Princess on the Brink (4 page)

Okay.

Okay, I am trying to understand this.

That’s why I asked Kevin Yang if I could sit here in the kitchen for a few minutes. Because I just need a little time to myself to figure this out. And there’s someone in the ladies’ room. Someone who apparently doesn’t realize there are girls out here whose lives are falling apart and who need to pretend to wash their hands so they can figure out what to do about it.

And okay, it’s kind of busy and hot and crowded back here, because Kevin’s got all ninety of his cousins working, and it’s the dinner rush, and everyone seems to have ordered the Peking duck. So everywhere I look, all I can see are smiling duck heads.

But at least I can catch my breath for a minute and try to understand what’s going on.

I just don’t get it.

Oh, not about Michael’s reaction to my hair. I mean, he was
surprised
to see that it was so short.

But, like, not displeased. He said I looked cute—like Natalie Portman when she played Evey Hammond in
V for Vendetta
.

And he gave me a big hug and a kiss. And then a BIGGER hug and a kiss when we were out in the hallway and Mom and Mr. G weren’t there and Lars was still putting on his shoulder holster. I got to smell Michael’s neck, and I swear, every synapse in my brain must have shot out a
megadose of serotonin because of his pheromones, because I felt so relaxed and happy afterward.

And I can
tell
he feels the same way about me. He held my hand the whole stroll to the restaurant, and we talked about everything that had happened since we last saw each other—Grandmère getting kicked out of the Plaza and Lilly going blond (I didn’t ask him if he thought Lilly and J.P. had Done It when J.P. went to their country house for the weekend, because I try to avoid discussions involving sex, since it only seems to remind Michael that we’re not having it, and inflame his desire) and Rocky’s dexterity with his Tonka truck and the Drs. Moscovitz and their quasi-getting-back-together.

And when we got to the restaurant, Rosey, the hostess, sat us at our usual table by the window, and invited Lars to sit up at the bar with her, where he could watch me and the baseball game at the same time.

And we ordered my favorite, cold sesame noodles, and Michael’s favorite, barbecued spare ribs, and we split a hot and sour soup and Michael had kung pao chicken and I had sautéed string beans and then I said, “So when are you moving into the dorm? Hasn’t school started already?” and Michael said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. That’s what I wanted to wait to tell you in person.”

And I was like, “Oh, yeah?” thinking he was going to say something like he was getting his own apartment because he was tired of sharing a room with another guy, or maybe that he was moving in with his dad because Mr. Dr. Moscovitz was so lonely. In fact, I was so confident that whatever Michael was about to say was going to be no big
deal that I took a giant bite of cold sesame noodles, right before he said:

“Remember that project I was working on this summer? The robotic arm?”

“The one with which doctors can perform closed-chest surgery on a beating heart?” I said, around the noodles. “Uh-huh.”

“Well,” Michael said. “I have some really good news: It works. At least, the prototype does. And my professor was so impressed, he told a colleague of his over at a company in Japan about it—a company that is attempting to perfect robotic surgical systems that can work unassisted by surgeons—and his colleague wants me to go to Japan and see if we can construct an actual working model for use in the operating room.”

“Wow,” I said, swallowing my noodles, and going for another huge mouthful. I mean, I was pretty much starving. I hadn’t had anything to eat since my three-bean salad at lunch. Oh, and some totally awesome wasabi peas in Grandmère’s hotel room (which she tried and freaked out over. “WHERE ARE THE CANDIED ALMONDS?” she screamed at that Robert guy. Poor thing.). “So, like, when would you go? Some weekend, or something?”

“No,” Michael said, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. It wouldn’t be for just a weekend. It would be until the project is completed. My professor has arranged for me to receive full course credits, as well as a significant stipend, while I’m away.”

“So.” Man, those noodles were good. One of the many lousy things about spending the summer in Genovia—no
cold sesame noodles. “Like a week?”

“Mia,” Michael said. “Just the prototype took all summer. Building an actual working model, with a console containing a real-time MRI, real-time CT scanner, and real-time X ray could take up to a year. Or more. But it’s a fantastic opportunity—one I can’t turn down. Something I designed could potentially help to save thousands of lives. And I need to be there to make sure it happens.”

