"Is that how it is?" he asked.

What was that supposed to mean?

I had no idea what he was talking about. He sounded a little bit crazy, which wasn't at all like J.P. I mean, true, he does make me sit through a lot of Sean Penn films, because Sean Penn is his new favorite actor/director.

I have nothing against Sean Penn. I don't even mind that he ended up divorcing Madonna. I mean, I still like Shia LaBeouf even though he chose to star in Transformers, which turned out to be a movie about robots from s.p.a.ce.

That talk.

Which is just as bad as choosing to divorce Madonna, if you ask me.

Still. That doesn't mean J.P. is crazy. Even though he was laughing like that.

"I know you bought tickets," I said, going on as if I didn't actually suspect him of a cognitive imbalance. "So I'll pay you back for mine. Unless you want to take someone else."

"Mia!" J.P. stopped laughing all of a sudden. "I don't want to take anyone but you! Who else would I want to take?"

"Well, I don't know," I said. "I'm just saying. It's your senior prom, too. You should ask who you want."

"I'm asking you," J.P. said, sounding grumbly, which he used to do sometimes when he felt like going out, and I felt like staying in and writing. Only I couldn't tell him that's what I was doing, because of course he didn't know I was writing a real book, and not just a paper for my senior project.

"Are you?" I asked, a little surprised. "You're asking me right now?"

"Well, not right this minute," J.P. said quickly. "I realize I may have fallen down in the romantic prom invitation department. I plan to do it right. So expect an invitation soon. A real invitation that you won't be able to resist."

I have to admit, my heart kind of sped up when I heard this. And not in a happy, oh-he's-so-sweet kind of way, either. More in like a oh-no-what's-he-going-to-do sort of way. Because I honestly couldn't think of any way J.P. could ask me to the prom that could make dry chicken and bad music at the Waldorf at all appealing.

"Um," I said. "You're not going to do something that's going to embarra.s.s me in front of the whole school, are you?"

"No," J.P. said, sounding taken aback. "What are you talking about?"

"Well," I said. I knew I probably sounded insane, but I had to say it. So I said it fast, to get it out. "I saw this Lifetime movie once where to make a grand romantic gesture this guy wearing a full suit of armor rode up to this woman's office building to propose to her on a white horse. You know, because he wanted to be her knight in shining armor? You aren't going to ride up to Albert Einstein High wearing a suit of armor on a white horse and ask me to the prom, are you? Because that would truly be about nineteen levels of wrong. Oh, and the guy couldn't find a white horse so he painted a brown one white, which is cruelty to animals and also, the white paint rubbed off on the inside of his jeans, so when he got off the horse to kneel down to propose, he looked really dumb."

"Mia," J.P. said, sounding annoyed. Which, really, I guess I couldn't blame him. "I'm not going to ride up to Albert Einstein High in a suit of armor on a horse painted white to ask you to the prom. I think I can manage to think of something a little more romantic than that."

For some reason this a.s.sertion didn't make me feel any better, though.

"You know, J.P.," I said. "Prom is pretty lame. I mean, it's just dancing at the Waldorf. We can do that anytime."

"Not with all our friends," J.P. pointed out. "Right before we all graduate and go off to different colleges and possibly never see one another ever again."

"But we're going to do that," I reminded him, "at my birthday blowout on the Royal Genovian yacht Monday night."

"True," J.P. said. "But that won't be the same. All your relatives are going to be there. And it's not like we'll really get a chance to be alone afterward."

What was he talking about?

Oh...right. The paparazzi.

Wow. J.P. really wants to go to the prom. And do all the after-prom stuff, it sounds like.

I guess I can't really blame him. It is the last event we'll ever attend as AEHS students, besides graduation, which the administration has cleverly scheduled for the next day, in order to avoid what happened last year, when a few seniors got so drunk at a downtown club they had to be admitted to St. Vincent's for alcohol poisoning, after spray painting "The WMDs were hidden in my v.a.g.i.n.a" all over Washington Square Park. Princ.i.p.al Gupta seems to feel that if people know they have graduation the next day, they won't let themselves get quite that intoxicated this year.

So I said, "Okay. Well, I look forward to the invitation." Then I thought it might be better to change the subject, since we both seemed to be getting a little irritated with each other. "So. How did play rehearsal go?"

Then J.P. complained about Stacey Cheeseman's inability to remember her lines for about five minutes until I said I had to go because the pizzas had come. But that was a lie (Mia Thermopolis's Big Fat Lie Number Four), since the pizzas hadn't come.

The truth is, I'm scared. I know he's not going to ride up to the school in a full suit of armor on a horse painted white in order to ask me to the prom, because he said he wouldn't.

But he might do something equally embarra.s.sing.

I love J.P.-I know I keep writing that, but it's because I do. I don't love him the same way I loved Michael, it's true, but I still love him. J.P. and I have so much in common with the writing thing, and we're the same age, and Grandmere loves him and most of my friends (except Boris, for some reason) do too.

