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. I can’t.

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

Oh, thank God. We’re here.

Dr. Knutz and I have a lot 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 this one 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’d just 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’t know 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 told myself.

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?