Wait. A year? Or MORE?

Of course, I started choking on my cold sesame noodles, and Michael had to reach across the table and slap me on the back and I had to drink both my ice water and his Coke before I could breathe again.

And when I could breathe, all I seemed able to say was, “What? WHAT?” over and over again.

And even though Michael was trying to explain—as patiently as if I were Rocky showing him my truck over and over—all I could hear inside my head was “could take up to a year. Or more. But it’s a fantastic opportunity—one I can’t turn down. Could take up to a year. Or more. But it’s a fantastic opportunity—one I can’t turn down.”

Michael is moving to Japan. For a year. Or more.

He leaves Friday.

You can see why I had to excuse myself. Because in what universe does something like this make any sense? In Bizarro Universe, maybe. But not MY universe. Not the universe Michael and I share.

Or the one I used to think we shared.

Even as the words were still batting around in my
mind—
could take up to a year. Or more. But it’s a fantastic opportunity—one I can’t turn down
—and I was like, “Wow, Michael. That is so great. I’m so happy for you,” this voice in my head was going,

“Is it because of ME?”

And then, somehow, the voice got OUTSIDE of my head, and before I could stuff them back, the words were coming out of my mouth: “Is it because of ME?”

And Michael blinked and was like, “What?”

It was a total nightmare. Because even though, inside my head, I was like, “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” my mouth seemed to have a will of its own. A second later, before I could stop it, my mouth was going, “Is it because of me? Are you moving to Japan because I did something?” And then my mouth went, “Or DIDN’T do something?”

And I wanted to shove all the cold sesame noodles in the world into it, just to shut myself up.

But Michael was already shaking his head. “No, of course not. Mia, don’t you see? This is such an incredible opportunity. This company already has mechanical engineers working on drafts of my design. MY design. Something I made, which could change the course of modern surgery as we know it. Of course I have to be there.”

“But do they have to do it in
Japan
?” my mouth asked. “Don’t they have mechanical engineers here in Manhattan? I’m almost sure they do. I think Ling Su’s dad is one!”

“Mia,” Michael explained, “this is the most innovative and cutting-edge robotics research group in the world. They’re based in Tsukuba, which is basically the Silicon
Valley of Japan. That’s where their labs are, their research facilities. All their equipment is there…everything I need to turn my prototype into a working model. I have to go there.”

“But you’ll be back,” I said. My brain was starting to take control of my mouth again. Thank God. “For, like, Thanksgiving break and Christmas and Spring Break and all of that.” Because the wheels in my mind were spinning, and I was thinking,
Well, okay, this won’t be so bad. Sure, my boyfriend will be in Japan, but I’ll still see him during vacations. It won’t be THAT different than during the school year. And this way I’ll have more time to really buckle down and maybe figure out what Mr. Hipskin is talking about in Chemistry and just what the heck is going on in Precalculus and maybe even study enough to do a little better on my math SATs, and, what the heck, maybe I’ll even stick with student government after all, and I’ll be able to finish my screenplay AND maybe a novel…

And that’s when Michael reached across the table and said, “Mia, there’s sort of a time crunch with this project. If we’re going to get it out on the market as soon as we possibly can, we can’t take time off. So…no, I won’t be home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I probably won’t be home until next summer, by which point we should have something we can demonstrate in an actual surgical setting.”

I heard the words coming out of his mouth. I knew he was speaking English. But just like with Mr. Hipskin in Chemistry class, what Michael was saying made no sense. Next summer is a
year from now
. Basically Michael was saying he was going to be gone—not see me—for a YEAR.

And okay, sure, I could fly to Japan to see him. In my dreams. Because NO WAY am I going to be able to talk my dad into letting me take the royal Genovian jet to
Japan
to see my
boyfriend
.

And no way would they let me fly commercial. All the air marshals in the world wouldn’t satisfy Grandmère—let alone my dad—that commercial air traffic is safe for royals.

That’s when I excused myself. That’s why I’m sitting here. Because none of this makes any sense.

I don’t care how good an opportunity it is.

I don’t care how much money he stands to make from this, or how many thousands of lives he might save.

