“Well,” I said. “Yes, but I still always try to take my medication at the same—”

“Plus I would imagine you and your fiancé have frequent intercourse.”

I wanted to die when Michael said, “As frequent as possible.” I don’t think the magnitude of what was happening had quite hit him at that point.

“So it is not unreasonable to suppose that there was perhaps a systems failure at some point,” Dr. Delgado said. “Mazel tov. You’re going to be parents. Now, what do you say to an ultrasound?”

That’s when I realized I’m one of those people: One of those women on that show I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant, which Tina and I love to watch together and mock. Especially when the women go camping, and then suddenly they’re like “I was sitting on the toilet in the outhouse, and then plop! Out came a baby!”

Tina and I always swore we’d never be one of those women, because who is so out of it that they don’t know they’re pregnant?

Me! That’s who. I am! I am that out of it! I could be on that show! Hi, I’m Princess Mia of Genovia, and I didn’t know I was pregnant.

What kind of monster am I? Think of all the weird things I’ve been putting into my body lately, such as:

•  Austrian schnaps.

•  Two-hundred-year-old Napoleon brandy stolen from the consulate general’s office.

•  Champagne in the Exumas.

•  Tylenol PM!

•  Chocolate-covered strawberries.

•  Bag after bag of cheese popcorn.

•  Eleven billion cups of Genovian tea (which is NOT herbal).

•  Not to mention approximately a million pounds of magnesium, Butterfinger candy bars, wasabi peas, screwdrivers (courtesy of Lana Weinberger Rockefeller), and more.

“I highly doubt you ate a million pounds of anything,” Dr. Delgado said in a calm voice after I’d hysterically confessed my shameful Food-and-Drink-a-Log. “And I have never heard of a developing fetus being harmed by Genovian tea, nor an occasional shot of Austrian schnaps or a few Tylenol PM. Studies show that moderate drinking early in a pregnancy rarely does any harm. In fact, I believe it’s safer for a pregnant woman to have a glass of wine now and then than one of those horrible prewashed salads—”

He is clearly deranged.

“Michael,” I said to my fiancé. “I’m sorry. But our baby’s going to be born with three heads.”

Dr. Delgado coughed. “I think it’s important to remember that people from my generation were born to mothers who drank alcohol and caffeine—and even smoked—while pregnant, and most of us turned out just fine. Not that I in any way advocate that women smoke or consume alcohol while pregnant. I’m only saying that there’s no reason to panic just yet. We’ll do the ultrasound to be sure your child doesn’t have, er, three heads.”

After Dr. Delgado left the room to go get the nurse and the ultrasound machine, Michael patted me on the leg.

“Well,” he said, “you Renaldos are almost as good as the Lannisters at making weddings interesting.”

I turned my tearful gaze upon him, only to find that he was smiling.

“Michael,” I cried, shocked. “How can you be laughing at a time like this?”

He shrugged, still smiling. “You have to admit, it’s kind of funny.”

“How is any of this funny?”

“Oh, Michael, nothing like that could ever happen to me, because I’m so proactive about my health,” he said, in what I guessed was supposed to be an imitation of my voice, since it was in a falsetto. “That’s what you said when I proposed to you.”

I glared at him. “That’s mean. And like you really helped the situation.”

“Hey,” he said, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs wide. “I’m more than willing to change my last name and give up my citizenship for you. I’ll even walk two steps behind you in public after we’re married, like a proper prince consort. But the birth control thing is going to have to be up to you, because obviously nothing can contain what these bad boys are packing.”

“Did you seriously just refer to your testicles as ‘bad boys’?”

“I did. It’s not as if you didn’t have warning, Mia. As has been previously stated—by that bastion of fine reporting, InTouch, no less—I am the world’s greatest lover.”

“More like the world’s greatest idiot.”

He got up from his chair, leaned against the exam table, and kissed me.

“Come on.” He pressed his forehead against mine, grinning. “You’re happy about this. I can tell. It wasn’t exactly what we had planned, but it’s a surprise, not a disaster. A surprise is a good thing. Right?”

The frustrating thing about being in love with Michael Moscovitz is that it’s impossible to stay angry with him, especially when he’s got his hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he’s resting his forehead against yours and that clean Michael smell of his is filling your senses.

Then all you want to do is throw your arms around him and say, “Oh, all right, I give up, I’ll do whatever you want. What does it matter?”

He’s very hard to resist.

“If that ultrasound shows that I’m having twins,” I snarled, “I will kill you.”

“If that ultrasound shows that you’re having twins”— he grinned back—“you have my permission to kill me.”