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my almost-classic sixteen-year-old Volvo, zooming down Mariah Avenue. I was beat. A sad love song played on the radio; the singer and I had the same problem: we didn’t understand love. The rules were too obtuse.
    You like somebody, but shouldn’t show it.
    You flirt, instead of being straight on.
    You dump someone you’ve spent important, caring time with when someone better comes along.
    I looked at Trish, who was half asleep. I turned left at the Nickleby Novelty Company as a cat knocked over a pile of cardboard boxes. I felt my nostrils clog with vile allergens because just seeing a cat affected me adversely. A box rolled precariously into the street; I slammed on the brakes.
    Trish sat up with a start.
    A small thing rolled out of the box. It did a kind of half somersault and landed spread eagle in front of my Volvo. “What was that?” Trish asked sleepily.
    “I don’t know…”
    I kept the headlights on and began to get out of the car…
    “
Stay in the car, A.J. It’s late and something’s weird!
”
    I peered over the dashboard, turned on my brights.
    “Maybe you killed it,” Trish offered.
    I got out, and walked to the front of the car, my heart racing. I took one look at the thing in the street.
    “
Please
,” I said, giggling.
    Trish was huddled in the car, motioning me to come back. I knelt down to get a better look. My headlights shone a yellow glow across the figure.
    “What is it?” Trish shouted.
    I laughed out loud.
    It was a dilapidated cupid doll as big as my hand with a battered bow-and-arrow and a stupid grin.
    I picked it up.
    He looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy dressed up for Valentine’s Day. He had black painted eyes and a ripped mouth. He was naked except for a little pink sash that covered his lower extremities. I checked under the sash. He had Ken-doll anatomy.
    Trish got out of the car and took one look at the cupid. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she scoffed.
    I brushed the doll off, giggling. He was plump, squishy, and
totally
Coney Island. His cheek had a rip in it, stuffing oozed out.
    “I think,” I said throwing the cupid in the air, “I have my cover shot.”
    Trish stepped back. “Pearly will hang you in the Student Center, A.J., if you—”
    “She wanted cupids, Trish.”
    Trish stared at the doll blankly. “You’ve lost it, A.J.”
    “It’s got personality,” I said, heading for the car.
    “It’s got fleas!”
    We got in the car. I buckled the seat belt around the doll in the backseat because the true bonding between photographer and still-life object cannot begin until the photographer sees life in the nonliving. I patted its dinky head and opened myself to the relationship.
    “I am Allison Jean McCreary,” I declared, “master still-life photographer. You have only thirty-six hours to show me who you are!”

    I threw the cupid into my studio and crashed down the garage steps, needing sleep. Tomorrow I would take the cover shot.
    I stumbled to the upstairs bathroom with Stieglitz at my heels and told my artistic brain to think about something other than the fact that the old pipes in ourold house were creaking and groaning like a maniac murderer was trying to break in. Our house was over a hundred years old and came with a century of problems that helped you forget its rambling charm. I locked the bathroom door and shoved a small vanity in front of it.
    There was a crash and a flurry as Stieglitz jumped on the toilet seat. He leapt down, pawed the carpet, and turned in quick, choppy moves.
    “Easy, boy!”
    Stieglitz shuddered, yelped. I told him to
sit.
He didn’t. Stieglitz only sat at dog-obedience school with master canine trainer Steve Bloodworth, who resembled a pit bull on a bad day. I unlocked the door, shoved the vanity aside, and let Stieglitz leave to patrol the hall.
    I plodded to my bedroom. Stieglitz was shaking by the window in uncurbed neurosis. I stepped across the heap of dirty clothes that had missed my hamper and climbed into