Princess Mia

Sunday, September 19, 2 a.m., Tina Hakim Baba’s bedroom

  Oh. My. God.

  So Tina was just finishing pouring melted butter over the low-fat microwave popcorn to make it actually taste like something when the doorman announced that Boris and “a friend” were down in the lobby.

  Tina flipped out, of course, because she’s not supposed to have boys over when her parents aren’t home.

  But Boris got on the intercom and said he was only dropping something off, a present for us. So, of course, Tina couldn’t resist letting them come up. Because, as she put it, “Present!!!!!”

  But if you ask me the present was just an excuse so that Boris could come up and make out with Tina. Because all “the present” was was a couple of containers of Häagen-Dazs. (To be honest, they were our favorite flavors, vanilla Swiss almond and macadamia brittle. But still.)

  The real surprise—at least to me—was that the “friend” turned out to be J.P.

  I didn’t even know J.P. and Boris hung out that much. I mean, outside of the lunchroom.

  J.P. looked shockingly…well, good as he followed Boris into Tina’s apartment. I don’t know what he’s done to himself, but he looks all tall and…guylike.

  The thing is, I don’t normally notice this kind of thing about any guy except Michael. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Maybe it was just the shock of seeing J.P. in a setting outside of school, or in jeans instead of his school uniform or theater-going clothes. Maybe it’s just all the people who keep telling me how hot J.P. is, rubbing off on me.

  Or maybe I’m just hot-guy-deprived, on account of not having had Michael around for so long, or something.

  Still, it was weird. J.P., in addition to looking hot, looked kind of abashed, too. He shuffled in and said hi to me, while Tina was squealing over the ice cream and running to get spoons.

  Tina is not the hardest person to please when it comes to presents. Case in point, she will practically faint over anything from Kay Jewelers.

  “Hi,” I said back. And I don’t know why (well, I do know why: it was the hot thing), but it was weird. I guess mainly it was weird because J.P. had asked me what I was doing tonight and I’d sort of blown him off and…well, there we were together.

  But also because of the hot thing.

  And things got progressively weirder. Because even though at first things were cool, and we were all eating the ice cream and watching Ever After (Tina told the guys they could stay for ONE movie, but then they had to go, because if her parents found them there, they’d kill her. Well, her dad would, anyway. He’d probably kill Boris, too, and in a particularly painful way he’d learned from Tina’s bodyguard, Wahim, who’d been given the night off, along with Lars, since they’d been informed we were “in” for the evening).

  But then Tina and Boris stopped paying attention to the movie and started paying attention to each other. A LOT of attention. Like, basically their tongues were in each other’s mouths. Right in front of J.P. and me! Which wasn’t TOO embarrassing (not).

  After a while I couldn’t take the slurping noises anymore (even though I kept turning up the volume on the TV. But even Drew’s pseudo-British accent couldn’t drown out those two).

  So finally I grabbed the melting ice cream containers and said, “Somebody should put these in the freezer before they make a mess,” and jumped up to leave the room.

  Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, I don’t know—J.P. said, “I’ll help you,” and followed me. Even though how hard is it to return two ice cream containers to the freezer? I totally could have done it by myself.

  Inside the Hakim Babas’ cool, clean kitchen, with its black granite counters and Sub-Zero appliances, J.P. grabbed a root beer from the fridge, then pulled out a kitchen counter stool and slid onto it while I fought to find space in the crowded freezer for the ice cream. There were a LOT of Healthy Choice frozen dinners in there (Tina’s dad is supposed to be watching his calories and cholesterol).

  “So,” J.P. said conversationally. In the background, we could hear the television from the media room, but not, thank God, the slurping noises anymore. “You missed a lot of school last week.”

  “Uh,” I said, as I wrestled with what looked like a frozen beef tenderloin. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

  “How are you doing now?” J.P. wanted to know. “I mean, you must have a lot of make-up work.”

  “Yeah,” I said. The truth is, I’ve barely looked at all that. When you’re sunk as deep in a hole as I am, homework doesn’t seem all that important. Not as important as new jeans, anyway. “I’ll get to it tomorrow, I guess.”

