Sitting up, Hugo found his hands well tied behind his back. There was certainly nothing lacking in the girl’s knot-tying education. His bonds were not tight enough to cut off the circulation, yet not loose enough to give way.

Lifting his gaze, he found his fair captor kneeling a few feet away from him, her elfin face pale in a halo of wildly curling red hair, hair so long that the ends of it twined amongst the violets below her knees. Her lawn shirt was untucked and sticking to her still-wet body in places, so that her nipples were plainly visible through the thin material.

Quirking up an eyebrow, Hugo realized that the girl was completely unaware of the devastating effect her looks had on him. Or at least, aware only that naked, she made a fetching distraction.

 

Monday, May 1, 7:45 a.m., limo on the way to school

I got up this morning when the alarm rang (even though I hadn’t slept a BIT, wondering if Michael had read my book—I KNOW!!! All I could think, all night, was, “Has he read it yet? What about now? Do you think he’s read it now?” And then I’d freak out, going, “What do I care if my EX-boyfriend has read my book? Pull yourself together, Mia! It doesn’t matter what HE thinks! What about your CURRENT boyfriend?” and then I’d lie awake freaking out about J.P. Had HE read it? What had HE thought about it? Had HE liked it? What if he hadn’t?), and pulled Fat Louie off my chest and staggered to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth, and as I was staring at myself in the mirror (and the way my hair was sticking up in funny clumps—thank God I finally got more phytodefrisant), it suddenly hit me.

I’m eighteen.

And a legal adult.

And a princess (of course).

But now, thanks to the information Tina gave me yesterday, I’m pretty sure I’m basically the only virgin left in this year’s Albert Einstein High’s graduating class.

Yeah. Do the math: Tina and Boris—lost it this past summer.

Lilly and Kenneth? Obviously, they’ve been having sex for ages. You can just tell by the way they fondle each other in the hallway (which, thanks: I so want to see that on my way to Trig). So inappropriate.

Lana? Please. She left her virginity behind back in the days of one Mr. Josh Richter.

Trisha? Ditto, although not with Josh. At least, I’m pretty sure, unless he’s an even bigger dog than any of us suspect (likely).

Shameeka? The way her dad guards her like she’s all the gold in Fort Knox combined? She told me last year she busted out in the tenth grade (not that any of us ever suspected, she wasthat discreet about it) with that senior she was dating, what’s-his-name.

Perin and Ling Su? No comment.

And then there’s my boyfriend, J.P. He says he’s been waiting his whole life for the right person, and he knows that person is me, and when I’m ready, he’ll be ready, too. He can wait for all eternity, if he has to.

Which leaves who?

Oh, yeah. Me.

And God knowsI’ve never done it, despite what everyone (well, okay, Tina) apparently seems to think.

Honestly? It’s just never come up. Between J.P. and me, I mean. Except for the whole J.P. being willing to wait for all eternity thing (such a refreshing change from mylast boyfriend). I mean, for one thing, J.P. is the epitome of gentlemanlike behavior. He iscompletely unlike Michael in that regard. He has never let his hands drift below my neck for so much as asecond while we’re kissing.

Truthfully, I’d be worried he wasn’t interested if he hadn’t told me that he respects my boundaries and doesn’t want to go any further than I’m prepared to.

Which is very nice of him.

The thing is, I don’t really know what my boundaries are. I’ve never had a chance to test my boundaries out. With J.P., anyway.

It was just so…different, I guess, when I was going out with Michael. I mean, he never asked about my boundaries. He just sort of went for it, and if I had any objections, I was supposed to speak up. Or move his hand. Which I did. Frequently. Not because I didn’t like where it was, but because his—or my—parents or roommate were always walking in.

The problem with Michael was that when things started getting going, in the heat of the moment, and all, I often didn’twant to say something—or move his hand—because I liked what was going on too much.

That’s my problem—the other thing—my horrible, terrible secret that I can never tell anyone, not even Dr. K:

With J.P., I never feel that way. Partly because things never get that far. But also because…well.

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 theBourne movies look like Oliver fromHannah 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 theOther 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 theAtom . 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.)