“Wasn’t this Arwen just a princess?” Lars wanted to know.

“Yes. But her hair didn’t look as stupid as mine does right now.”

Lars looked at my head. “True.”

I couldn’t even get offended. Because when you’re already at rock bottom, nothing hurts anymore.

“Plus,” I added, “Arwen never tried to keep Aragorn from completing his quest, the way I tried to keep Michael from completing his. Arwen played a crucial role in the destruction of the One Ring. What have I ever done?”

“You built houses for the homeless,” Lars pointed out.

“Yeah, so did Michael.”

“You got parking meters installed in Genovia.”

“Big whoop.”

“You saved the Genovian bay from killer algae.”

“No one cares about that but the fishermen.”

“You got recycling bins installed all over the school.”

“And bankrupted the student government in doing so. Face it, Lars: I’m no Melinda Gates—donating millions of dollars to help eradicate malaria, the biggest health crisis facing the globe, causing over a million children to die needlessly every year, just from a lack of a three-dollar mosquito net. I’m really going to have to start working on becoming something special if I’m going to hang on to Michael. I mean, if he’ll even take me back after this.”

“I think Michael likes you the way you are,” Lars said, grabbing the handle of the passenger door to keep from sliding over and crushing me as Ephrain Kleinschmidt swerved into the exit lane.

“He DID,” I said. “Before I blew it by dumping him. And kissing his sister’s ex-boyfriend right in front of him.”

“True,” Lars said.

Which is, in a way, one of the reasons I love Lars so much. You don’t have to worry about him saying anything just to make you feel better. He always tells the truth. As he sees the truth, anyway.

“What airline?” Ephrain Kleinschmidt wanted to know.

“Continental,” I said. I had to hang on to the safety strap to keep from being hurled from one side of the backseat to the other. “Departures!”

Ephrain put his foot on the accelerator.

Can’t write anymore. Fear for my life.

Friday, September 10, JFK International Airport, limo shelter

Well. That really didn’t work out the way I’d hoped it would.

I’d really hoped that what would happen was, I’d walk into the airport and see Michael standing in the security line. I would call his name and he would turn around and see me, and duck out of the security line and come over, and I would tell him how sorry I was for being such a total ass, and he would forgive me instantly and wrap me in his arms and kiss me and I would smell his neck and he would be so moved he’d decide to stay in New York.

Well, I wasn’t actually hoping for that last part. Well, I mean, of course I WAS. But I didn’t really think it would HAPPEN. I would have settled for just his forgiving me.

But it turned out none of it happened. Because Michael’s flight was taking off as we got to the ticket counter.

We were too late.

Iwas too late.

Now Michael’s gone. He’s on his way to another country—another CONTINENT—another HEMISPHERE.

And I’ll probably never see him again.

Of course, I did the only sensible thing I could, under the circumstances: I sat down on the airport floor and cried.

Lars had to half drag, half carry me to the limo stand, where we’re waiting for Hans and my dad to come pick us up. Because Lars says over his dead body is he ever getting in another taxicab.

At least there’s a bench here, so I can sit on it and cry, instead of on the ground.

I just don’t understand how any of this happened. A week ago—five days ago—I was so filled with hope and excitement. I didn’t even know what pain was. Not real pain.

And now it’s like my whole world has come collapsing down around my ears. And some of it I didn’t have anything to do with—like Michael’s decision to go to Japan.

But a lot of it is my own fault.

And for what?

How am I going to go on without him? Seriously?

Oh. The limo’s here.

I’m going to see if we can go through the McDonald’s drive-through on the way home. Because I think the only thing that might make me feel even slightly better is a Quarter Pounder.

With cheese.

Friday, September 10, 7 p.m., the loft

When I got home, Mom and Mr. G were just getting ready to order dinner. Mom took one look at me and was like, “Bedroom.Now ,” because Rocky had pulled all the pots and pans from the kitchen cupboards and was banging on them (a trait he no doubt inherited from his father, whose drum set still has a prominent place in our living room).

So I dragged myself into my bedroom and collapsed onto my bed, startling Fat Louie, who was so surprised when I landed on him, he actually hissed at me.

