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those?”
    â€œHe said she did interview him for her blog, so the texts are real, but that everyone’s taken everything he said out of context, and that all the rest she made up to get more hits on her site. I mean, I guess that’s possible, right?”
    â€œUm,” I said. “Sure. I guess so.”
    Lie number one.
    Boris had told Michael the exact same thing (the two of them are still friends—they get together to play World of Warcraft a few times a month. The fact that Boris enjoys playing online fantasy role-playing games only endears him more to the Borettes).
    Michael refuses to stop speaking to Boris just because he “allegedly” cheated on my friend. He says there are two sides to every story, and as a fellow celebrity, I should understand how these kinds of things get twisted by the press, and that I should give Boris the benefit of the doubt.
    But I’ve seen the photos. Some violin players develop Fiddler’s Neck, a sort of callus along the underside of their chin from holding their instrument there for extended periods of time.
    The guy in the photos has the same Fiddler’s Neck pattern as Boris (as I know only too well, having seen him shirtless playing water volleyball at the palace pool back in Genovia when he used to be allowed to visit there with Tina).
    So despite Boris’s protests—and Michael’s—those pictures aren’t Photoshopped. The story has to be true.
    Although I guess Michael hasn’t really driven me sex mad, so maybe it isn’t true. Ugh.
    I always thought when I became an adult everything would become less confusing, but unfortunately, everything’s only become more confusing.
    â€œBoris says that girl could have hacked into his phone, then wrote all those mean things about me because she’s obsessed with him,” Tina went on. “You know, stalker style. He says she’s jealous of me. But none of that seems very likely . . .”
    â€œTina!” I gasped. “You say that like there’s nothing for her to be jealous of. You know perfectly well how hot you are. You’re the hottest, most beautiful woman I know.” This, at least, was not a lie.
    â€œThat’s sweet of you to say, Mia, but I’m not as hot as her,” she said with an unhappy sigh. “Have you seen her? She’s totally rocking that Brooklyn hipster music blogger thing.”
    â€œAnd I will be more than happy to yank that ring right out of her septum if you’d like me to. I can always claim I tripped and grabbed it by accident.” To my relief, Tina started to laugh. “No, really. People will believe me, because I have a reputation for being a klutz, but I’m also a princess, and princesses never lie.”
    HA HA HA HA.
    â€œAw, thanks, Mia,” she said. “That’s what I love about you. You’re the loyalist friend ever. Anyway, I don’t know what to do. Boris told me that new song of his, ‘A Million Stars,’ is about me.”
    Ugh! I don’t want to be that girl—the girl who tells someone not to give her ex another chance, especially right after that person’s just called her the “loyalist friend ever.”
    Because, of course, there’s always a chance Michael is right, and the thing with Boris really is only a misunderstanding. And this is America. We love forgiving people, then letting them have a second chance.
    But that doesn’t mean “A Million Stars” isn’t the worst, cheesiest, most horrible song ever .
    Which, of course, is only my opinion. The Borettes love it so much they’ve made it the number one bestselling song of all time ever . You can’t go anywhere—any elevator, any store, any airport, any hotel lobby, any restaurant, not even New York’s Times Square —without hearing it being blared over a set of speakers.
    Worse, in the video for it (which is also played everywhere constantly),