“Anyway,” Lilly said, reaching into her backpack, which was covered all over with buttons in Korean…I suppose promoting her TV show there. “My brother told me to give you this.”

And she pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. It was a white envelope with blue letterhead engraved on it where the return address was supposed to go. The letterhead said “Pavlov Surgical,” and there was a little illustration of Michael’s sheltie, Pavlov. The envelope was kind of lumpy, like there was something in it besides a letter.

“Oh,” I said. I could feel myself blushing, like I do whenever Michael’s name comes up. I knew I was turning the color of his high-tops. Great. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Lilly said.

Thank GOD the first bell rang just then. So I said, “See you later.”

And then I turned around and ran.

It was just so…WEIRD. Why is Lilly being so NICE to me? She must have something planned for tonight. She and Kenneth. Obviously they’re going to do something to ruin my party.

Although maybe not, because Michael and his parents are going to be there. Why would she do something to hurt me when it might embarrass her parents and brother? I could tell how much she loves them at the thing at Columbia on Saturday—and, of course, from having known her almost my whole life, despite us not talking the past two years.

Anyway. I looked around for Tina or Lana or Shameeka or someone to discuss what had just happened with Lilly, but I couldn’t find anyone. Which was strange, because you’d think they’d have come up to me at my locker to wish me a happy birthday, or something. But nothing.

I couldn’t help thinking—in an example of the marked paranoia I’ve been exhibiting lately—that maybe they were all avoiding me because Tina told them about my book. I know she said it was cute, but that’s just what she said to my face. Maybe behind my back she thinks it’s awful and she sent it to everyone else and they all think it’s awful too and the reason they haven’t stopped by to say happy birthday is because they’re afraid they won’t be able to stop laughing in my face long enough.

Or maybe they really are planning an intervention.

It’s not unlikely.

Now I’m hyperventilating because when I got to Homeroom and I was sure no one was looking, I tore open the envelope Lilly gave me and this is what I found inside. A handwritten note from Michael that said:

Dear Mia,

What can I say? I don’t know all that much about romance novels, but I think you must be the Stephen King of the genre. Your book is hot. Thanks for letting me read it. Anyone who doesn’t want to publish it is a fool.

Anyway, since I know it’s your birthday, and I also know you never remember to back anything up, here’s a little something I made for you. It would be a shame if Ransom My Heart got lost before it ever saw the light of day because your hard drive crashed. See you tonight.

Love,

Michael

Inside the envelope with the letter was a little Princess Leia action figure USB flash drive. For me to store my novel on, since he was right—I never back up my computer’s hard drive.

The sight of it—it’s Princess Leia in her Hoth outfit, my favorite of her costumes (how had he remembered?)—brought tears to my eyes.

He said he liked my book!

He said I’m the Stephen King of my genre!

He gave me a personally designed USB flash drive to store it so it wouldn’t get lost!

Really, is there any higher compliment a boy can give a girl?

I don’t think so.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a nicer birthday gift.

Except Fat Louie, of course.

Plus…he signed his letter Love.

Love, Michael.

That doesn’t mean anything, of course. People sign things Love all the time. That doesn’t mean they love you in a romantic way. My mom signs all her notes to me Love, Mom. Mr. G writes notes to me and signs them Love, Frank (which, ew).

But still. The fact that he wrote the word…

Love. Love!

Oh my God. I know. I’m pathetic.

A pathetic unicorn.

Monday, May 1, World History

I just saw J.P. in the hallway. He gave me a great big hug and a kiss and wished me a happy birthday and told me I look beautiful. (I happen to know I don’t look beautiful. I look awful, actually. I was up half the night writing the article on Michael so there are dark circles under my eyes that I tried to hide with concealer, but really, there’s only so much concealer can do. And I was up the other half of the night freaking out over what Tina told me about her and Boris, and then worrying about what Michael’s and J.P.’s reactions to my book were going to be.)

Maybe to J.P. I look beautiful because I’m his girlfriend. J.P. just likes me too much to notice that I am, in fact, a unicorn (but not one of those beautiful ones with the long silky manes from fairy tales. I’m one of those screwed-up plastic toy unicorns that Emma, Rocky’s friend from day care, plays with, that My Little Pony unicorn with the bald patches whose head gets sucked on all the time by the little kids).

I waited for J.P. to tell me he’d read my book and liked it, the way Michael did in his letter, but he didn’t.

He didn’t mention my book at all, as a matter of fact.

I guess he still hasn’t gotten around to it. He does have his play, and all. It’s getting close to opening night, when he has to put it on for the senior project committee (Wednesday night).

But still. You’d have thought he’d have said something.