But I didn’t want to take an assessment, even if there were no right or wrong answers.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“Here,” Dad said, and held out his hand to the receptionist. “I’ll take one, too. Will that make you feel better, Mia?”

For some reason, it did. Because, to be honest, if I’m crazy, so is my dad. I mean, you should see how many shoes he owns. And he’s a man.

So the receptionist handed my dad the same form to fill out. When I looked down, I saw that it was a list of statements that you were supposed to rate by checking off the most appropriate answer. Statements such as, I feel like there’s no point in living. To which you could check off one of the following replies:

All of the time

Most of the time

Some of the time

A little of the time

None of the time

Since there was nothing else to do and I had a pen in my hand anyway, I filled out the form. I noticed when I was done that I had checked off mostly All of the times and Most of the times. Such as, I feel like everyone hates me…Most of the time and I feel that I am worthless…Most of the time.

But my dad had filled out mostly A little of the times and None of the times.

Even for his answers to statements like, I feel as if true romantic love has passed me by.

Which I happen to know is a total lie. Dad told me he has had only one true love in his entire life, and that was Mom, and that he let her go, and totally regretted it. That’s why he urged me not to be stupid and let Michael go. Because he knew I might never find a love like that again.

Too bad I didn’t figure out he was right until it was too late.

Still, it’s easy for him to feel like everyone hates him none of the time. There’s no ihateprincephillipeofgenovia.com.

The receptionist—Mrs. Hopkins—took our forms back and brought them through a door to the right of her desk. I couldn’t see what was behind the door. Meanwhile, Lars picked up the latest copy of Sports Illustrated off Dr. Knutz’s waiting room coffee table and started reading it all casually, like he carries princesses in their pajamas into psychologist’s offices every day of the week.

I bet he never thought that was going to be part of his job description when he graduated from bodyguard school.

“I think you’re going to like Dr. Knutz, Mia,” my dad is saying. “I met him at a fund-raising event last year. He’s one of the nation’s preeminent experts in adolescent and child psychology.”

I point at the awards on the wall. “Yeah. I got that part.”

“Well,” Dad says. “It’s true. He comes very highly recommended. Don’t let his name—or his demeanor—fool you.”

His demeanor? What does that mean?

Mrs. Hopkins is back. She says the doctor will see us now.

Great.

Thursday, September 16, 2 p.m., Dad’s limo

Well. That was the weirdest thing. Ever.

Dr. Knutz was…not what I was expecting.

I don’t know what I was expecting, really, but not Dr. Knutz. I know Dad said not to let his name or his demeanor fool me, but I mean, from his name and his profession, I expected him to be a little old bald dude with a goatee and glasses and maybe a German accent.

And he was old. Like Grandmère’s age.

But he wasn’t little. And he wasn’t bald. And he didn’t have a goatee. And he had sort of a Western accent. That’s because, he explained, when he isn’t at his practice in New York City, he’s at his ranch in Montana.

Yes. That’s right. Dr. Knutz is a cowboy. A cowboy psychologist.

It so figures that out of all the psychologists in New York, I would end up with a cowboy one.

His office is furnished like the inside of a ranch house. On the wood paneling along his office walls there are pictures of wild mustangs running free. And every one of the books on the shelves behind him are by the famous Western authors Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey. His office furniture is dark leather and trimmed with brass studs. There’s even a cowboy hat hanging on the peg on the back of the door. And the carpet is a Navajo rug.

I could tell right away from all this that Dr. Knutz certainly lived up to his name. Also, that he was way crazier than me.

This had to be a joke. My dad had to be kidding that Dr. Knutz is one of the nation’s preeminent experts on adolescent and child psychology. Maybe I was being punk’d. Maybe Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out any minute and be all, “D’oh! Princess Mia! You’ve just been punk’d! This guy isn’t a psychologist at all! He’s my uncle Joe!”

“So,” Dr. Knutz said, in this big booming cowboy voice after I’d sat down next to Dad on the couch across from Dr. Knutz’s big leather armchair. “You’re Princess Mia. Nice to meetcha. Heard you were uncharacteristically nice to your grandma yesterday.”

I was completely shocked by this. Unlike Dr. Knutz’s other patients, who, presumably, are children, I happen to be acquainted with a pair of Jungian psychologists—Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz—so I am not unfamiliar with how doctor-patient relationships are supposed to go.

And they are not supposed to begin with completely false accusations on the part of the doctor.

“That is total and utter slander,” I said. “I wasn’t nice to her. I just said what she wanted to hear so she would go away.”

“Oh,” Dr. Knutz said. “That’s different. So you’re telling me everything is hunky-dory, then?”