Princess Mia

But Lana and Trisha were waiting for me in the girls’ locker room when I got there today. They grabbed me and hustled me—right past Lars, who’d been leaning against the wall by the water fountain playing Fantasy Football on his cell phone—out of school and down the street. (Lars finally caught up around Seventy-seventh Street.) Lana said she really, really needed a nonfat mocha latte, and that she can’t possibly sit through Spanish (the class she has this period) anyway, because it’s right beneath the Chem lab, and that whole side of the school still reeks of smoke.

“Besides,” Lana said, “with all the reporters standing around outside, trying to get interviews with Principal Gupta about Beaker, it’s not like we’re going to obtenga cualquier trabajo a hecho, anyway.”

Which is no exaggeration. Our school is still the center of a media blitzkrieg, though the reporters are keeping off the school property, with the help of the NYPD, whom the school board apparently called in for crowd control.

However, we managed to get past them without my being recognized thanks to draping our blazers over our heads and running for it. Which was educational, in that it illustrated how it might feel to have to wear a burka.

“So,” Lana said, once we were all seated. “Everyone’s saying that J.P. guy saved your life. Are you two, like, going out?”

“No,” I said, feeling myself beginning to blush.

“Dude, why not?” Trisha ordered a nonfat no-whip caffè mocha and was blowing on it to cool it off. “Saving your life? That’s hot.”

“Yeah.” My cheeks felt as warm as my hot chocolate. “I just—you know. I’m just coming out of a long-term relationship, and I don’t know if I’m ready to jump back into another right now.”

“I hear you,” Lana said. “That’s how I’ve felt ever since I broke up with Josh. We’re young, you know? We have to play the field. Who needs to be tied down to one guy when you’re SIXTEEN?”

“I’d like to be tied down to Skeet Ulrich,” Trisha volunteered.

“It’s just…,” I said, ignoring the Skeet Ulrich remark. Although, you know, ditto. “I really love Michael. And the idea of being with some other guy…I don’t know. It doesn’t do anything for me.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Lana said, slurping some nonfat foam from her wooden stirrer. “After Josh and I broke up, I was like, who can ever replace Josh, you know? Because he’s, like, so tall and hot and smart and good about hanging out in the boyfriend chair while I’m shopping.”

“Totally,” Trisha said, nodding in agreement, “good about that. A lot of guys aren’t. You’d be surprised.”

“So I was really reluctant, you know, to hook up with anyone,” Lana went on, “because I just didn’t want to get hurt again. But then I thought, I need to make a new start. You know? Like a do-over. So I went to a party. And that’s where I met Blaine.”

“Blaize,” Trisha corrected her.

“Was that his name?” Lana looked far away. “Oh, yeah. Well, whatever. He was, like, my rebound guy. And after that I was totally cured.”

“You need a rebound guy,” Trisha said, pointing at me with her stirrer.

“I think it should be that J.P. guy,” Lana agreed. “I mean, he let himself get set on FIRE for you.”

“Getting set on fire is so hot,” Trisha informed me. Apparently without irony.

I nodded anyway. “I know. The thing is…on paper, J.P. is the perfect guy for me. We both love the theater and movies and come from similar backgrounds and my grandmother totally loves him and we both want to be writers—”

“And you’re both always scribbling in those notebooks,” Lana said, pointing at my Mead composition notebook with a manicured nail. “Like you’re doing now. Which isn’t weird at all, by the way.”

“Yeah,” I said, ignoring Trisha’s sarcastic snort. “And I know he’s good-looking and it was cool how he saved me and all. But it’s just…he doesn’t smell right.”

I knew they were both going to stare at me funny. And they both did. They had no idea what I was talking about.

No one does. No one gets it.

Except maybe my dad.

“Just get him a different cologne,” Trisha said.

“Yeah,” Lana said. “Josh used to wear this totally gross stuff that practically gave me a migraine, so for his birthday one year I got him some Drakkar Noir and he started wearing that instead. Problem solved.”

I had to pretend like I was thankful for this tip, and that it actually helped. Even though it totally didn’t. This, it turns out, is the problem with being friends with people in the popular crowd:

You can’t always tell them the truth about stuff, because a lot of things, they just don’t understand.

Thursday, September 23, Chemistry

Mia—you were so quiet at lunch today. Are you okay?

Yes, J.P.! Fine! Just…a little overwhelmed.

Not because of me, I hope.

No! Nothing to do with you!

You can’t tell cute guys the truth about stuff, either.

You’re lying.

No! I’m not! What would make you say that?

Your nostrils are flaring.

DANG! Can NOTHING in my life remain a secret?

Oh. Lilly told you about that?

She did. Listen, the last thing I want is for things to be weird between us.