Meg Cabot - Princess Mia

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.

Which was totally sweet of him.

But when your life is crumbling around you, the last place in the world you want to be is school…no matter how many cute guys there say they miss you.

Wednesday, September 15, 8 a.m., the loft

Mom came bursting in here this morning, her mouth practically invisible, she had her lips pressed together so tightly. She said she gets that I’m sad. She said that she gets that I feel like there’s no point in living because my boyfriend dumped me, my best friend isn’t speaking to me, and I have no choice over what career I’m going to have someday. She says she gets that my palms won’t stop sweating, I have heart palpitations, and my tongue is a funny color.

But then she said that three days of wallowing is her limit. She said I was getting up and getting dressed and going to school if she had to drag me to the shower and stick me under the nozzle herself.

I just stayed exactly where I’ve been for the past seventy-two hours—my bed—and looked at her without saying anything. I couldn’t believe she could be so cold. I mean, really.

Then she tried a different tactic. She started to cry. She said she’s really worried about me and that she doesn’t know what to do. She says she’s never seen me this way—that I didn’t even do anything the other day when Rocky tried to stick a dime up his nose. She said a week ago I’d have been freaking out over loose change around the house being a choking hazard.

Now I didn’t even care.

Which isn’t true. Idon’t want Rocky to choke. And Idon’t want to make my mother cry.

But at the same time, I don’t see what I can do to keep either of these things from happening.

Then Mom switched tack again, and stopped crying, and asked if I wanted her to bring out the big guns. She said that she doesn’t want to bother Dad while he’s busy with the United Nations General Assembly, but that I really wasn’t leaving her much choice. Was that what I wanted her to do? To bother my dad with this?

I told her she could call Dad if she wanted to. I told her that I’d been meaning to talk to Dad anyway about moving to Genovia full time. Because the truth is, I don’t want to live in Manhattan anymore.

All I wanted was for Mom to leave me alone so I could continue feeling sorry for myself in peace. My plan actually worked…a littletoo well. She got so upset, she ran out of my room and started crying again.

I really didn’t mean to make her cry! I’m sorry to have made her feel bad. Especially because I don’t really want to move to Genovia. I’m sure they won’t let me lounge around in bed all day there. Which I’m really sort of starting to like doing. I have a whole little schedule now. Every morning, I get up before anyone else does and have breakfast—usually whatever leftovers are in the fridge from the evening meal the night before—and feed Fat Louie and clean out his box.

Then I get back into bed, and eventually Fat Louie joins me, and together we watch the top ten video countdown on MTV, and then the one on VH1. When either Mom or Mr. G comes in and tries to get me to go to school, I say no…which usually exhausts me so much, I have to take a little nap.

Then I wake up in time to watchThe View and two back-to-back episodes ofJudging Amy.

After I make sure no one else is around, I go out into the kitchen and have some lunch—a ham sandwich or microwave popcorn or something. It doesn’t matter much what—and then get back into bed with Fat Louie and watch Judge Milian onThe People’s Court , and thenJudge Judy.