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their own food to serve at lunch. And instead of being satisfied with regular school dances and sporting events, the town’s obsessed with city-wide themes—carnivals, parties, anything that will draw people out of their Victorian houses and into the community at large.
    My mother and I walk the length of the Weston Green, kicking through the first few leaves that have started to fall.
    “I can’t believe you’re a senior!” she says.
    “We’re not going to have this talk again, are we?” I smile. “I know, I know, you’re incredibly sentimental. Your little bird is flying the coop …”
    “No,” she interjects, “I’m just excited to turn your room into a yoga studio when you leave.”
    My face falls for a nanosecond. “Nice try, Mom.” We walk a minute in silence. “Besides, I might not get in anywhere. Then you’ll be stuck with me—forever!”
    Mom stops and brushes the hair away from my face. “I can think of worse scenarios.”
    Two little kids go by, one on a bike, one on a scooter. The scooter boy turns to his friend and says—in that overly loud, kid way—“Oh my God! Did you see that thing?”
    My mom has witnessed this so many times before with me that she doesn’t try to talk over the insult or pretend it didn’t happen. She just pats my shoulder. Normally I wouldn’t care, either, but far across the green I can see a crowd emptying from Comet. The cheerleaders had stopped by, still in their bright blue and yellow uniforms, and even from this distance I can see Eddie, so tall he towers over the perky pompomers.
    “I’m so done with this,” I say to my mom, and flick my nose.
    “Cyrie, don’t …” Mom pleads. “Look at yourself—you’re incredible. You’re funny and smart and the best writer at Weston High.”
    “But not beautiful …” I say. “Just for once, I’d like that to be in there somewhere among my accolades. I’d even settle for decent-looking.”
    My mother shakes her head and watches me watch the Comet crowd. “Have you ever considered that maybe ‘beautiful’ would find its way in there if you’d let it? You’re so busy announcing that you’re not, that you make it impossible for someone to decide for themselves!”
    The fall wind picks up, scattering leaves across the still-green grass, and I pull my sleeves over my hands to keep them warm. “Let’s go home.” And then, just in case she’s forgotten, I add, “Anyway, only four more months and it’s gone.” I mime snipping my nose, and my mother immediately puts her hand over her mouth.
    “Cyrie, please …” she starts. Then she stops. She’s probably thinking of her fundraising psychology and how she could get me to reconsider my actions—but if she’s come up with a solution, she doesn’t vocalize it. Instead, she buttons her tweed blazer and nudges me to keep walking, past the shops, the antiques, and the rest of our quaint little town toward home.
    I tell her about the auction. I know I’m excited, because I start talking really fast, telling her all about the Word’s plans. I even tell her I’m working with Eddie.
    “You two seem to be paired together a lot,” she says, trying to get out her house keys. She has an annoying habit of taking them out when we’re still three blocks away. She also turns her turn signal on way early in the car, so I guess its the same thing—always being overly prepared.
    “Yeah, I guess so,” I say, as if I’ve only now just noticed that Eddie is in nearly all my classes and partnered with me most of the time. “At least he does the work. Leyla Christianson is stuck with Billy Riggs in her History hands-on, and all he did was to offer to pay for the poster-making supplies.”
    “How is Leyla these days?” Mom asks as she jingles the keys.
    “Good,” I say, picturing Leyla and her contagious laugh, her friendly (if too perfect) face. “She’s actually a lot more … she’s a better friend than I ever thought she’d be.”
    “I’m