But sometimes I wish...G.o.d, I can't believe I'm even writing this-but sometimes...

Well. I worry that my mom might be right. She's the one who pointed out the fact that if I say I want to do something, J.P. always wants to do it, too. And if I say I don't want to do something, he always agrees he doesn't want to do it either.

The only time he hasn't agreed with me, in fact, was when I used to say I didn't want to hang out with him back when I was working on my book.

But that was just because he couldn't be with me. It was so romantic, really. All the girls said so. Especially Tina, who would know. I mean, what girl wouldn't want a boyfriend who wanted to be with her all the time, and always do whatever she wanted to do?

Mom was the only one who noticed this and asked me if it didn't drive me crazy. And when I asked her what she meant, she said, "Dating a chameleon. Does he even have his own personality, or is it all about accommodating yours?"

That's when we got into a huge argument about it. So huge we had to have an emergency therapy session with Dr. K.

She promised to keep her opinions about my love life to herself after that, since I pointed out I've never mentioned how I feel about hers. (Although, the truth is, I like Mr. G. Without him I wouldn't have Rocky.) I've totally never brought up the other thing about J.P., though. Not to Dr. K, and certainly not to my mom.

For one thing, it would probably make my mom happy. And for another...well, no relationship is perfect, anyway. Look at Tina and Boris. He still tucks his sweaters into his pants, despite her repeated requests that he not do so. But they're happy together. And Mr. G snores, but Mom solved that by wearing earplugs and using a white-noise machine.

I can deal with the fact that my boyfriend likes all the same things that I do and always wants to do everything that I do all the time.

It's the other thing about him I'm not sure I can deal with....

And now the pizzas really are here so I have to go.

Friday, April 28, midnight, the loft Okay. Deep breath. Calming down. It's going to be fine.

Just fine. I'm sure of it! More than sure. A hundred percent positive everything is going to be- Oh, G.o.d. Who am I kidding? I'm a wreck!

So...the family meeting turned out to be about a little more than just the election and Dad nagging me about which college I'm going to go to-in other words: It was a disaster.

It started out with Dad trying to give me a deadline: Election day. I've got until ED (also known as the prom) to decide where I'm going to spend the next four years of my life.

Then I've got to make a decision.

You'd think Dad would have more important things to worry about, what with Rene breathing down his neck in the polls.

Grandmere conferenced herself in, of course, and was giving her two cents (she wants me to go to Sarah Lawrence. Because that's where she would have gone, back in the age of drawn-on pantyhose, if she'd gone to college instead of marrying Grandpere). We all tried to ignore her, just like in family therapy, but it's impossible with Rocky around, because for some reason he loves Grandmere, even the sound of her voice (question: WHY?), and ran over to the phone and kept yelling, "Gwanmare, Gwanmare, you come over soon? Give Wocky big kiss?"

Can you imagine wanting that big wonk looming over you? She's not even technically related to him (lucky kid).

Anyway, yeah. That's what the big meeting was about-or at least, what it started off being about. Me deciding where I was going to go to school in eight days.

Thanks, guys! No pressure!

Dad says he doesn't care where I go, so long as I'm happy. But he's made it more than clear that if I don't go to an Ivy or Sarah Lawrence or one of the Seven Sisters, I might as well be committing hari-kari.

"Why don't you go to Yale?" he kept saying. "Isn't that where J.P. wants to go? You could go with him."

Of course Yale is where J.P. wants to go, because they have the fantastic drama department.

Except I can't go to Yale. It's too far from Manhattan. What if something were to happen to Rocky or Fat Louie-a freak flash fire or building collapse?-and I had to get back to the loft fast?

Besides, J.P. thinks I'm going to L'Universite de Genovia, and has already applied and resigned himself to going there with me. Even though L'Universite de Genovia has no drama department and I explained to him that by going there he's shooting all his own career aspirations in the foot. He said it didn't matter, so long as we can be together.

I guess it actually doesn't matter, since his dad will always be able to get his plays produced.

But anyway, none of that is what I'm freaking out about. It's what happened afterward.

It was after Grandmere had harangued me some more about the invitation list to my party-and said to Mr. G, "Do your niece and nephew have to attend? Because you know if I could scratch them off I could make room for the Beckhams"-and then finally hung up that Dad said, "I think you ought to show it to her now," and Mom said, "Really, Phillipe, I think you're being just a tad dramatic, there's no need for you to stay on the phone, I'll give it to her later," and Dad said, "I'm part of this family, too, and I want to be here to support her, even if I can't actually be there in the flesh," and Mom said, "You're overreacting. But if you insist," and she got up and went into her room.

And I went, starting to feel a bit nervous, "What's going on?"

And Mr. G said, "Oh, nothing. Your dad just e-mailed something he saw on international business CNN."

"And I want you to see it, Mia," Dad said, through the speakerphone, "before someone tells you about it at school."

And my heart sank, because I figured it was some new scheme of Rene's to junk up Genovia in order to get more tourists to go there. Maybe he was going to put a Hard Rock Cafe in there, and try to get Clay Aiken to come and play at its grand opening.

