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the theater, or blue-slip us for Saturday study hall.” She crossed her arms. “But the probability is almost zero, Delia. Don’t disappoint me.”
    I tried to imagine getting a Saturday study hall. My parents would be furious. But Amandine seemed so sure that she made me feel a little daring. And if Amandine didn’t attend the assembly, then who would I sit with in the theater? Samantha Blitz? That would be pushing my luck. No, I’d end up sitting alone near the teachers or, worse, in a spare seat in front of a row of jock guys—an hour’s worth of chair kicks and spitballs aimed into my hair.
    I cut. Keeping to the end of the line, then swaying, wobbling until I veered out of it completely. Anxiety put a rosy glow in my face that must have made me look guilty from miles away as I scurried into the teachers’ bathroom.
    Amandine was hiding in a stall. She sprang out and slapped me a high five. We waited, breath held, until the din of the passing line faded. Then we made a break for it, Amandine ahead and I following sweatily behind. Down two flights on the fire escape stairs and into the soundproof sub-terrain of the music department.
    She led me into a little room that was a storage space for the harp and the electric standup organ. A long row of greasy polyester blue choir outfits, separated by plastic dry cleaner’s bags, hung from a wall-to-wall clothes rod. Other than that, the room was empty.
    “What are we doing here?” I asked.
    “Shhh!” She pinched my arm. I heard voices slowly approaching. The door was louvered, slicing up my view of what lay behind it.
    “That’s Mr. Serra out there,” I yipped. Mr. Serra was the school principal.
    “Oh, who cares?” Amandine shrugged, but we waited until the voices had passed. Then she said, “Let’s do a skit.”
    “A what?”
    “A skit. You pretend you’re that maintenance guy who mows the grass, and I’ll be me, and you ask me out on a date but I have a big black poppy seed stuck in my teeth and I don’t know it, so you have to try to tell me!”
    “That’s weird,” I said.
    “No, it’s acting,” she answered. “It’s for fun. I used to be in plays all the time. From, like, age three to age eleven I was always in a play at the Circle Theater, back when we lived in Brooklyn.” She began to tick them off with her fingers. “Inherit the Wind, Really Rosie, The Children’s Hour, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Tons more. Come on, Delia. Do it with me.”
    “I don’t know how to be a guy.”
    “Then I’ll be him.” She spun away into the corner of the room, her back to me. “I’m getting into character,” she said over her shoulder. When she faced me again, she had her shoulders flexed and her face mirrored the casually alert expression of the man who for the past week had been taking care of the school grounds. He was older, but handsome in a sunburned, burnt-out way.
    “Hey,” Amandine the lawn guy said in a low voice.
    “Hi,” I said uncertainly.
    “You look good in that shirt.”
    “Thanks,” I said. I smiled, unsure if I wanted to play this game. The gray eyes took in my smile, then narrowed in faint disgust. The black poppy seed! I clamped my mouth shut.
    “Uh, so are you busy Thursday?” she asked, smirking. Her smirk reminded me of Dad’s Operator expression. It struck me that she was imitating it.
    “Mmm.” I put my hand over my mouth.
    “What are you trying to hide? I bet you have a real pretty smile.” She swaggered closer. “Why are you hiding that smile? I’ve been watching you a long time, girl. You’re really mature-looking for your age.” She scooched her face up into mine. Then tried to pry off my hand.
    “Stop it! Stop it!” I twisted away, my stomach fluttering. It was hard not to feel that, in a peculiar way, Amandine really was the lawn guy. She was strangely convincing.
    “Come on, Delia. It’s Delia, isn’t it?” Amandine the lawn guy persisted. “That’s a really sexy name.”
    I couldn’t