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Emma-Jean nor her mother was eager to give up their cozy evening routine.
    Her mother had scarcely settled her head back on the pillows when Emma-Jean began telling her about Will Keeler. Her mother listened closely as Emma-Jean described in great detail the commotion of the Spring Fling and the frenetic vibrations of her heart whenever she saw Will.
    â€œIt is clear that Will is not suitable for me in any way,” Emma-Jean said. “And yet I find myself thinking about him even when I want to be thinking about other things.”
    Indeed, she could not recall a single fact from her classes that day. She had concluded, however, that the arrangement of freckles on Will’s forearm closely resembled the constellation Virgo.
    â€œCould it be,” Emma-Jean asked, her tone grave, “that I am suffering from spring fever?”
    Her mother leaned close to Emma-Jean. A spiral of auburn hair had sprung free from its barrette, and it tickled Emma-Jean’s nose. It was a moment before her mother spoke.
    â€œIt is possible,” she said.
    Emma-Jean sat back in her pillows and put her hand to her chest.
    â€œBut it is nothing to be concerned about,” her mother said, her voice briskly reassuring. “It is completely normal. It sounds like you might have a crush on Will.”
    â€œA crush?” Emma-Jean said. This sounded very serious. She pictured a boa constrictor wrapped around the neck of a lemur.
    â€œAn infatuation,” her mother clarified.
    â€œIs it the same as being in love?” asked Emma-Jean warily.
    Her mother weighed the question, her eyes drifting over to her nightstand, where two framed photographs stood atop a neat stack of novels, financial reports from her job at the bank, and a Hindi dictionary she’d borrowed from Emma-Jean.
    There was their favorite picture of Emma-Jean’s father, smiling as he held a newborn Emma-Jean in his arms. And there was a newer photograph that Vikram had given to her, of himself as a young boy wearing the cricket uniform of his championship team.
    â€œNo,” she said. “Being in love is one of the most powerful experiences anyone can have. I think that’s why we have crushes when we’re younger. Maybe it’s how we get ready for real love.”
    This seemed logical to Emma-Jean. After all, many important life skills—walking, talking, cooking, identifying birds in flight—were learned in stages and honed through practice.
    â€œHave you ever had a crush on someone?” asked Emma-Jean.
    â€œAbsolutely,” her mother said. “Several times. Haven’t I told you about James Dean and me?”
    Emma-Jean shook her head. She remembered the names of everyone important in her mother’s life, and was quite sure that her mother had never mentioned a gentleman friend named James Dean.
    â€œWhen I was about your age—maybe just a bit older—I was home sick from school and I watched a movie on TV, Rebel Without a Cause . And, well . . .” Her mother put a hand up to her heart. “That’s when I met James Dean.”
    â€œHe came to visit you?” said Emma-Jean, wondering what she would do if Will came to visit her when she was sick in bed. Perhaps he would bring her some chicken soup, though hopefully he would leave it in the kitchen so he would not be exposed to her germs.
    â€œNo, no,” her mother said. “He was an actor, in the movie.”
    â€œAnd you knew him?”
    Her mother shook her head.
    â€œHe died a good twenty years before I was even born. But that didn’t matter. I was captivated. For weeks he was all I thought about.” Her mother closed her eyes and smiled dreamily.
    Emma-Jean considered this information. She wondered if several months before she herself had experienced a crush on George Washington. She had studied him with her social studies class, and had been deeply impressed by his forbearance during the battle of Trenton. For some