“I like it,” I said. I do. I think the W is cool. Everything in it is very shiny.
“You’re mad,” Grandmère said. “Do you know I ordered a Sidecar, and they delivered it in a TUMBLER?”
“So? More to enjoy.”
“Sidecars are never served in a TUMBLER, Amelia. WATER is served in a tumbler. A Sidecar is ALWAYS served in a stemmed cocktail glass. MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR???”
Grandmère was suddenly sitting up very straight in her slippery black leather chair.
“Calm down,” I said. “I just got a little trim—”
“A LITTLE TRIM??? You look like a cotton swab.”
“It’ll grow back,” I said lamely. Because the truth is, I’m not planning on growing it back. I really like having short hair. You don’t have to do ANYTHING to it. And when you look in the mirror, your head always looks the same. There’s something comforting about that. I mean, it’s TIRING seeing some new disaster erupting on your scalp every time you happen to glance at your reflection.
“How do you intend to keep your tiaras on with nothing for the combs to dig into?” Grandmère wanted to know.
Which is actually a good point. And certainly not one anyone had thought to bring up at Astor Place Hairstylists, least of all my mom, who’d said my new short hair reminded her of Demi Moore’s in G.I. Jane which, at the time, I’d taken to be a compliment.
“Velcro?” I asked carefully.
But Grandmère didn’t think my joke was all that funny.
“There’s not even any point in summoning Paolo,” she said, “because it’s not as if there’s even anything left for him to work with.”
“It’s not THAT short,” I said, lifting a hand to my head and feeling spikes. Well, on second thought, maybe it is. Oh, well. “Whatever. It’s just HAIR. It will grow back. Don’t we have more important things to worry about, Grandmère? I mean, in Iran, fundamentalist religious courts still routinely sentence women to death by being buried up to their necks in sand and then stoned, for crimes like adultery. Now! Things like this are happening RIGHT NOW!!!! And you’re worried about my HAIR???”
Grandmère just shook her head. You never can distract her with current events. If it doesn’t have to do with royalty, she just doesn’t care.
“This could not have come at a worse time,” she went on, like I hadn’t said anything. “Vogue just contacted the royal publicist, wanting an interview and photo shoot for their winter getaway issue. The article would bring Genovia to the attention of hundreds of women looking to schedule their winter vacations somewhere warm. Not to mention the fact that your father is in town for the general assembly meeting at the UN.”
“Good!” I yelled. “Maybe he can bring up the Iran thing at it! Do you know they’ve outlawed western music there, too? And, while claiming their only interest in nuclear development is for civilian energy, and not military use, actually hid atomic research that proves otherwise from the International Atomic Energy Agency for twenty years? Who cares about winter getaways when we could all be blown up at any moment?”
“I suppose we could have you fitted for a wig,” Grandmère said. “Though how we’ll ever find one identical to your old haircut, I don’t know. They don’t make wigs shaped like sailboats. Perhaps we could find a longer wig, and then have Paolo cut it….”
“Are you even listening to me?” I wanted to know. “There are more important things to worry about right now than my hair. Do you know how much trouble we’ll all be in if Iran gets a nuclear weapon? They BURY WOMEN UP TO THEIR NECKS AND STONE THEM FOR SLEEPING WITH GUYS THEY AREN’T MARRIED TO. How discriminating do you think they’re going to be about who deserves to have a bomb dropped on them?”
“Maybe,” Grandmère said thoughtfully, “we should turn you into a redhead. Oh, no, that will never work. With that haircut, you look exactly like that boy from the cover of those Mad comic books your father used to read all the time when he was your age.”
Seriously. It’s useless even to talk to her. Did I really think a woman with so unreasonable a prejudice against Gerbera daisies was going to listen to me?
Sometimes I feel like burying HER up to her neck in sand and throwing rocks at her head.
Tuesday, September 7, 7 p.m., the loft
Michael is here!!!!! To take me to Number One Noodle Son for dinner. Right now he’s chatting with Mom and Mr. G while I’m “getting ready.” He hasn’t seen me yet.
