Actually, as long as I’m confessing everything, I should admit there was more than kissing. There was a little—discreet—below-the-neck action as well. I really hope Lars did what Michael asked and didn’t turn around.

Anyway, when the carriage stopped, I finally came to my senses. I guess it was the fact there was no more clip-clopping sound. Or maybe it was just the final lurch that practically threw us both off the bench.

That’s when I was like, “Oh my God!” and stared up at Michael, all horrified, realizing what I’d just done.

Which was make out with a boy who wasn’t my boyfriend. For a really long time.

I guess the most horrifying part was how much I’d liked it. Which was a lot. A whole lot. That major histocompatibility complex thing? It does NOT mess around.

And I could tell Michael had felt the same way.

“Mia,” he said, looking down at me with his dark eyes filled with something I was almost afraid to put a name to, and his chest going all up and down like he’d just been running. His hands were in my hair. He was cradling my head. “Youhave to know. You have to know I lo—”

But I smashed my hand over his mouth just like I’d done to Tina. My hand that used to have the three-carat diamond ring on it. From another boy.

I said,“DO NOT SAY IT.”

Because I knew what he was going to say.

That’s when I said, instead, “Lars, we’re leaving.Now .”

And Lars hopped down from the top of the carriage and helped me from the bench. And the two of us went to my waiting limo.

And I climbed inside. And I totally did not look back.

Not even once.

And there’s a message on my phone from Michael, but I’m not looking at what it says. I’m NOT.

Because I can’t do this to J.P. Ican’t .

Oh my God, though. I love Michael so much.

Oh, thank God. We’re here.

Dr. Knutz and I have alot to talk about today.

 

Friday, May 5, 6 p.m., limo home from Dr. Knutz’s office

When I walked into Dr. Knutz’s office, Grandmère was there. AGAIN.

I demanded to know why. WHY she keeps insisting on violating my doctor-patient confidentiality. And okay, today was supposed to be my last therapy session ever, but still. Just because I’d invited her to join me a few times before didn’t mean she could keep showing up to my appointments ALL the time.

She tried to use the excuse that this is the only place she knows she can find me. (Too bad she didn’t look out her window at the Plaza a little while ago, she could have seen her granddaughter going around Central Park in a horse-and-carriage in a lip-lock with a boy who is not her boyfriend.)

Which I supposed (then) was a reasonable excuse. But that still didn’t make it RIGHT, and I told her that.

Of course, she fully ignored me. She said she needed to know if it was true I’m getting a romance novel published and if so how I could do this to the family and why didn’t I just shoot her if I wanted to kill her, and get it over with? Why did I have to do it this way, by slowly humiliating her in front of all her friends? Why couldn’t I be more like Bella Trevanni Alberto who is such a perfect granddaughter (I swear if I have to hear thisone more time …)?

Then she started in about Sarah Lawrence (again) and how she knows I have to pick a college by election day (also PROM), and if I’djust pick Sarah Lawrence (the college she would have gone to if she’d bothered going to college), then everything would be all right.

I let out a shriek of frustration and stormed right past Grandmère and straight into Dr. Knutz’s office without waiting to hear any more. Because really, how ridiculous can that woman be? Besides, I was in crisis mode, what with this thing with Michael. I don’t have time for Grandmère’s histrionics.

Anyway, Dr. Knutz listened calmly to what had just happened—with me and Grandmère, I mean—and said he was sorry, and that obviously, since this was my last session, it wouldn’t happen again, but that he’d speak to Grandmère if I wanted. For what good that will do.

Then he listened to me describe what had just happened with Michael.

And his response was to ask me if I’d given any thought to the story he’d told me last week about his horse, Sugar.

“Because as I was explaining, Mia,” Dr. Knutz went on, “sometimes a relationship that seems perfect on paper doesn’t always work out in reality, just like Sugar looked like a perfect horse on paper, but in real life, we just didn’t click.”

SUGAR! I pour my heart out about my romantic travails (and pain-in-the-butt grandmother), and Dr. Knutz still can’t talk about anything but his stupid horses.

“Dr. K,” I said. “Can we talk about something else besides horses for a minute?”

“Of course, Mia,” he said.

“Well,” I said. “My parents have told me I have to pick out a college to go to by Dad’s election—and my prom. And I can’t decide. I mean, it seems as if every school that let me in only did so because I’m a princess—”

“But you don’tknow that to be true,” Dr. Knutz said.

