I’d been shocked when he’d been all, “Your senior project’s on the history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650? Cool, Thermopolis. Can I read it?”

You could have knocked me over with one of Lana’s pom-poms. Becauseno one had asked to read my senior project. No one. Not even Mom. I thought I’d picked such a safe subject, I was safe fromanybody asking to read it.

Ever.

And here was Michael Moscovitz, all the way in Japan (where he’s been for the past two years, slaving away on his robotic arm—which I’m so sure is never going to get done, I’ve given up asking about it, since it doesn’t seem polite to bring it up anymore, since he barely acknowledges the question), asking to read it.

I told him it was four hundred pages long.

He said he didn’t care.

I told him it was single-spaced and in 9-point font.

He said he’d enlarge it when it came.

I told him it was really boring.

And he said he didn’t believe anything I wrote could be boring.

That’s when I stopped e-mailing him back.

What else could I do? I couldn’t send it to him! Yeah, I can send it to publishers I’ve never even met before. But not my ex-boyfriend! Not Michael! I mean…it’s gotsex in it!

It’s just…how could hesay that? That he didn’t believe anything I wrote could be boring? What was hetalking about? Ofcourse something I wrote could be boring! The history of Genovian olive oil presses, circa 1254–1650. That’s boring! That’s really, really boring!

And okay, that’s not what my book is really about.

But still! He doesn’t know that.