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like during that horrible Crate and Barrel moment—a memory she was determined to permanently expunge. She was never going to tell anyone about that.
    But what happened last night?
    A flock of birds circled silently in the featureless sky. The air was wet and still, with a faint scent of rain to come.
    Forget it. Whatever it was, it’s over now .
    On the corner of Eighty-second Street, she checked her BlackBerry again—still no birthday texts or e-mails—and leaned to inspect her lipstick one last time in the mirrored window of a parked Porsche Cayenne. Then she took a deep breath, tried to clear her head, and turned the corner, ready to face the day.
    C HADWICK STUDENTS WERE SPREAD out across the entire block like grazing cattle, smoking cigarettes, making phone calls, leaning against the granite walls of the neighboring apartment buildings and sitting Indian style against the tall iron gates of the school, screaming with laughter and, no doubt, spouting off about Eastern philosophy and the sociopolitical ramifications of Britney’s latest comeback.
    Mary strode confidently down the sidewalk, approaching the crowd, trying to look completely disinterested while she furtively scanned the faces for her friends. Any minute now they would see her coming—one by one, the heads would turn, as they always did: a chain reaction of avid male eyes and envious female eyes as the one and only Mary Shayne arrived, fashionably late, flawlessly dressed as usual.
    And then the birthday greetings will start . She remembered what it had been like, a year before—the nonstop attention of her adoring fans had begun moments after her arrival at school: Melanie Kurzweil ran up and poured a small bag of Hershey’s Kisses into her hand; “Giant Brian” Moss had grabbed her from behind and given her a ticklish birthday kiss on the back of the neck; even the eternally depressed Darin Evigan broke his two straight days of black-turtlenecked silence to hum her an emo rendition of “Happy Birthday” (she had pressed her hand to her heart and complimented his “haunting” voice). It started immediately and continued all day long.
    But now, as she waded into the thick sidewalk crowd, nobody was looking at her.
    Nobody acknowledged her at all. There were a couple of glances from students who blocked her path—they spared her a look as they got out of her way—but basically nothing. All that stress over her clothes, and it didn’t seem to make any difference.
    The overcast sky shone overhead, cold and white. The front gates of the school—where the usual Zac Efron wannabes and bargain-basement Hayden Panettieres sat with their backs against the wrought iron, trying to look sullen and disaffected—were veiled in dark shadows. Mary caught herself shivering. The expensive fabric of her T-shirt rubbed painfully against the raw scratches on her lower back, making her squirm—she was twisting her body around, reaching beneath her book bag to rub her tender skin when she saw him, and froze.
    Trick .
    Patrick Dawes, devoted boyfriend, was standing right in front of her. Somehow, she had managed not to see him at all until the last moment. He was wearing a vintage Cambridge University blazer over an A&F hoodie with extra-low-slung jeans, which exposed the slim trail of light blond hairs that ran down from his navel, disappearing behind the taut elastic waistband of his Calvins. He stood squarely on both feet, fingers in his jeans pockets, steel TAG Heuer glinting on his wrist. It was impossible to read his expression: his dark brown eyes gazed coolly at her, as if she wasn’t his girlfriend—as if she was a Starbucks barista who’d just asked him how she could help him.
    He was still so unbearably beautiful. That’s what had made Patrick such a maddening (but exciting) puzzle in her life during the three months they’d been together. Those little blond Greek-god curls, those naturally golden eyebrows, that flawlessly sculpted, lean, sinewy