“No, but with my SAT scores, it’s pretty obvious—”

“We’ve discussed this before, Mia,” Dr. Knutz said. “You know you’re supposed to be concentrating on not obsessing over things you have no control over. What, in fact, are you supposed to do instead?”

I raised my gaze to the painting behind his head, of a herd of stampeding mustangs. How many hours have I gazed at that painting over the past twenty-one months, wishing it would fall on his head? Not enough to hurt him. Just enough to startle him.

“Accept the things I cannot change,” I said. “And pray for the courage to change the things I can, as well as the wisdom to know the difference.”

The thing is…I know this is good advice. It’s called the Serenity Prayer, and it really does put things in perspective (it’s supposed to be for recovering alcoholics, but it helps recovering freakoutaholics, like me, as well).

But honestly, it’s something I could have toldmyself.

What’s becoming more clear to me every day now is that I’ve graduated. Not just from high school and princess lessons, but from therapy, too. Not that I’m self-actualized or anything, because Lord knows, I’m not…I don’t believe anyone can ever achieve self-actualization anymore. Not and still be a thinking, learning human being.

I’ve just realized the truth, which is: No one can help me. My problems are just too weird. Where am I going to find a therapist with experience helping an American girl who finds out she is, in fact, a princess of a small European country, who also has a mother who married her Algebra teacher, a father who can’t commit to romantic relationships at all, a best friend who won’t speak to her, an ex-boyfriend she can’t stop kissing in a Central Park carriage, a boyfriend who wrote a play revealing intimate details about them, and a grandmother who is certifiably insane?

Nowhere. That’s where.

I have to solve my own problems from now on. And you know what? I’m pretty sure I’m ready.

But I didn’t want Dr. Knutz to feel bad, because he had helped me a lot, in the past. So I said, “Dr. Knutz. Would you mind looking at a text message with me?”

“Not at all,” he said.

So we opened Michael’s message together.

It said:

Mia,

I’m not sorry.

And I’ll wait.

Love,

Michael

Wow.

Also…wow.

Even Dr. Knutz agreed. Although I doubt Michael’s note made his heart pound faster—Mi-chael, Mi-chael, Mi-chael—the way it did mine.

“Oh, my,” Dr. Knutz said, about Michael’s text. “That’s very direct. So. What will you do?”

“Do?” I said sadly. “I’m not going todo anything. I’m going out with J.P.”

“But you aren’t attracted to J.P.,” Dr. Knutz said.

“I am, too!” I said. How didhe know that? I’d never admitted that. To him, anyway. “Or, at least…Well, I’m working on it.”

Science. The problem is, it’s science. Which I’ve never been very good at.

But there are ways to beat science. That’s what scientists, like Kenneth Showalter, do. All day long. Find ways to beat science. I have to beat this thing with Michael. Because I can’t hurt J.P. Ican’t. He’s been too kind to me.

“Mia,” Dr. Knutz asked, with a sigh. “Are we not actually done here?”

Uh…yeah. We totally are.

“I can’t break up with a perfectly nice guy,” I said, wondering if I was going to have to explain my dad’s theory about me being a tease, “just because my old boyfriend wants to get back together with me.”

“You not only can, but must, if you’re still in love with that old boyfriend,” Dr. Knutz said. “It isn’t fair to the perfectly nice guy, otherwise.”

“Oh!” I dropped my face into my hands. “Look, I know, okay? I don’t know what to do!”

“You do,” Dr. Knutz said. “And you’ll do it, when the time is right. Speaking of time…ours is up.”

AAAAARGH!!!!

And what is he talking about, I’ll know what to do when the time is right? I have no idea what to do!

Actually, I do: I want to move to Japan and have food in real plates delivered to my door, living under an assumed name (Daphne Delacroix).

 

Friday, May 5, 9:30 p.m., the loft

Tina just called. She wanted to know how my lunch date with Michael went. She’s called a few times before, actually, but I didn’t pick up (J.P.’s called a few times, too). I just couldn’t face speaking to either of them. The shame, you know? How could I possibly tell her?

And how can I possibly ever speak to J.P. again? I know I’ll have to, eventually. But…not now.

Anyway, I didn’t tell her now when I spoke to her, either. I just went, “Oh, lunch was fine,” all breezy and casual. I didn’t say a word about old-timey carriages or making out for blocks on end or anything about below-the-neck fondling.