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talk about the food or the weather, and sometimes it even evolves into real conversation.
    I can do this because I’ve done it before. I just haven’t done it within Dunfield’s peeling walls or within view of Mariah. But I already have the skills. All I have to do is apply them in this new, albeit hostile, environment.
    The key is to approach someone who’s alone and might be grateful for company. There’s a guy sitting on the bleachers who fits the description. He looks like a regular guy, not supercute or athletic. To be honest, he looks sort of miserable. I could imagine him walking into Dan’s wearing Donner overalls and ordering a Rodeo Burger and fries. I’ll pretend he’s just another guy from Paz’s crew.
    Crossing the gym I deliver my opening line. “Is anyone sitting here?”
    “Uh, no,” he says, making a show of looking around. “Not unless it’s the Invisible Woman.”
    With that kind of attitude, I don’t even have to imagine the Donner overalls. “Sue Storm?” I ask. “I guess that makes you Mr. Fantastic.”
    He smiles reluctantly. “You saw The Fantastic Four ?”
    “No, but I’ve read the original Marvel comic books.”
    It’s true. Mr. O’Brien, one of my regular customers, has a collection of originals, and he actually allowed me to flip through them. He normally keeps them covered in plastic because they’re worth about ten grand.
    The guy moves over to give me more space to sit down. “I’m Tyler Milano.”
    I introduce myself and answer all his questions about Mr. O’Brien’s collection. Who knew the small talk I’ve made over cheese omelets would pay off so well?
    Tyler takes his glasses out of his pocket and puts them on. The frames are rectangular and dark and give him a bookish appeal.
    “Let me guess, Sue Storm doesn’t like a guy in glasses?” I say.
    He gives me a self-conscious smile. “Superheroes wear contacts.”
    I look at the empty paper plate beside him and remember why I’m here. “So what did you buy?”
    He lists off several items and provides mini-reviews of each. “Avoid the maple fudge,” he concludes. “It had maple flavoring instead of real syrup.”
    “You could tell?”
    “Sure,” he says. “My parents run a catering business. I knew a shiitake from a chanterelle by the time I was five.”
    “Impressive.” I’m pretty sure he’s talking abut mushrooms. “I could barely tell the difference between canned spaghetti and canned ravioli at five.”
    Tyler laughs, and it sounds genuine.
    “My mom isn’t known for her cooking,” I continue. “Her specialty is meat loaf.”
    “A good meat loaf is hard to find.” Tyler describes the best one he ever tasted in great detail, becoming even more animated.
    “My mom uses two secret ingredients,” I say. “I’m not supposed to divulge them, but since you’re such a foodie…”
    “Caramelized onions?” he asks eagerly. “Sun-dried tomatoes?”
    “Close. Onion soup mix and ketchup.”
    He laughs again, and I marvel at the fact that this cute, seemingly normal guy is finding me entertaining. That’s the real story from this bake sale, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve spent all this time looking for my FB in assemblies, never thinking to check the bleachers.
    “My goal is to be a food critic for the Tribune one day,” Tyler confides.
    Rachel breaks into our conversation before I get a chance to question him more. “Lu, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I need to show you something.”
    After introducing Tyler, I try giving Rachel a look to convey that I’m having too good a conversation to leave. The only problem is that she’s never seen that look on my face before and doesn’t recognize it.
    “Nice to meet you, Tyler,” she says, literally pulling me to my feet and hauling me away.
    “This had better be important,” I say. “I was interviewing that guy.”
    “You were just flirting with him.”
    “If you knew that, why did you drag me away?”
    “You’re here to