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Plus, he’s your new best friend.”
    â€œHe is not my new—”
    â€œYou’d still need another rec letter, though. Let’s see, what about Mr. O’Donnell? Or Ms. Nargi? I think she went to Harvard, so her name may mean something there.”
    â€œFine, whatever. I’ll get right on it.”
    She gives me a funny look but doesn’t say anything more. We turn our attention to our practice tests. I can feel Mr. Rossi’s handkerchief bunched up in my pocket, pressing against my hip bone. For some reason, it makes me really happy; it’s like a shiny secret that makes the rest of the world seem less dull. Still, I wonder if I should try to put it back where I found it.
    As Plum starts her phone timer, I grab a cookie and read the first question:
    Serena had never been to Paris, but she could experience the City of Lights _________________ through her friend Paul’s lively anecdotes.
    (A) secretly
    (B) insufficiently
    (C) vicariously
    (D) gradually
    (E) mysteriously
    I choose option C. In the margin I copy the word “vicariously” in frilly cursive. Next to it I draw a picture of a grand piano covered with a tangled morass of rose vines. I add a pair of sexy lips. Under the piano I write: secretly, insufficiently, gradually, mysteriously.
    Plum catches sight of my doodles.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she whispers.
    â€œPlum, you don’t need to whisper.”
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she repeats, more loudly. “We have to pretend we’re really taking the SATs, so no doodling! And get busy!”
    â€œYes, Dictator Mom.”
    The next question has to do with the Battle of Hastings. As I fill in the answer, it occurs to me that I’m strangely relieved that Mrs. Singh might not return to school and that Mr. Rossi might become permanent. Not that I care about what happens after I graduate, but still. At least for the near future, I’ll have something to look forward to: playing the Schumann Fantasy for him, talking about music. Seeing that gorgeous face.
    Am I crazy, or does he act like a guy around me instead of a guy/teacher?
    I’m crazy.
    By the time Plum’s phone timer beeps at us with its chirpy cricket ringtone, I have completed this section of the test and covered the blank pages with more rose vines.
    â€œYes! Finished!” Plum announces happily. “I think I got them all right. What about you?”
    â€œMaybe. Okay, now Buffy. ”
    â€œLet’s add up our scores first.”
    â€œYou really are a Dictator Mom.”
    â€œI know. One of us has to be!”
    We check our answers against the key in silence. The smell of Swedish food wafts up from the kitchen: meatballs, beets, and Jansson’s Temptation, which was named after a monk who broke his fast. I mean, who wouldn’t give in to sliced potatoes baked in a gallon of cream? Mr. Sorenson is cooking tonight, as he always does on Tuesdays when he isn’t busy designing museums or rich people’s houses.
    It turns out that I got all the answers right except for one, about Vladimir Nabokov. I never liked his novels, anyway. Plum said we have to score 2200 or better when we take the real test in October. I guess this is what we need if we want the Ivies to even consider our applications.
    I glance down at my SAT practice test and trace the rose vine doodles with my finger. Where will I be a year from now? College? Still in Eden Grove? Or is there some unknown destiny that will secretly, gradually, and mysteriously reveal itself to me?
    And then the beginning of the Schumann Fantasy flits through my mind.
    I wonder whatever happened to Robert Schumann and his piano teacher’s daughter?
    I start a new list in my head: Things to Talk About with Mr. Rossi.

E IGHT
    On Wednesday, Mr. Rossi catches my eye as I’m leaving his class.
    â€œBeatrice, do you have a second?” he calls out.
    â€œSure!” I push my backpack up