  “Yeah? What’d you do today, then?”

  I was so busy jamming the meat deeper into the freezer that I didn’t even think about my reply. “I went shopping with Lana,” I said with a grunt. Then, FINALLY, the meat gave way, and I was able to slide the ice cream into the freezer.

  It wasn’t until I slammed the freezer door shut and turned around, brushing ice shards off my hands, that I saw J.P.’s expression and realized what I’d just admitted.

  “Lana?” he echoed incredulously.

  I glanced toward the hallway to the media room. Empty, fortunately. Boris and Tina were still, um, occupied.

  “Uh,” I said, feeling my stomach lurch. What had I done? “Yeah. About that…I don’t know where that came from. I wasn’t going to tell anybody.”

  “I can see why,” J.P. said. “I mean, LANA? On the other hand, is she the one who picked out that shirt?”

  I looked down at the silky babydoll top I was wearing. I’ll admit, it was pretty cute. And low-cut.

  And, amazingly, with one of my new bras—and my new chest size—I actually had a tiny bit of cleavage in it. Nothing trashy, but definitely there.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, feeling myself blush. “Lana’s a really good shopper….” Which might just be about the lamest thing I have ever said. And I mean ever.

  But J.P. just nodded and went, “I can see that. I think she’s found her calling. But how on earth did THAT happen?”

  Hesitantly, I told him about Domina Rei, and how Lana’s mother had asked me to speak at a Domina Rei event she’s in charge of, and how Lana had thanked me for agreeing to do so, and how one thing led to another, and…

  “I get all that,” J.P. said when I was done. “I mean, I can see Lana asking you to go shopping with her. She’s wanted to get in good with you for years. But why did you say YES?”

  I don’t really know how to explain what happened next. I mean, why I said what I did. Maybe it was because it was just the two of us in the Hakim Babas’ quiet kitchen (well, quiet except for the dishwasher, cleaning our pizza plates. But it was one of those super silent ones that just went swish-swish all softly).

  Maybe it was because J.P. looked so out of place sitting there—this big, raw-boned-looking guy in this fancy kitchen, with the sleeves of his charcoal cashmere sweater shoved up to his elbows, and his faded jeans and Timberlands and his hair kind of sticking up in tufts because he’d been wearing a hat outside. We’re having a surprising cold snap, for September. The meteorologists all blame global warming.

  Or maybe it was the hot thing again—that, you know, he did look…well, pretty cute.

  Or maybe it’s just that I DON’T know him—at least, not as well as I know Tina and Boris and the other friends I have left, now that Lilly’s no longer speaking to me.

  Whatever it was, suddenly, before I could stop myself, I heard myself going, “Well, you see, the thing is, I’m in therapy, and my therapist says I have to do something every day that scares me. And I thought shopping with Lana Weinberger would be really scary. Only it turned out it wasn’t.”

  Then I bit my lip. Because, you know. That’s a lot to unload on someone. Especially a guy. Especially a guy with whom you’ve been romantically linked in the press, even if there is absolutely, categorically no truth to the rumors, whatsoever.

  J.P. didn’t say anything right away. He just sat there peeling the labe
l off his bottle of root beer with his thumbnail. He seemed really interested in the level of liquid left in the bottle.

  Which wasn’t the best sign, you know? Like that he couldn’t even look at me.

  “It’s weird,” I said, feeling totally panicky all of a sudden. Like I was slipping farther down that hole than ever. “It’s weird that I just admitted I’m in therapy to you, isn’t it? You think I’m a freak now. Right? I mean, a bigger freak than before.”

  But instead of making up an excuse about how he had to go now, as I expected him to, J.P. looked up from his bottle in surprise. And smiled.

  And I felt the sliding sensation I was experiencing subside a little. And not just because the smile made him look cuter than ever.

  “Are you kidding me?” he asked. “I was just wondering if there’s any kid at Albert Einstein who ISN’T in therapy. Besides Tina and Boris, I mean.”

  I blinked at him. “Wait…you, too?”

