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winter.
    I pull up my collar as I step under the awning in front of Smith’s Pharmacy. A gust of warm air from the front door convinces me I need to go inside. I have to at least buy a packet of tissues, maybe a cooking magazine or something. But just as I pull open the door, I remember why I never stop by Smith’s after school.
    â€œElaine!”
    Oh, crap. I let the door fall closed and turn around reluctantly. “Hi, Christopher.”
    â€œHow are ya?” Wrapped in a green apron from Smith’s Pharmacy, Christopher Haines stands on the sidewalk, his arms crossed and his hands tucked under his arms. Anyone can see that he’s cold, even in his gray sweater. Anyone with sense would have at least put a coat on before going outside. Of course, Chris Haines has no sense.
    â€œI’m fine.” My voice sounds like lead, even to me.
    â€œSo…” Christopher shifts, biting his bottom lip nervously. “I haven’t seen you much outside of Vocal Jazz.”
    That’s because I’ve seen you first.
“I’ve been busy,” I say lamely.
    â€œOh.” The conversation dies. How long am I going to be trapped here in the wet because Christopher Haines is an idiot?
    I shouldn’t be so mean. Christopher is the son of one of Mom’s best friends. Our families used to hang out when we were in grade school, both of us missing teeth and singing our hearts out in the middle school chorus. Back then, Christopher used to be plain old Chris: short, tan-skinned, dark curly-haired, and nerdy—pretty average like the rest of the boys in our class. He was okay—even Sim said he was a good kid, since he never tattled when Sim teased him. But somewhere between our sophomore and junior year, his family went to Europe or something, and he turned into someone else—someone tall, okay-looking, better-dressed, with bleached dreads, with less acne, and without a mouthful of braces. Someone who changed his name to Topher.
    â€œSo, what are you doing?”
    â€œStanding in front of the store?”
    Christopher ducks his head, his light brown skin flushing. “Dumb question, huh?”
    â€œActually, I think I’ll just go home,” I say, and open my umbrella. “I think I have a cold coming on.”
    â€œWe have chicken soup,” Christopher says immediately. “Oh, wait, you’re vegetarian. But we have cold medicine. Aisle five.”
    â€œThanks, Christopher, but…no. I’m just going home.”
    â€œI hope you feel better,” Christopher says dutifully.
    â€œYep. See you, Chris.”
    â€œUm, Elaine?”
    Sighing, I half turn. The wind is slanting the rain down at an angle, and Christopher is getting wet. I shift so my umbrella is blocking the rain from the back of my neck. “What?”
    â€œDo you…Are you ever going to call me Topher?”
    I shrug wearily. “Maybe. Maybe not. Bye.”
    I know I shouldn’t mess with him. He’s just too easy.
    I push off my hood, running my fingers through my damply snarled hair as I walk up the stairs to our front door. In the mailbox, I see an envelope from
Southern Cooking
and rip the thin letter open quickly.
    Congratulations,
blah blah blah,
honorable mention,
blah blah blah,
subscription to our magazine,
blah blah.
    Honorable mention. Not bad, since the category I entered was for a main course using turkey, and I’ve never cooked a whole turkey in my life. I wish I’d won money, since I’m still saving up for my pilgrimage to Saint Julia’s at the Smithsonian, but a free magazine is okay too.
    I change into sweats and restlessly poke through the fridge, trying to find something I’m in the mood to eat. The phone rings, and the clattering noises in the background let me know who it is even without checking caller ID.
    â€œHey, Mom.”
    â€œHey, Laineybelle. Not coming down for dinner?”
    â€œNope…I’m pretty tired. My