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 wentswish-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’Tknow 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 label 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 feltsorry 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 canbuy whatever I want. Well, within reason. The one thing—theone 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 eventhink —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 atyou 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 thePost 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?