  J.P. snorted. “Since I was twelve. Well, that’s when I developed this total affinity for dropping bottles off the roof of our high-rise. It was a stupid thing to do…somebody could have gotten killed. Eventually I got caught—deservedly so—and my parents have seen to it that I haven’t missed a weekly session since.”

  I couldn’t believe this. Someone else I knew was going through the same thing I was? No way.

  I slid onto the kitchen stool next to J.P.’s and asked eagerly, “Do you have to do something that scares you every day, too?”

  “Uh,” J.P. said. “No. I’m supposed to do FEWER scary things every day, actually.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling vaguely disappointed. “Well. Is it working?”

  “Lately,” J.P. said. He took a sip of his root beer. “Lately it’s been working great. Do you want one of these?”

  I shook my head. “How long did it take?” I asked. This was amazing. I couldn’t believe I was actually talking to someone who’d been through—was going through—the same thing I was. Or something similar, anyway. “I mean, before you started feeling better? Before it started working?”

  J.P. looked at me with a funny smile on his face. It took me a minute before I realized it was pitying. He felt sorry for me.

  “That bad, huh?” he asked. Not in a mean way. Like he genuinely felt bad for me.

  But that’s not what I want. I don’t want anyone to feel bad for me. It’s stupid I even feel so awful about everything, when, in general, I have a fantastic life. I mean, look at what Lana has to put up with—a mother who sold her beloved pony without even telling her, and a threat that if she doesn’t get into an Ivy League college she can kiss her parents’ financial support good-bye. I’m a PRINCESS, for crying out loud. I can do whatever I want. I can buy whatever I want. Well, within reason. The one thing—the one thing I don’t have—is the man I love.

  And it’s my own stupid fault that I lost him in the first place.

  “I’ve just been a little down,” I said quickly. I didn’t mention the part about not wanting to get out of bed all week.

  “Michael?” J.P. asked. Not without compassion.

  I nodded. I didn’t think I could have spoken if I had wanted to. This big lump had formed in my throat, the way it always does when I hear—when I even think—his name.

  But it turned out I didn’t have to speak. J.P. let go of the root beer bottle and put his hand on mine, instead.

  I sort of wish he hadn’t, though. Because that just made me feel more like crying than ever. Because I couldn’t help comparing his hand—which was large and guylike, but not quite as large and guylike—to someone else’s.

  “Hey,” he said softly, giving my fingers a squeeze. “It gets better. I promise.”

  “Really?” I asked. It was too late now. The tears were coming. I tried to choke them back as best I could. “It’s not just…just Michael, you know,” I heard myself assuring him. Because I didn’t want anyone to think I was depressed just because of a boy. Even if that really was the truth. “I mean, there’s the whole thing with Lilly. I can’t believe she really thinks you and I—that you and I would ever—”

  “Hey,” J.P. said, looking a little alarmed, I think at how fast my tears were coming. “Hey.”

  And the next thing I knew, he had wrapped me in his big bearlike embrace, and I was weeping onto the front of his sweater. Which smelled like dry-cleaning fluid.

  A fact that actually just made me weep harder, when I remembered that I would never again get to smell the one thing that I miss and love more than any other…Michael’s neck.

  Which definitely does not smell of dry-cleaning fluid.

  “Shhh,” J.P. said, patting me on the back while I cried. “It’s going to be okay. It really is.”

  “I don’t see how,” I sobbed. “Lilly hates me! She won’t even look at me!”

  “Well, maybe that should tell you something,” J.P. said.

  “Tell me what?” I hiccupped against his chest. “That she hates me? I already know that.”

  “No,” J.P. said. “That maybe she’s not as great a friend as you’ve always thought she was.”

  This actually caused me to stop crying and sit back and blink at him tearfully.

  “Wh-what do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, just that if she really was as good a friend as you seem to think,” J.P. said, “she wouldn’t believe that there’s anything going on between you and me. Because she’d know you aren’t capable of something like that. She certainly wouldn’t be mad at you for something you didn’t even do—despite maybe a little evidence to the contrary. I mean, did she even bother asking you if that thing in the Post about us was true?”

  I dabbed at the corners of my eyes with a napkin J.P. pulled out of a nearby holder and handed to me.

  “No,” I said.

