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didnt think it looked like candy?”
    “i like candy. it tastes good.”
    Oh… my… God. Joshua Winer is flirting with me. And he’s bad at it. My cheeks are so hot, it feels like a fever. I type: “have to finish my homework. see u.”
    “at the party friday. gnite.”
    I lower myself to the floor and lie on my back and stare at the pipes that run across our basement ceiling. I close my eyes.
    Yes, it is quite clear that my luck sucks: a popular guy notices me just when my lips have turned white and who knows what’s wrong with me. And this particular popular guy is the grown-up version of a guy I used to know well, a guy I used to really like. And he liked my lipstick. A lot. He likes a façade that isn’t me at all. Maybe he doesn’t remember the me I was in fifth grade. Maybe he can’t see the real me past the lipstick. Maybe once my lips turn back to whatever color they really are, and I stop with the lipstick, he’ll walk off without another glance.
    “What’s the matter, Slut?”
    “I’m dead. That’s why my lips are white. All the blood has drained out of me.”
    “Don’t joke around.”
    I open my eyes.
    Dante’s on his knees beside me. His face is actually concerned. And this morning he was nice to me. Is the whole world changing?
    “I just decided to lie down.”
    Dante sits on the couch. “That what eleventh grade does to you?”
    “How was your first day of high school?”
    “You heard at dinner.”
    “Yeah, but that was the version you told the parents. How was it really?”
    “I only got lost once.”
    “Good.”
    “I only got punched once.”
    “Excellent.”
    “I don’t think Ms. LeHiste is as bad an English teacher as you said.”
    “To each his own.”
    Dante picks up my cell. “Looks like you have a boyfriend.”
    I jump up and grab it. There’s a message—but it’s just from Owen. “That’s Owen, idiot.”
    “He’s a guy.”
    “Guys and girls are friends in high school. Start texting girls. You’ll see. It’s a lot better than the stupid stuff that happens in middle school.”
    “Oh yeah? Friends? Look at his message.”
    I look at it again. Owen wrote: “the answer to sex this year.”
    “There’s a nonromantic explanation for it, I assure you,” I say.
    “Like what?”
    “I don’t know. I haven’t asked him yet.”
    “Yeah,” says Dante, knowingly.
    “Come off it. It’s just Owen, idiot.”
    “Sure. That’s how it starts. With Owen Idiot. Then he becomes Owen Not So Dumb. Then Owen Smart. Then you’re in love.”
    “Good night, Squirt.” I take my computer and cell and go upstairs.
    “Good night, Slut,” he calls up after me.
    I go into my bedroom, close the door, drape myself across the bed, and type: “whats the answer to sex?”
    “Yes, please.”
    Yes, please
. I grin at the words. This is infantile. But I like it anyway. I type: “ur the best.” And he is; he never fails to make me laugh.
    I already filled out all the school registration information and cards they handed out in homeroom today. In pen. Too bad. I hate to be messy. But sometimes you have to make concessions.
    I take all the forms and cards out of my backpack and search for the ‘sex’ slots. They usually come right after ‘name.’ I cross out F and write yes, but there isn’t enough room to add please. Owen must have said that just for my benefit. It sounds better.
    Poor Mr. Eberly. I wonder if he gets a headache or if hejust thinks we’re all pathetic or if he actually laughs now and then. I would never want to be head counselor at a high school. Kids can be jerks. I’m being a jerk.
    When I look back at the cell, Owen’s words greet me: “so r u”
    I type: “Latin then bed. see u tomorrow.” I sit up and translate Latin. Usually I like nothing better than unpacking the information in a long, Latin verb, but tonight I find myself falling asleep.
    I go to the kitchen and make my lunch for tomorrow. Same as what I had today. What’s the use of changing when