Why would any guy who loves his girlfriend as much as Michael claims to love me want to be apart from her for a YEAR?

And Kevin Yang is no help on this subject. He just shrugged when I asked him this, and went, “I never understood Michael from the day he first came in here when he was ten years old. He asked for hot chili oil for my dumplings. Like they are not spicy enough!”

And Lars, who poked his head in here a minute ago to see where I disappeared to, just went, “Well, you know. Sometimes guys just have to do these things to prove themselves.”

To WHOM? Aren’t
I
the only one who should matter?
I
don’t want Michael to go to Japan for a year.

And excuse me, but it’s not like he’s going off to the Gobi Desert to do chin-ups and shoot at cardboard cutouts of
terrorists like Lars did when HE decided he needed to prove himself. He’s just going to some computer lab in Japan!

And yes, I understand that his robotic arm thingie could save thousands of lives.

BUT WHAT ABOUT
MY
LIFE?

Okay, this totally isn’t helping.

And the sight of all these duck heads is really psychologically disturbing to me.

I mean, not as psychologically disturbing as the fact that my boyfriend is apparently moving to Japan for a year.

But almost.

I’m going back out there. I’m going to be supportive. I’m going to be happy for Michael. I’m not going to say anything about how if he really loved me, he wouldn’t go. Because I can’t be selfish. I have had Michael all to myself for nearly two years now. I can’t hog him from the rest of the world, which really does need him, and his genius.

Except.

EXCEPT WHAT AM I GOING TO DO IF I CAN’T SMELL HIS NECK????

I might die.

I shouldn’t have done it.

I know I shouldn’t have done it.

I don’t know why I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I don’t know why I couldn’t make my lips say the things I wanted them to say, like, “Michael, I am so proud of you,” and, “This really is such a great opportunity.”

I mean, I DID say those things. Really, I did.

But then—as we were walking down that bike path by the Hudson (Lars could barely keep up, we were walking so fast…well, mostly because Lars was texting people on his Sidekick as we went, but whatever), because it was such a nice night and I wasn’t ready to go home yet, because I wanted to squeeze every minute I could out of my last few days with him—and Michael was telling me how excited he was about moving to Japan, and how they eat noodles for breakfast there, and how the shumai you buy on the street are even better than the shumai at Sapporo East—somehow the words, “But, Michael…what about US?” slipped out of my mouth, before I could stuff them back in.

Which is probably the lamest, most idiotic, Lana Weinbergerish thing a girl in my position could have said. Seriously. Pretty soon I’m going to start snapping the back of my own bra and be all, “Why are you wearing a bra, Mia? You don’t need one.”

But Michael didn’t even skip a beat. He went, “I think we’ll be fine. Of course I’m going to miss you. But I have
to admit, it’s going to be a lot easier to miss you than it’s been to be around you lately.”

And I totally froze in the middle of the bike path and was like,
“WHAT?”

Because I’d
known
it. I’d totally known it. I’d asked him if part of why he was going had to do with me.

And it turned out I was right.

“It’s just,” he said, “that sometimes I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to deal with it.”

To which I was all, “Deal with WHAT?” Because I had NO IDEA what he was talking about.

“Being with you all the time,” he said, “and not. You know.”

I STILL didn’t get it (yes, I know I am the one who is suffering from developmental retardation and not Rocky, after all).

I was like, “Being with me all the time and not WHAT?”

And Michael finally just had to say, “Not having sex.”

 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Yes, that’s right. My boyfriend apparently doesn’t mind moving to Japan so much, because that is easier than being around me and not having sex.

I guess I should consider myself fortunate, since it’s clear from this that my boyfriend is a sex maniac, and I am
probably lucky to be getting rid of him.

But, of course, that didn’t occur to me at the time. At the time, I was just so shocked by what he said that I had to sit down.

And the closest seat was a swing in the Hudson River Park playground.

So I sat down on a swing and looked down at my knees while Michael said, “I told you last year that I’m willing to wait.” He sat down on the swing next to mine. “And I
am
willing to wait, Mia. Although to tell you the truth I’m not really sure how you think the whole prom night thing is going to work since I am not going to your senior prom, because I already graduated and my prom days are over, and it’s totally lame for girls to bring their college boyfriends to the prom. But whatever. The fact remains that your senior prom isn’t for two more years. And two years is a long time for us to keep—well, doing what we’re doing. I’m getting really tired of taking so many cold showers.”

