Princess Mia

But because they are just programmed differently. Like to be unmoved by the sight of a guy in a gorilla suit getting pretend-shot onstage.

Whereas they completely believe that scene in the movie Notting Hill where Julia Roberts’s character goes back to that guy played by Hugh Grant, even though in a million years a snotty movie star like that would never fall for a lowly bookstore owner.

And I say that as a princess who is in love with a college student.

The thing is, I finally get it now: Guys are different than we are.

But that’s not always a bad thing. In fact, as my ancestors would say, Vive la différence. Because, okay, a lot of guys don’t like musicals.

But those same guys might also give you a snowflake necklace for your fifteenth birthday to represent the Nondenominational Winter Dance where you first declared your love for each other.

Which, you have to admit, is way romantic.

Oh. The lights just flickered. It’s time to go back to my seat for the second act.

Which, truthfully, I’m not really looking forward to. It would be all right if J.P. didn’t keep asking me if I was all right.

I totally get that he’s concerned about me as a friend and all, but what does he expect me to say? How can he not know that the answer is no, I’m not all right? Do I need to remind him that not two nights ago I idiotically ripped OFF that snowflake necklace and THREW it at the guy who gave it to me? Does he think you just automatically rebound from something like that, just because you are attending a musical with dancing teacups in it?

J.P. is totally sweet, but he’s a little clueless sometimes.

Although Tina is completely right, it turns out: J.P. really is a pent-up volcano of passion. The single tear proves it. All he needs is the right woman to unlock his heart—which up until now he has kept in a cold, hard shell for his own emotional protection—and he will explode like the simmering caldera that makes up part of Yellowstone National Park.

And obviously this woman wasn’t Lilly (who, by the way, also hasn’t called or e-mailed me, even to yell at me some more for being a boyfriend-stealer, which isn’t a bit like her).

On the other hand, maybe J.P. isn’t clueless. Maybe he’s just a guy.

They can’t all be like the Beast, I guess.

Friday, September 10, 11:45 p.m., the loft

Inbox: 0

No phone messages, either.

But Michael’s plane is still in the air for another eleven and a half hours. He’ll call me when he lands.

I mean, he has to. Right?

Okay, not thinking about that now. Because every time I do, I get these weird heart palpitations and my palms get sweaty.

Meanwhile, a hand-delivered envelope did arrive for me while I was gone. Mom told me about it (not very happily) when I woke her up to ask if Michael had called. (Honestly, I didn’t realize she was asleep. Usually she’s up watching David Letterman until the musical guest comes on at twelve thirty. How was I supposed to know the musical guest was Fergie, so Mom went to bed early?)

The hand-delivered envelope obviously wasn’t from Michael. It was on fancy ivory stationery with a big red wax seal with the letters D and R stamped in the middle. There was something about it that just screamed Grandmère.

So I wasn’t very surprised when Mom said, all crabbily, “Your grandmother says to open it right away.”

I was surprised, however, when she added, “And she said to call her when you do. No matter what time it is.”

“I’m supposed to call Grandmère after eleven o’clock at night?” This didn’t make any sense. Grandmère goes to bed right before the eleven o’clock news every night without fail, unless she’s out partying with Henry Kissinger or somebody like that. She says if she doesn’t get her full eight hours of beauty sleep, she can’t do a thing with the bags under her eyes the next day, no matter how much hemorrhoid cream she puts on them.

“That’s the message,” Mom grumped, and pulled the covers back over her head. (How she can sleep with Mr. Gianini snoring away like that next to her is a mystery to me. It can only be true love.)

I wasn’t liking the look of that envelope, and I definitely wasn’t liking the idea of having to call Grandmère at eleven thirty at night.

But I went to my room and ripped open the seal and pulled out the letter and started reading….

And nearly had a heart attack.

I was on the phone with Grandmère in about two seconds flat.

“Oh, Amelia,” she said, sounding completely awake. “Good. Finally. Did you receive your letter?”

“From Lana Weinberger’s MOM?” I practically screamed. I only remembered to keep my voice down because I live in a loft and my little brother was sleeping in the next room and I didn’t want to risk the wrath of Mom if I woke him up. “Asking me to give the keynote speech at her women’s society’s big charity event to raise money for African orphans? Yes. But…how did you know? Did you get one, too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “I have my ways of finding out these things. Now, Amelia, I must know. This is very important. Did she mention issuing you an invitation to join Domina Rei when you come of age?” You could practically hear her salivating, she was so excited. “Did she say anything about asking you to pledge when you turn eighteen?”

“Yes,” I said. “But, Grandmère, I’ve never even heard of this Domina Rei before. And I don’t have time for this right now. I am going through a very stressful time at the moment, and I really have to concentrate on just staying centered—”