Or my haircut.
I know I’m being a complete baby about it. I know it looks fine. Mom keeps telling me it looks fine. Even Mr. G, when I asked him, said he doesn’t think I look like Peter Pan OR Anakin Skywalker.
Still. What if Michael hates it? In Sixteen magazine they’re always going on about how boys like girls with long hair. At least, whenever they do those “guy on the street” interviews. They show pictures of Keira Knightley with short hair and Keira Knightley with long hair to random high school boys standing around outside of convenience marts or whatever, and ask them which they prefer.
And nine times out of ten they pick Keira with the long hair.
Of course, none of those boys is ever Michael. But still.
Well, whatever. Michael is just going to have to deal.
Okay, maybe a little more mousse—
I can hear him talking to Rocky now. Not that anyone can understand a word Rocky says, except “truck” and “kitty” and “cookie” and “more” and “no” and “MINE,” the total extent of his vocabulary. Apparently this is normal for a child his age, and Rocky is not suffering from any sort of developmental retardation.
Still, it’s not easy having a conversation with him. I find it endlessly fascinating, of course. But he’s MY brother. Listen to how patient Michael is being! Rocky is just saying “truck,” over and over again, and Michael is going, “Yes. That’s a very nice truck,” in the sweetest way. He’d make such a good dad! Not that I have any intention of having children until I’ve finished college and joined the Peace Corps and put an end to global warming, of course.
Still, it’s good to know that when I’m ready, Michael will be up to the task.
Oh! I just snuck a peek at him! He looks sooo great, so tall and handsome and dark and broad-shouldered and oh! I think he just shaved and I can’t believe it’s been a whole MONTH since I saw him and…
Oh my God. My hair is shorter than his.
MY HAIR IS SHORTER THAN MY BOYFRIEND’S.
What have I done?
Tuesday, September 7, kitchen of Number One Noodle Son
Okay.
Okay, I am trying to understand this.
That’s why I asked Kevin Yang if I could sit here in the kitchen for a few minutes. Because I just need a little time to myself to figure this out. And there’s someone in the ladies’ room. Someone who apparently doesn’t realize there are girls out here whose lives are falling apart and who need to pretend to wash their hands so they can figure out what to do about it.
And okay, it’s kind of busy and hot and crowded back here, because Kevin’s got all ninety of his cousins working, and it’s the dinner rush, and everyone seems to have ordered the Peking duck. So everywhere I look, all I can see are smiling duck heads.
But at least I can catch my breath for a minute and try to understand what’s going on.
I just don’t get it.
Oh, not about Michael’s reaction to my hair. I mean, he was surprised to see that it was so short.
But, like, not displeased. He said I looked cute—like Natalie Portman when she played Evey Hammond in V for Vendetta.
And he gave me a big hug and a kiss. And then a BIGGER hug and a kiss when we were out in the hallway and Mom and Mr. G weren’t there and Lars was still putting on his shoulder holster. I got to smell Michael’s neck, and I swear, every synapse in my brain must have shot out a megadose of serotonin because of his pheromones, because I felt so relaxed and happy afterward.
And I can tell he feels the same way about me. He held my
hand the whole stroll to the restaurant, and we talked about everything that had happened since we last saw each other—Grandmère getting kicked out of the Plaza and Lilly going blond (I didn’t ask him if he thought Lilly and J.P. had Done It when J.P. went to their country house for the weekend, because I try to avoid discussions involving sex, since it only seems to remind Michael that we’re not having it, and inflame his desire) and Rocky’s dexterity with his Tonka truck and the Drs. Moscovitz and their quasi-getting-back-together.
And when we got to the restaurant, Rosey, the hostess, sat us at our usual table by the window, and invited Lars to sit up at the bar with her, where he could watch me and the baseball game at the same time.
