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I suppose I could just do what Tina did with Boris, and jump his bones. I’ve seen J.P. in his bathing suit (he’s come to visit me in Genovia) plenty of times. But jumping his bones has just never occurred to me. It’s not like he’s not hot or anything. He totally works out. Lana says J.P. makes Matt Damon from the Bourne movies look like Oliver from Hannah Montana.
I just don’t know what’s wrong with me! It’s not like I’ve lost my sex drive, because yesterday during the wrestling match over the iPhone with Michael, and again, when he hugged me—it was there, all right.
It just doesn’t seem to be there with J.P. That’s the Other Thing.
This isn’t something I particularly want to think about on my birthday, though. Not when I’ve already had the joyous wonder of waking up in the morning and looking at myself in the mirror and realizing I’m eighteen; I’m a princess; and I’m a virgin.
You know what? At this point in my life, I might as well be a unicorn.
Happy freaking birthday to me.
Anyway, Mom, Mr. G, and Rocky were all up waiting for me with homemade heart-shaped waffles as a breakfast surprise (the heart-shaped waffle maker was a wedding gift for them from Martha Stewart). Which was super sweet of them. I mean, they didn’t know about my discovery (that I’m such a societal freak, I might as well be a unicorn).
Then Dad called from Genovia while we were eating to wish me a happy birthday and remind me today is the day I come into my full allowance as princess royale (not enough money to buy my own penthouse on Park Avenue, but enough to rent one if I need to), and not to spend it all in one place (ha ha ha, he hasn’t forgotten my spending spree at Bendel’s that one time and the subsequent donation I gave to Amnesty International) because it only gets replenished once a year.
I’ll admit, he got a little choked up on the phone and said he never thought, back when he met me at the Plaza four years ago to explain to me that I was actually the heir to the throne and I got the hiccups and acted like such a little freak about finding out I was a princess and all, that I’d turn out this well (if you consider this well).
I got a little choked up myself, and said I hoped there were no ill feelings about the constitutional monarchy thing, especially since we still get to keep the title, the throne, the palace, the crowns, the jewels, and the jet, and all that.
He said not to be ridiculous, all gruffly, which I knew meant he was about to cry from the emotion of it all, and hung up.
Poor Dad. He’d be a lot better off if he’d just meet and marry a nice girl (and not a supermodel, like the president of France did, though I’m sure she’s very nice).
But he’s still looking for love in all the wrong places. Like fancy underwear catalogs.
At least he knows enough not to date while he’s campaigning.
Then Mom came out with her present to me, which was a collage incorporating all the things from our lives together, including things like ticket stubs from train rides to women’s reproductive rights rallies in Washington, D.C., and my old overalls from when I was six, and pictures of Rocky when he was a baby, and pictures of Mom and me painting the loft, and Fat Louie’s collar from when he was a kitten, and snapshots of me in my Halloween costume as Joan of Arc and stuff.
Mom said it was so I wouldn’t be homesick when I went to college.
Which was totally sweet of her and completely brought tears to my eyes.
Until she reminded me I need to hurry up and make my decision about where I’m going to college next year.
Okay! Yeah, I’ll be sure to get right on that! Push me out of the loft, why don’t you?
I know she and Dad and Mr. G mean well. But it’s not that easy. I have a lot of things on my mind right now. Like how yesterday my best friend confessed she’s been having sex regularly with her boyfriend and never told me until now, and like how before that I gave my novel to my ex-boyfriend to read, and how now I have to go turn in the article I wrote on said ex-boyfriend to his sister, who hates me, and later on tonight I have to attend a party on a yacht with three hundred of my closest friends, most of whom I don’t even know because they’re celebrities my grandma, who’s a dowager princess of a small European country, invited.
And, oh, yeah, my actual boyfriend has had my novel for more than twenty-four hours and hasn’t read it and wouldn’t come to eat at Applebee’s with me.
Could someone possibly cut me a tiny piece of slack?
Life’s not easy for unicorns, you know. We’re a dying breed.
Monday, May 1, Homeroom
Okay, so I just left the offices of the Atom. I’m still shaking a little.
There was no one in there but Lilly when I went in just now. I put on a big fake smile (like I always do when I see my ex-best friend) and went, “Hi, Lilly. Here’s the story on your brother,” and handed the article to her. (I was up until one o’clock last night writing it. How do you write four hundred words on your ex-boyfriend and keep it a piece of impartial journalism? Answer: You can’t. I nearly had an embolism doing it. But I don’t think you can tell from reading it that I spilled hot chocolate on and then smelled the subject.)
Lilly looked up from whatever she was doing on the school computer (I couldn’t help remembering that stage she went through when she used to put the names of deities and then dirty words into Google just to see what kind of websites she’d come up with. God, those were the days. I miss those days.) and went, “Oh, hi, Mia. Thanks.”
Then she added, sort of hesitantly, “Happy birthday.”
!!!!! She remembered!!!!
Well, I guess the fact that Grandmère sent her an invitation to my party might have been a slight reminder.