But I didn’t care. I think I have dysthmia, or chronic depression, since I have all the symptoms:

Emotional numbness

Perpetual, low-level melancholy

Feeling of merely going through the motions of everyday life with very little enthusiasm or interest

Negative thinking

Anhedonic (unable to savor or enjoy anything; except cheeseburgers)

“Your father tells me you were sent home from school in the middle of the afternoon,” Mom said, after shutting the door, so that the sound of at least some of the banging was lessened. “And I understand from Lars that you went to the airport to try to say good-bye to Michael.”

“Yeah,” I said. Seriously, I have zero privacy. I can’t do ANYTHING without the whole world finding out about it. I don’t know why I even try to keep anything secret. “I did.”

“I think that was the right thing to do,” Mom said. “I’m proud of you.”

I just stared at her. “I missed him. His flight had left already.”

Mom winced. “Oh. Well. You can still call him.”

“Mom,” I said. “I can’t call him.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course you can.”

“Mom. I can’t call him. I kissed J.P. And Michael saw me do it.”

Now it was Mom’s turn to stare at me. “You kissed your best friend’s boyfriend?”

“Actually,” I said, “Lilly and J.P. broke up today. So he’s her ex-boyfriend. But yes.”

“And you did this in front of Michael.”

“Yes.” I’m not sure the Quarter Pounder with cheese was actually the best idea. “I didn’t mean to, though. It just sort of…happened.”

“Oh, Mia,” Mom said with a sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, tears tickling my nose. “I’ve completely ruined everything with him. He’ll never forgive me. He’s probably glad to be rid of me. Who wants a crazy girlfriend?”

“You’ve been crazy since Michael met you,” Mom said. “It’s not like you’ve gotten any noticeably crazier.”

The thing is, I knew she wastrying to be encouraging.

“Thanks,” I said, through my tears.

“Look,” she went on. “Frank and I are ordering from Number One Noodle Son. Do you want anything?”

I thought about it. The Quarter Pounder really wasn’t sitting all that well. Maybe what I needed was some more protein, to help keep it down.

“I guess some General Tso’s chicken,” I said. “And orange beef. And maybe some fried dumplings. And how about some spare ribs? You guys always look like you’re really enjoying those.”

But my mom, instead of looking happy that she didn’t have to order a vegetarian entrée that no one but me was going to eat, looked concerned.

“Mia,” she said. “Are you really sure you want to—”

But I guess something in my face made her change her mind about finishing that statement, since she just shrugged and said, “All right. Whatever you want. Oh, and Lilly called. She wants you to call her back. She said it’s important.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

Mom opened my bedroom door—BANG! Giggle. BANG! BANG!—and left. I stared at the ceiling for a while. On Michael’s ceiling, in his bedroom back at the Moscovitzes’ apartment, there are glow-in-the-dark constellations. I wondered if he’d put glow-in-the-dark constellations on the ceiling of his new bedroom. In Japan.

I leaned down and picked up the phone and dialed Lilly’s number. Dr. Moscovitz picked up. She said, “Oh, hello, Mia,” in a not-very-warm voice.

Yes. My boyfriend’s mother hates me now.

Well, she has a right to.

“Dr. Moscovitz,” I said. “I’m sorry about—well, everything. I’m a huge jerk. I understand if you hate me.”

Dr. Moscovitz’s voice warmed up a tiny bit.

“Oh, Mia,” she said. “I could never hate you. Look, these things happen. I—well, you and Lilly will work it out.”

“Right,” I said, feeling fractionally better. Maybe I didn’t have dysthmia after all. I mean, if I could actually feel something. Besides bad. “Thanks.”

Except…did she say “you andLilly ”? She must have meant “you and Michael.”

“Um,” I said. “Is Lilly there, Dr. Moscovitz? I’m returning her call.”

“Of course, Mia,” Dr. Moscovitz said. And she called for Lilly, who picked up the phone and said, without preamble, “YOU KISSED MY BOYFRIEND????”

I stared at the phone, totally confused. “What?”

“Kenny Showalter says he saw you kiss J.P. outside your Chemistry classroom today,” Lilly snarled.

Oh, God. Oh. My. God.

The Quarter Pounder with cheese moved up my throat a little more as complete and total panic gripped me.

“Lilly,” I said. “It wasn’t—look. It wasn’t what Kenny thinks—”

“So you’re saying you DIDN’T kiss my boyfriend outside your Chemistry classroom?” Lilly demanded.

“N-no,” I stammered. “I’m not. I did kiss him. But just as a friend. And besides, technically, J.P. is your EX-boyfriend.”