And we ordered my favorite, cold sesame noodles, and Michael’s favorite, barbecued spare ribs, and we split a hot and sour soup and Michael had kung pao chicken and I had sautéed string beans and then I said, “So when are you moving into the dorm? Hasn’t school started already?” and Michael said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. That’s what I wanted to wait to tell you in person.”
And I was like, “Oh, yeah?” thinking he was going to say something like he was getting his own apartment because he was tired of sharing a room with another guy, or maybe that he was moving in with his dad because Mr. Dr. Moscovitz was so lonely. In fact, I was so confident that whatever Michael was about to say was going to be no big deal that I took a giant bite of cold sesame noodles, right before he said:
“Remember that project I was working on this summer? The robotic arm?”
“The one with which doctors can perform closed-chest surgery on a beating heart?” I said, around the noodles. “Uh-huh.”
“Well,” Michael said. “I have some really good news: It works. At least, the prototype does. And my professor was so impressed, he told a colleague of his over at a company in Japan about it—a company that is attempting to perfect robotic surgical systems that can work unassisted by surgeons—and his colleague wants me to go to Japan and see if we can construct an actual working model for use in the operating room.”
“Wow,” I said, swallowing my noodles, and going for another huge mouthful. I mean, I was pretty much starving. I hadn’t had anything to eat since my three-bean salad at lunch. Oh, and some totally awesome wasabi peas in Grandmère’s hotel room (which she tried and freaked out over. “WHERE ARE THE CANDIED ALMONDS?” she screamed at that Robert guy. Poor thing.). “So, like, when would you go? Some weekend, or something?”
“No,” Michael said, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. It wouldn’t be for just a weekend. It would be until the project is completed. My professor has arranged for me to receive full course credits, as well as a significant stipend, while I’m away.”
“So.” Man, those noodles were good. One of the many lousy things about spending the summer in Genovia—no cold sesame noodles. “Like a week?”
“Mia,” Michael said. “Just the prototype took all summer. Building an actual working model, with a console containing a real-time MRI, real-time CT scanner, and real-time X ray could take up to a year. Or more. But it’s a fantastic opportunity—one I can’t turn down. Something I designed could potentially help to save thousands of lives. And I need to be there to make sure it happens.”
Wait. A year? Or MORE?
Of course, I started choking on my cold sesame noodles, and Michael had to reach across the table and slap me on the back and I had to drink both my ice water and his Coke before I could breathe again.
And when I could breathe, all I seemed able to say was, “What? WHAT?” over and over again.
And even though Michael was trying to explain—as patiently as if I were Rocky showing him my truck over and over—all I could hear inside my head was “could take up to a year. Or more. But it’s a fantastic opportunity—one I can’t turn down. Could take up to a year. Or more. But it’s a fantastic opportunity—one I can’t turn down.”
Michael is moving to Japan. For a year. Or more.
He leaves Friday.
You can see why I had to excuse myself. Because in what universe does something like this make any sense? In Bizarro Universe, maybe. But not MY universe. Not the universe Michael and I share.
Or the one I used to think we shared.
Even as the words were still batting around in my mind—could take up to a year. Or more. But it’s a fantastic opportunity—one I can’t turn down—and I was like, “Wow, Michael. That is so great. I’m so happy for you,” this voice in my head was going,
“Is it because of ME?”
And then, somehow, the voice got OUTSIDE of my head, and before I could stuff them back, the words were coming out of my mouth: “Is it because of ME?”
And Michael blinked and was like, “What?”
It was a total nightmare. Because even though, inside my head, I was like, “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” my mouth seemed to have a will of its own. A second later, before I could stop it, my mouth was going, “Is it because of me? Are you moving to Japan because I did something?” And then my mouth went, “Or DIDN’T do something?”
And I wanted to shove all the cold sesame noodles in the world into it, just to shut myself up.
But Michael was already shaking his head. “No, of course not. Mia, don’t you see? This is such an incredible opportunity. This company already has mechanical engineers working on drafts of my design. MY design. Something I made, which could change the course of modern surgery as we know it. Of course I have to be there.”
