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nothing that makes me feel any better.” She made her voice lower to imitate Bick. “I didn’t get to sleep till three and I have a wack headache. Gotta motor before the eating hall closes down breakfast.”
    “Blah blah blah,” I said.
    “He’ll be home at Thanksgiving,” said Meghan, “which is only two and a half months. Then Christmas and spring break. And next year, I can apply to Boston College or maybe Tufts, so we can be together.”
    “Why not apply to Harvard?”
    “I’ll never get in. I did too bad in German last year. Besides, I’m the kind of person who’s all about relationships,” said Meghan. “I mean, I’m going to college—of course I’m going to college—but it’s more important to me to be with Bick. Our love is the key. Everything else will work around that, don’t you think?” She paused to give the finger to the driver of a minivan that had just cut her off.
    I was split between feeling envious of her having a real boyfriend—a boyfriend who called her every day and wanted to keep going out long-distance until she could join him in Cambridge—and a feeling of bitter pessimism regarding Meghan’s whole situation that I probably should have been talking about in therapy.
    I mean, if a person (me) was legitimately possessed of mental health, wouldn’t she be optimistic? She would trust what Bick said, and trust what Meghan said, and believe in the power of young love.
    But I couldn’t help thinking that:
    1. Young love was foolish and all too often cruel.
    2. Bick was extremely hot in a rugby-playing, scruffy-hair way—and there was a good possibility Harvard suffered a real dearth of genuinely studly guys. He was going to have a lot of temptation. Sexy Harvard librarian types were going to be throwing themselves at him right and left, whereas Meghan was stuck with the same old guys we’ve known since kindergarten.
    3. Underneath her lip-licking, sexpot exterior, Meghan is no dummy. She gets As and Bs. She sings in the school choir. She runs track and she’s a great golfer. Is it wrong that I wished she didn’t think she was the kind of person who was “all about relationships”? She was acting like a complete throwback to the 1950s women we studied in American History & Politics last year: smart, accomplished women who gave up their aspirations in life to define themselves in terms of the men they married.
    4. On the other hand, if she wanted to be all about relationships, why not let her, if that’s what made her happy? Maybe I had no political point whatsoever, and I was just jealous.
     
    “I bet you could get into Harvard,” I said. “You should apply if you want to go.”
    “I don’t know,” Meghan said. “Bick says the girls there are supersmart.”
    “I can’t think about college at this point,” I groaned. “I’ll be lucky to survive another day at Tate.”
     

     
    On Thursday, at the break after second period, there was a note in my mail cubby. My heart started pounding when I saw it.
    Nora, maybe? She seemed less mad at me than Cricket.
    Meghan? Probably not. We had just had Global Studies together.
    Noel?
    When I had it in my hand, I could see it was written on pale green paper that was very familiar. And it was folded in quarters, the way he always folded everything he wrote.
    The note was from my ex. Jackson Clarke.
     

     
    Last year, Jackson put notes in my cubby all the time. Funny stuff that he’d written while goofing off in class, or the night before as he was getting ready for bed.
    Most days there had been something waiting in my cubby before lunch. And although we had arguments on the telephone, and there were so many, many little things near the end that made me feel insecure and oversensitive around him, the cubby notes were always easy. He liked to write, and could draw good cartoons. He had a favorite blue-black pen.
    He knew how to make me laugh.
    Then later, when I saw his quarter-folded green paper notes in Kim’s mail cubby,