I TOTALLY couldn’t look at him after that. I could feel my face turning bright red. Fortunately it was getting dark out so I don’t think he noticed. I mean, the streetlamps were starting to turn on. We were the only ones on the swings, so it wasn’t like anyone could overhear us. Lars was pretending to be very interested in the view of the river a few dozen yards away—but really he was scoping on all the pretty in-line skaters—so there was no danger of him eavesdropping.

Still. It was totally
embarrassing
.

I mean, I guess I knew where Michael was coming from.
I always did wonder what he did, you know, after a heavy-duty make-out session, about the whole…well, what-was-going-on-in-his-pants issue.

Now I guess I know.

“It’s just,” Michael went on, as over in the sandbox, some little kids ran around, trying to throw sand on each other, while their mothers gossiped on a bench not far away, “that it’s not easy, Mia. I mean, it seems like it’s easy for you—”

“It’s not easy for me,” I interrupted. Because it’s NOT easy for me. I mean, there are lots of times when I think about how great it would be to just, you know, rip his clothes off and have my way with him. I’ve even gotten to a point now where the idea of letting him rip my clothes off ME is starting to have its appeal, whereas before the thought of him seeing me naked made my mouth go dry.

Only…where is this clothes-ripping-off supposed to happen? In my room, with my mom in the next room? In HIS room, with HIS mom in the next room? In his dorm room, with my bodyguard in the hallway, and his roommate busting in at any moment?

And what about birth control? And what about the fact that once you Do It, that’s ALL you want to do when you get together? I mean, good-bye
Star Wars
movie marathons. Hello, edible body paint.

Whatever. I’ve read
Cosmo
. I know the score.

“Right,” Michael said. “Anyway, given all that, I just think my spending a year abroad might not be the worst idea.”

I couldn’t believe it had come to this. Seriously. Suddenly
I just—well, I couldn’t stop myself. I started crying.

And I couldn’t stop.

Which was HORRIBLE of me, because, OF COURSE, his going was a GOOD THING. I mean, if his robot arm thingie can really do everything all these people are thinking it could do—if Columbia University is willing to let him go off to Japan and work for some company and get course credit while doing so—well, crying about it wasn’t a very princessy thing for me to do, was it?

But I never said I was very good at being princessy.

“Mia,” Michael said, coming off his swing and kneeling in the sand in front of mine, and taking my hands in his. He was sort of laughing. I guess I’d be laughing, too, if some girl was crying as hard as I was. Seriously. It was like I was one of those little kids in the sandbox, who’d fallen down and skinned my knee. The moms over on the bench even looked at me in alarm, thinking the sound was coming from one of their kids. When they saw it was just me, they started whispering together—probably because they recognized me from
Inside Edition
(“The romantic life of Princess Mia of Genovia took another tumble the other night, as longtime boyfriend, Columbia student Michael Moscovitz, announced he was moving to Japan, and the princess responded by crying on a park swing”).

“This is a
good
thing, Mia,” Michael said. “Not just for me, but for
us.
It’s my chance to prove to your grandmother, and all those people who think I’m a big nobody and not good enough for you, that I actually
am
somebody, and might possibly even be worthy of you someday.”

“You’re
totally
worthy of me,” I wailed. The truth is, of
course, I’m not worthy of
him
. But I didn’t say that out loud.

“A lot of people don’t think so,” Michael said.

And I couldn’t exactly say that wasn’t true, because he’s right: It seems like every other week
Us Weekly
runs some article about who I should be dating instead of Michael. Prince William was high on the list last week, but Wilmer Valderrama usually makes a token appearance every other month or so. There’ll be a picture of Michael coming out of class or something, next to a picture of James Franco or whoever, and then they’ll put, like, a 2 percent over Michael’s picture, to show that only 2 percent of the readers polled think I should be with Michael, and then a 98 percent over James Franco, showing that everyone else thinks I should be with some guy who never did anything in his life except stand in front of a camera and say a bunch of words somebody else wrote, and then maybe have a swordfight that was choreographed for him.

