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to get a word in edgewise with Emily, but she was so preoccupied that I found myself the last person at the table, watching Tabitha usher Tripp toward the elevator.
    I could have sworn he looked back at me, just once, but I couldn’t tell for sure. And then—poof—Emily was thanking me for “helping out so last-minute” and I was in a cab headed home.

    T he next morning, I woke up to no less than seven missed calls from Emily. Thankfully, she’d only left one voice mail: “Minty. The second you wake up, run out and pick up a copy of Women’s Wear Daily, ” she said. “Call me as soon as you do.”
    I immediately made my way to the corner bodega, where I found a copy of the fashion industry’s go-to daily newspaper. I leafed through the contents: a story about a new beauty brand, a report on the earnings of Louis Vuitton, a fashion shoot featuring jean trends for fall. And then I saw it: the “Eye” page. “Eye” was a special section that ran stories on industry events several times a week. In the center of the page was the photo Richard took of Tabitha and me at the Saks Fifth Avenue event. And there was my name next to Tabitha’s! Well, at least an approximation of my name: Mintzy Darvenport.
    Eeek. It wasn’t the most flattering photo I’d ever seen of myself. I put the paper down and grumbled.
    My phone started ringing.
    â€œMinty!” It was Emily. “Minty, did you see it? Did you see WWD ?!”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    I walked toward Lexington Avenue and waited for the light to change. I wasn’t sure how I felt. It was cool to see my photo in a newspaper and to be standing next to someone like Tabitha Lipton. But I couldn’t get over the fact that I looked, well, awkward.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œThey spelled my name wrong.”
    Emily laughed. “We’ll have them do a correction.”
    â€œAnd I look kind of fat.”
    She laughed again. “That’s ridiculous.”
    â€œI could have smiled better.”
    â€œMinty, sweetie,” Emily sighed, “you’re in WWD !”
    I looked up as the light turned green. “Is it that big of a deal?”
    â€œYes, Minty,” Emily said. I could hear the smile in her words. “It’s that big of a deal.”
    The second I hung up with Emily, my BlackBerry buzzed. For a second I almost thought she was calling me again, but instead I found an e-mail notifying me of a Facebook friend request.
    It said, simply, “Minty, is this you?”
    The note was accompanied by Tripp du Pont’s handsome profile photo.

Smile through the Pain
    I couldn’t help myself—I was excited that Tripp had reached out. I tried to look on the bright side of things. It was very possible that twenty-four-year-old Tripp was more mature than seventeen-year-old Tripp. Maybe he’d even learned from the mistakes he made with me. Then I remembered he had a girlfriend. Or at least I thought Tabitha was his girlfriend. So . . . should I take the friend request at face value? Tripp was never my “boyfriend,” but we were certainly more than friends. And while he’d hurt me, there was always . . . something between us. Even the way he looked at me during the lunch. I was more confused than ever.
    I called my mother.
    â€œTripp du Pont,” she repeated. “If I do recall, not the most solid of citizens.”
    â€œMother, we were teenagers.”
    â€œYou were enamored with him,” she reminded me. “And he spent all of Christmas break acting like your boyfriend.”
    â€œAll right,” I said. “He hurt me.”
    â€œDo not write him back,” she said.
    â€œBut, Mother, it’s been years. Maybe he’s matured! I can’t just ignore his friend request.”
    â€œWhat the hell is a friend request anyway?”
    â€œWell, it’s when—”
    â€œHeavens, Minty, I know what it is.