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against heels, four swishing ponytails. The condoms in my hand are getting screams and yeahs and a’right s from the seniors on the street. So I shove the box in my purse, tug at my own ponytail.
    Gabe slips his hand into mine. His skin is cool against the fire of my embarrassment, sort of like a bed sheet you slide your body onto in the midst of a summer heat wave.
    “Don’t let them get to you,” he murmurs in my ear. “If you hadn’t been hurt, you’d have had the wildest locker room stories of all.”
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    The tough athlete in me bristles—as it always does, even though I should be used to this by now, six months after Gabe officially took the job of knight in shining armor. The old me would have punched Gabe in the face for trying to take care of me; I can take care of myself , she would have said. But Gabe winks, and the new me allows my heart to melt into gooey caramel. He knows—he always knows , she thinks. One look at my face and he can see what’s racing through my head; we don’t have to practically blah, blah, blah each other to slow and painful death with some horrific and soul-wrenching conversation. That’s a good thing, right?
    Under the yellow haze of streetlights, we walk quietly down Old Mill Road, passing the post office and heading for the entrance of White Sugar, my family’s bakery. A giant Congrats, Fair Grove Seniors! sign hangs across the plate glass, obscuring part of the view of the store’s interior. I’ve logged so many hours inside, though, that the darkness and the sign don’t keep me from seeing the cream puffs in the display case, the cheesecake under glass—the one with Yay, Gabe! written in cherry swirls across the top. I can see, too, the metal backs of the stools that line the counter and flank the small table in the corner. The wall behind the cash register, where a framed copy of USA WEEKEND Magazine still hangs, the one with my mug on the cover. The cracked “$” button on the cash register that I push every weekend while customers smile at me, politely, but not with admiration. Not anymore. Just smile like they’re all telling me, Egg timer went off on that fifteen minutes. That fame a’ yours is over.
    I jingle my keys out of my pocket, slam them into the door. When we step inside, the place still smells faintly like the tantalizing mixture of icing and fresh bread.
    I flick half the lights on, in order to give the counter area a soft glow while the area closest to the entrance stays as dark as a shut-tight closet (don’t want to give anyone the idea that we’re open). But I’ve barely 36/262
    lifted my hand from the switch when a gasp rattles its way out of my throat.
    “Gabe,” I whisper, my fingers flying to my face as I survey the store,
    “this was supposed to be a graduation gift for you .” Instead, Gabe obviously used his Mrs. Keyes Seal of Approval to gain access to the bakery hours before we’d tossed our mortar boards into the sky. Bouquets of tulips (my favorite flower) pop from the counter. Iridescent streamers cascade from the ceiling, along with glow-in-the-dark stars on glitterinfused string. A stool that’s been pulled out into the center of the floor cradles my gift, which is wrapped in white tissue and tied with a silver ribbon that shines like a chrome bumper.
    “It just wouldn’t be like me if I didn’t outdo you in the gift department, would it?” he asks, locking the door behind us. Of course it wouldn’t. The birthday poetry in my dresser memento box, the framed ticket stub from our first movie (given to me last Valentine’s Day), and the anniversary, sepia-toned photo of our two hands intertwined proves that Gabe Ross definitely outshines his girlfriend in the romance department.
    “Just wait until your birthday,” I say, wagging a finger at him.
    “Think you can take me?” he asks, then snares my gift box from the stool before I can start shredding the white tissue. “Uh-ah,” he says.
    “Not yet. This takes a