“But do they have to do it in Japan?” my mouth asked. “Don’t they have mechanical engineers here in Manhattan? I’m almost sure they do. I think Ling Su’s dad is one!”
“Mia,” Michael explained, “this is the most innovative and cutting-edge robotics research group in the world. They’re based in Tsukuba, which is basically the Silicon Valley of Japan. That’s where their labs are, their research facilities. All their equipment is there…everything I need to turn my prototype into a working model. I have to go there.”
“But you’ll be back,” I said. My brain was starting to take control of my mouth again. Thank God. “For, like, Thanksgiving break and Christmas and Spring Break and all of that.” Because the wheels in my mind were spinning, and I was thinking, Well, okay, this won’t be so bad. Sure, my boyfriend will be in Japan, but I’ll still see him during vacations. It won’t be THAT different than during the school year. And this way I’ll have more time to really buckle down and maybe figure out what Mr. Hipskin is talking about in Chemistry and just what the heck is going on in Precalculus and maybe even study enough to do a little better on my math SATs, and, what the heck, maybe I’ll even stick with student government after all, and I’ll be able to finish my screenplay AND maybe a novel…
And that’s when Michael reached across the table and said, “Mia, there’s sort of a time crunch with this project. If we’re going to get it out on the market as soon as we possibly can, we can’t take time off. So…no, I won’t be home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I probably won’t be home until next summer, by which point we should have something we can demonstrate in an actual surgical setting.”
I heard the words coming out of his mouth. I knew he was speaking English. But just like with Mr. Hipskin in Chemistry class, what Michael was saying made no sense. Next summer is a year from now. Basically Michael was saying he was going to be gone—not see me—for a YEAR.
And okay, sure, I could fly to Japan to see him. In my dreams. Because NO WAY am I going to be able to talk my dad into letting me take the royal Genovian jet to Japan to see my boyfriend.
And no way would they let me fly commercial. All the air marshals in the world wouldn’t satisfy Grandmère—let alone my dad—that commercial air traffic is safe for royals.
That’s when I excused myself. That’s why I’m sitting here. Because none of this makes any sense.
I don’t care how good an opportunity it is.
I don’t care how much money he stands to make from th
is, or how many thousands of lives he might save.
Why would any guy who loves his girlfriend as much as Michael claims to love me want to be apart from her for a YEAR?
And Kevin Yang is no help on this subject. He just shrugged when I asked him this, and went, “I never understood Michael from the day he first came in here when he was ten years old. He asked for hot chili oil for my dumplings. Like they are not spicy enough!”
And Lars, who poked his head in here a minute ago to see where I disappeared to, just went, “Well, you know. Sometimes guys just have to do these things to prove themselves.”
To WHOM? Aren’t I the only one who should matter? I don’t want Michael to go to Japan for a year.
And excuse me, but it’s not like he’s going off to the Gobi Desert to do chin-ups and shoot at cardboard cutouts of terrorists like Lars did when HE decided he needed to prove himself. He’s just going to some computer lab in Japan!
And yes, I understand that his robotic arm thingie could save thousands of lives.
BUT WHAT ABOUT MY LIFE?
Okay, this totally isn’t helping.
And the sight of all these duck heads is really psychologically disturbing to me.
I mean, not as psychologically disturbing as the fact that my boyfriend is apparently moving to Japan for a year.
But almost.
I’m going back out there. I’m going to be supportive. I’m going to be happy for Michael. I’m not going to say anything about how if he really loved me, he wouldn’t go. Because I can’t be selfish. I have had Michael all to myself for nearly two years now. I can’t hog him from the rest of the world, which really does need him, and his genius.
Except.
EXCEPT WHAT AM I GOING TO DO IF I CAN’T SMELL HIS NECK????
I might die.
Tuesday, September 7, 10 p.m., the loft
I shouldn’t have done it.