Only it wasn't. When Mom came out of her bedroom with a printout of what Dad e-mailed her, I saw that it had nothing to do with Rene at all.

It was this: NEW YORK (AP)-Robotic arms are the future for surgery, and one in particular, dubbed the CardioArm, will be revolutionizing cardiac surgery, already making its creator-Michael Moscovitz, 21, of Manhattan-a very wealthy man.

His invention is being billed as the first surgical robot compatible with advanced imaging technology. Moscovitz spent two years leading a team of j.a.panese scientists designing CardioArm for his small company, Pavlov Surgical.

The stock of Pavlov Surgical, Moscovitz's high-tech company with a monopoly on selling robotic surgical arms in the United States, has surged nearly 500 percent over the last year. a.n.a.lysts believe that the rally is far from over.

That's because demand for Moscovitz's product is growing, and so far his small company has the market all to itself.

The surgical arm, which is controlled remotely by surgeons, was approved by the Food and Drug Administration for general surgery last year.

The CardioArm system is considered to be more precise and less invasive than traditional surgical tools that include small handheld surgical cameras inserted into the body during surgery. Recovery from surgery performed by the CardioArm system is considerably faster than recovery from traditional surgery.

"What you can do with the robotic arm-with the capabilities in manipulation and visualization-you just can't do any other way," said Dr. Arthur Ward, head of cardiology at Columbia University Medical Center.

There are already 50 CardioArms operating in American hospitals, with a waiting list of hundreds more, but with a price tag ranging from $1 million to $1.5 million, the systems don't come cheap. Moscovitz has donated several CardioArm systems to children's hospitals nationwide, and will be donating a new one to Columbia University Medical Center this weekend, a fact for which the university, his alma mater, is grateful.

"This is a highly perfected, highly sought-after, very unique technology," said Ward. "In terms of robotics, CardioArm is the clear leader. Moscovitz has done something extraordinary for the field of surgical medicine."

Wow. The ex-girlfriend is always the last to know.

But whatever. It's not like this changes anything.

I mean, so what? So Michael's genius is universally acknowledged, the way it always should have been. He deserves all the money and acclaim. He worked really hard for it. I knew he was going to save children's lives, and now he's doing it.

I just...I guess I just...

Well, I just can't believe he didn't tell me!

On the other hand, what was he going to say in his last e-mail, exactly? "Oh, by the way, my robotic surgical arm is a huge success, it's saving lives nationwide, and my company has the fastest-trading stock on Wall Street?"

Oh, no, that wouldn't be too braggy.

And anyway, I'm the one who freaked out and stopped e-mailing him when he asked if he could read my senior project. For all I know, maybe he was going to mention that his CardioArm is selling for $1.5 million a pop and has a stronghold on the robotic-surgical-arm market.

Or, "I'm coming back to America and donating one of my robotic surgical arms to Columbia University Medical Center on Sat.u.r.day, so maybe I'll see you."

I just never gave him the chance, being the super rude one who never wrote back after the last time we corresponded.

And for all I know, Michael's been back to America a dozen times since we broke up, to visit his family and whatnot. Why would he mention it to me? It's not like we're going to get together for coffee or anything. We're broken up.

And h.e.l.lo, I already have a boyfriend.

It's just...in the article, it said, Michael Moscovitz, 21, of Manhattan. Not Tsukuba, j.a.pan.

So. He's obviously living here now. He's here. He asked to read my senior project, and he's here.

Panic attack.

I mean, before, when he was in j.a.pan, and he asked to see my senior project, I could have been like, "Oh, I sent it to you, didn't you get it? No? That's so weird. Let me try sending it again."

But now, if I see him, and he asks...

Oh my G.o.d. What am I going to do?????

Wait...Whatever. It's not like he's asked to see me! I mean, he's here, isn't he? And has he called? No.

E-mailed? No.

Of course...I'm the one who owes him an e-mail. He's politely observed e-mail etiquette and waited for me to e-mail him back. What must he think, since I totally stopped communicating when he asked to read my book? He must think I'm the biggest byotch, as Lana would say. Here he made the nicest offer-an offer my own boyfriend has never made, by the way-and I totally went missing in action....

G.o.d, remember that weird thing where I used to want to smell his neck all the time? It's like I couldn't feel calm or happy or something unless I smelled his neck. That was so...geek, as Lana would say.

Of course...if I remember correctly, Michael always did smell a lot better than J.P., who continues to smell like dry cleaning. I tried buying him some cologne for his birthday, like Lana suggested- It didn't work. He wears it, but now he just smells like cologne. Over dry-cleaning fluid.

I just can't believe Michael's been back in town and I didn't even know it! I'm so glad Dad told me! I could have run into him at Bigelow's or Forbidden Planet and without having any advanced warning he was back, I might have done something incredibly stupid when I saw him. Such as pee myself. Or blurt out, "You look incredible!"