  “I haven’t had a lot of friends,” J.P. said. “I’ll admit it. But I still don’t think friends treat each other that way—just believing something they read or heard without even confirming whether or not it’s really true. Right? I mean, what kind of friend does that?”

  “I know,” I said with a last, shuddering little sob. “You’re right.”

  “Look,” J.P. said. “I know you’ve been friends with her forever, Mia. But there’s a lot of stuff about Lilly I don’t think you know. Stuff she told me when we were going out that—well, I mean, for instance, she was always pretty jealous of you.”

  I stared at him, totally astonished.

  “What are you TALKING about?” I cried. “Why on earth would Lilly ever be jealous of ME?”

  “For the same reason I imagine a lot of girls—including Lana Weinberger—are jealous of you. You’re pretty, you’re smart, you’re popular, you’re a princess, everyone likes you—”

  “WHAT?” I was laughing now. In disbelief. But still. It was better than crying. “I look like a Q-tip! And I’m flunking half my classes! And MOST of the people in school think I’m nothing but a five-foot-nine, I mean-ten, flat-chested freak—”

  “Maybe some of them used to think that,” J.P. said, smiling at me. “And maybe to some of them, you used to seem that way. But, Mia, you need to take a good look at yourself in the mirror. You aren’t that person anymore. And maybe that’s what Lilly’s problem is. You’ve changed…and she hasn’t.”

  “That…that’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m still the same old Mia—”

  “Who eats meat and goes shopping with Lana Weinberger,” J.P. pointed out. “Face it, Mia. You’re not the same person you used to be. That doesn’t mean you aren’t BETTER, or that there aren’t people who are going to love you no matter what you eat or who you hang out with. But not everyone is going to be able to wrap their minds around it the way, say, Tina and I have.”

  I blinked at him some more. Could this be true? Could the real reason Lilly wanted nothing to do with me be because, far from being disgusted with me, she’s actually jealous of me?

  “But that’s so absurd!” I finally burst out. “Lilly’s so much smarter
and more accomplished than I am. She’s a genius, for crying out loud! What could I possibly have that she doesn’t? Except a tiara.”

  “That’s a big part of it,” J.P. said with a shrug. “The fact that you’re a princess is really special. I’ve never understood why you’ve never thought so. Most people would kill to be royal, and yet you spend all your time wishing you weren’t. Not that being royal is all that makes you special…by any means.”

  “If you spent five minutes in my shoes,” I grumbled, “you’d realize how not special being me really is. Believe me. There’s not a special bone in my body.”

  “Mia,” J.P. said, lifting up my hand from the counter. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you—”

  But it was right at that moment that the doorman buzzed up to let Tina know her parents were in the foyer (good thing Tina regularly slips the guy batches of her homemade chocolate-chocolate-chip cookies, so he’s totally willing to do her bidding). Tina came barreling in, looking wild-eyed, yelling that Boris and J.P. had to leave through the servants’ entrance RIGHT THEN…which they promptly did.

  So I never did get to find out what it was J.P. was going to tell me.

  After they were gone, and we’d said hi to her parents and gone into Tina’s room to get away from them, Tina apologized for having spent so much time in a liplock with Boris.

  “It’s just,” she said, “he’s so cute, sometimes I can’t help myself.”

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “I understand.”

  “Still,” Tina fretted. “It was terrible of us to rub how happy we are in your face, when you’re still trying to get over Michael. What did you and J.P. end up talking about, anyway?”

  “Oh,” I said uncomfortably. “Nothing, really.”

  Tina looked surprised. “Because Boris said when he mentioned you were spending the night with me, J.P. wouldn’t stop talking about how the two of them had to come over here. Even though Boris explained about my dad’s rule. But J.P. kept saying he had something really important he had to tell you, and practically forced Boris to bring him here. Are you sure he didn’t say anything?”

  “Well, we talked about a lot of stuff,” I said. I hate lying to Tina! But I can’t tell her we talked about being in therapy. I’m just not ready to admit that to her yet. I know it’s stupid—I know she wouldn’t judge me. But…I just can’t. “You know. Mostly about Lilly.”