And, of course, my grandmother’s feelings on the matter are so well known, they are almost legendary.

“The fact is, Mia,” Michael said, his dark eyes looking very intently up into my not-dark ones. “As much as you might like to pretend it isn’t true, you’re a princess. You’re going to be a princess
forever
. You’re going to rule a country someday. You already know what your destiny is. It’s all laid out for you. I don’t have that. I still have to figure out who I am and how I’m going to leave my mark on the world. And if I’m going to be with you, it’s going to have to be a pretty big mark, because everyone thinks a guy has to be pretty special in order to be with a princess. I’m just trying to live up to everyone’s expectations.”

“
My
expectations should be the only ones that matter,” I said.

“They’re the ones that matter most,” Michael said, squeezing my hands. “Mia, you know I’d never be happy just being your consort—walking one step behind you all the time. And I know you’d never be happy if that’s all I was, either.”

I winced at the reminder of the Genovian parliament’s hideous rules for whomever I marry—my so-called consort, who will have to rise the moment I rise, not lift his fork until I’ve lifted mine, not engage in any sort of risk-taking behavior (such as racing, either car or boat, mountain-climbing, skydiving, et cetera) until such time as an heir has been provided, give up his right, in the event of annulment or divorce, to custody of any children born during the marriage…and also give up the citizenship of his native country in favor of citizenship of Genovia.

“It’s not that I wouldn’t be willing to do any of that stuff,” Michael went on. “I’d be fine with it if I knew that…well, that I’d accomplished something with my life, too…not ruling a country, maybe. But something like…well, something like I have the opportunity to do now. Make a difference. The way
you
’ll be making a difference someday.”

I blinked down at him. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand. I
did
understand. Michael was right. He isn’t the kind of guy who could be happy walking one step behind me all his life—unless he had his own thing. Whatever that thing was.

I just didn’t understand why his own thing had to be all the way in JAPAN.

“Listen,” Michael said, squeezing my hands again. “You better quit crying. Lars looks like he’s ready to come over.”

“That’s his job,” I pointed out, sniffling. “He’s supposed to protect me from…from…getting hurt!”

And the realization that this was a hurt not even a six-foot-five guy with a gun could protect me from just made me sniffle harder.

What was even more infuriating was that Michael just started laughing.

“It’s not
funny
.” I sniffled through my tears.

“It sort of is,” Michael said. “I mean, you have to admit. We’re a pretty pathetic pair.”

“I’ll tell you what’s pathetic,” I said. “You’re going to go away to Japan and meet some geisha girl and forget all about me.
That
’s what’s pathetic.”

“What would I want with some geisha girl,” Michael wanted to know, “when I could have you?”

“Geisha girls have sex with you whenever you want,” I pointed out, between sniffles. “I know, I saw that movie.”

“Well,” Michael said. “Actually, now that you mention it, a geisha girl might not be so bad.”

So then I had to hit him. Even though I still wasn’t seeing anything funny in the situation.

I still don’t. It’s a horrible, unfair, completely tragic situation.

Oh, sure, I stopped crying. And when Lars came over and asked if everything was all right, I told him it was.

But it wasn’t.

And it isn’t. Everything will never be all right again.

But I acted like I was okay with it. I mean, I had to, right?
I let Michael walk me home, and I even held his hand the whole way. And at the door to the loft, I let him kiss me, while Lars politely pretended to need to tie his shoe at the bottom of the stairs. Which was good because there was also some under-the-bra action going on.

But in a tender way, like in that scene where Jennifer Beals and Michael Nouri are in the abandoned factory in
Flashdance.

And when Michael whispered, “Are we okay?” I said, “Yes, we’re okay,” even though I don’t believe we are. At least,
I’m
not.

And when Michael said, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said, “You do that.”

And then I went inside the loft, walked straight to the fridge, took out the container of macadamia brittle Häagen-Dazs, grabbed a spoon, went into my room, and ate the whole thing.

But I still don’t feel okay.

I don’t think I’ll ever feel okay again.