I spoke to Sean anyway about your book. Please don’t be mad. I only did it because I love you, and I want what’s best for you.
And when you hear what Sean just called and told me, I think you’re going to be pleased that I spoke to him: He’s good friends with the president of Sunburst Publishing (you know, they do all those novels that get reviewed in The New York Times that you never read, the ones that got turned into movies starring all Sean’s friends). And they would LOVE to publish your book (providing they can do so under HRH Princess Amelia Renaldo of Genovia). Sean says they’d be willing to offer a quarter of a million dollars for it.
Isn’t that fantastic, Mia? Don’t you think you should reconsider that other offer you got? I mean, it’s a tiny percentage of that.
Anyway, I just thought I’d try to help. Sweet dreams, and…I can’t wait until tomorrow night.
I love you,
J.P.
So.
The thing is, I probably should take Sunburst Publishing’s offer. That quarter of a million dollars…that’s a ton more money that I could donate to Greenpeace. But…Sunburst Publishing has never even read my book. They have no idea if it’s any good. They’re just offering to publish it because of who I am.
And that’s just not how I want to get a publishing contract. That’s like…writing a play about your girlfriend, the princess. In a way.
I know baby seals and the rain forests are going to suffer because of my selfishness, but…
I just can’t do it. I CAN’T.
I suck. I suck more than any human being on the planet.
Saturday, May 6, 10 a.m., the loft
All I could think about all night long was J.P. and the baby seals I’m not saving by not taking Sunburst Publishing’s money.
And Michael, of course.
I don’t think I slept for more than a few hours. It was terrible.
I woke with a splitting headache and still no idea what I’m going to do about the two of them, to find exit polls in Genovia showing my dad totally tied with René in today’s election for prime minister.
Almost all the news outlets I’ve seen credit Lilly’s commercial (although they don’t name her, of course) and the donation of new state-of-the-art medical equipment to the Royal Genovian Hospital as reasons for Dad’s sudden boost in the polls.
I seriously can’t believe it if it’s true. The Moscovitzes saved the prime ministry for my dad?
And yet…
Has there ever been anything either of them hasn’t been able to accomplish if they’ve set their mind to it?
No. Not really. It’s scary, actually.
The polls close at noon our time (which is six Genovia time). So we’ve got two more hours to go. Mr. G is making waffles (regular ones this time, not heart-shaped) while we wait for the call.
I’m keeping everything I have crossed for luck.
There’s no way René can win. I mean…no way. Not even Genovians can be that stupid.
Oh, wait. Did I just write that?
Tonight is the prom. I know I have to go…I can’t get out of it.
And yet there’s never been anything I’ve less wanted to do in my entire life.
And that includes becoming a princess.
Saturday, May 6, noon, the loft
The polls are closed.
Dad just called.
It’s officially too close to tell.
I wish I hadn’t eaten so many waffles. I feel totally sick.
Saturday, May 6, 1 p.m., the loft
Grandmère is here. She brought Sebastiano and all the dresses I’m supposed to choose from for the prom as her excuse for why she showed up.
But you can tell she’s here because she just didn’t want to wait alone in her condo at the Plaza for the results.
I know how she feels.