Part 4 (2/2)

Can you imagine wanting that big wonk looming over you? She's not even technically related to him (lucky kid).

Anyway, yeah. That's what the big meeting was about-or at least, what it started off being about. Me deciding where I was going to go to school in eight days.

Thanks, guys! No pressure!

Dad says he doesn't care where I go, so long as I'm happy. But he's made it more than clear that if I don't go to an Ivy or Sarah Lawrence or one of the Seven Sisters, I might as well be committing hari-kari.

”Why don't you go to Yale?” he kept saying. ”Isn't that where J.P. wants to go? You could go with him.”

Of course Yale is where J.P. wants to go, because they have the fantastic drama department.

Except I can't go to Yale. It's too far from Manhattan. What if something were to happen to Rocky or Fat Louie-a freak flash fire or building collapse?-and I had to get back to the loft fast?

Besides, J.P. thinks I'm going to L'Universite de Genovia, and has already applied and resigned himself to going there with me. Even though L'Universite de Genovia has no drama department and I explained to him that by going there he's shooting all his own career aspirations in the foot. He said it didn't matter, so long as we can be together.

I guess it actually doesn't matter, since his dad will always be able to get his plays produced.

But anyway, none of that is what I'm freaking out about. It's what happened afterward.

It was after Grandmere had harangued me some more about the invitation list to my party-and said to Mr. G, ”Do your niece and nephew have to attend? Because you know if I could scratch them off I could make room for the Beckhams”-and then finally hung up that Dad said, ”I think you ought to show it to her now,” and Mom said, ”Really, Phillipe, I think you're being just a tad dramatic, there's no need for you to stay on the phone, I'll give it to her later,” and Dad said, ”I'm part of this family, too, and I want to be here to support her, even if I can't actually be there in the flesh,” and Mom said, ”You're overreacting. But if you insist,” and she got up and went into her room.

And I went, starting to feel a bit nervous, ”What's going on?”

And Mr. G said, ”Oh, nothing. Your dad just e-mailed something he saw on international business CNN.”

”And I want you to see it, Mia,” Dad said, through the speakerphone, ”before someone tells you about it at school.”

And my heart sank, because I figured it was some new scheme of Rene's to junk up Genovia in order to get more tourists to go there. Maybe he was going to put a Hard Rock Cafe in there, and try to get Clay Aiken to come and play at its grand opening.

Only it wasn't. When Mom came out of her bedroom with a printout of what Dad e-mailed her, I saw that it had nothing to do with Rene at all.

It was this: NEW YORK (AP)-Robotic arms are the future for surgery, and one in particular, dubbed the CardioArm, will be revolutionizing cardiac surgery, already making its creator-Michael Moscovitz, 21, of Manhattan-a very wealthy man.

His invention is being billed as the first surgical robot compatible with advanced imaging technology. Moscovitz spent two years leading a team of j.a.panese scientists designing CardioArm for his small company, Pavlov Surgical.

The stock of Pavlov Surgical, Moscovitz's high-tech company with a monopoly on selling robotic surgical arms in the United States, has surged nearly 500 percent over the last year. a.n.a.lysts believe that the rally is far from over.

That's because demand for Moscovitz's product is growing, and so far his small company has the market all to itself.

The surgical arm, which is controlled remotely by surgeons, was approved by the Food and Drug Administration for general surgery last year.

The CardioArm system is considered to be more precise and less invasive than traditional surgical tools that include small handheld surgical cameras inserted into the body during surgery. Recovery from surgery performed by the CardioArm system is considerably faster than recovery from traditional surgery.

”What you can do with the robotic arm-with the capabilities in manipulation and visualization-you just can't do any other way,” said Dr. Arthur Ward, head of cardiology at Columbia University Medical Center.

There are already 50 CardioArms operating in American hospitals, with a waiting list of hundreds more, but with a price tag ranging from $1 million to $1.5 million, the systems don't come cheap. Moscovitz has donated several CardioArm systems to children's hospitals nationwide, and will be donating a new one to Columbia University Medical Center this weekend, a fact for which the university, his alma mater, is grateful.

”This is a highly perfected, highly sought-after, very unique technology,” said Ward. ”In terms of robotics, CardioArm is the clear leader. Moscovitz has done something extraordinary for the field of surgical medicine.”

Wow. The ex-girlfriend is always the last to know.

But whatever. It's not like this changes anything.

I mean, so what? So Michael's genius is universally acknowledged, the way it always should have been. He deserves all the money and acclaim. He worked really hard for it. I knew he was going to save children's lives, and now he's doing it.

I just...I guess I just...

Well, I just can't believe he didn't tell me!

On the other hand, what was he going to say in his last e-mail, exactly? ”Oh, by the way, my robotic surgical arm is a huge success, it's saving lives nationwide, and my company has the fastest-trading stock on Wall Street?”

Oh, no, that wouldn't be too braggy.

And anyway, I'm the one who freaked out and stopped e-mailing him when he asked if he could read my senior project. For all I know, maybe he was going to mention that his CardioArm is selling for $1.5 million a pop and has a stronghold on the robotic-surgical-arm market.

Or, ”I'm coming back to America and donating one of my robotic surgical arms to Columbia University Medical Center on Sat.u.r.day, so maybe I'll see you.”

I just never gave him the chance, being the super rude one who never wrote back after the last time we corresponded.

And for all I know, Michael's been back to America a dozen times since we broke up, to visit his family and whatnot. Why would he mention it to me? It's not like we're going to get together for coffee or anything. We're broken up.

And h.e.l.lo, I already have a boyfriend.

It's just...in the article, it said, Michael Moscovitz, 21, of Manhattan. Not Tsukuba, j.a.pan.

So. He's obviously living here now. He's here. He asked to read my senior project, and he's here.

Panic attack.

I mean, before, when he was in j.a.pan, and he asked to see my senior project, I could have been like, ”Oh, I sent it to you, didn't you get it? No? That's so weird. Let me try sending it again.”

But now, if I see him, and he asks...

Oh my G.o.d. What am I going to do?????

Wait...Whatever. It's not like he's asked to see me! I mean, he's here, isn't he? And has he called? No.

E-mailed? No.

Of course...I'm the one who owes him an e-mail. He's politely observed e-mail etiquette and waited for me to e-mail him back. What must he think, since I totally stopped communicating when he asked to read my book? He must think I'm the biggest byotch, as Lana would say. Here he made the nicest offer-an offer my own boyfriend has never made, by the way-and I totally went missing in action....

G.o.d, remember that weird thing where I used to want to smell his neck all the time? It's like I couldn't feel calm or happy or something unless I smelled his neck. That was so...geek, as Lana would say.

Of course...if I remember correctly, Michael always did smell a lot better than J.P., who continues to smell like dry cleaning. I tried buying him some cologne for his birthday, like Lana suggested- It didn't work. He wears it, but now he just smells like cologne. Over dry-cleaning fluid.

I just can't believe Michael's been back in town and I didn't even know it! I'm so glad Dad told me! I could have run into him at Bigelow's or Forbidden Planet and without having any advanced warning he was back, I might have done something incredibly stupid when I saw him. Such as pee myself. Or blurt out, ”You look incredible!”

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