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“Don’t you?”
    Emma-Jean now found herself in a delicate position. She could certainly understand her friends’ curiosity. But to reveal anything now was risky. While her friends would never intentionally undermine her investigation, they were loquacious by nature, trading intimacies as casually as they shared lip gloss and breath mints. Any details Emma-Jean disclosed could quite possibly get back to the secret admirer, with disastrous results.
    â€œI am sorry,” Emma-Jean said. “All information pertaining to this project is confidential.”
    â€œWe would never tell a soul!” Michele said.
    â€œYou can trust us,” Colleen said.
    â€œWe know how to keep secrets,” Valerie said, making a zipper-like motion over her tightly closed lips.
    They continued to question and cajole in such an insistent manner that Emma-Jean lost her appetite. Her thermos sat before her unopened, as though it too had secrets it could not divulge. As the pleading persisted, Emma-Jean thought of the hungry mallards that followed her and her mother along the riverbank, flapping their wings and quacking frantically for bread crusts.
    Perhaps a few crumbs of information would satisfy her friends’ ravenous curiosity.
    â€œAll right,” Emma-Jean said in a low voice. “I will tell you that I have made an important discovery.” She looked over her shoulder for eavesdroppers, and then said in a low voice, “The boy who wrote the note is left-handed.”
    â€œOh my gosh!” Colleen said, clasping her hands to her heart. “Everyone knows left-handed boys are the most romantic!”
    â€œBut how can you tell he’s left-handed?” Kaitlin asked.
    â€œI examined the note under magnification,” Emma-Jean explained. “I discovered fingerprints on the paper, and from their placement I deduced that he is left-handed.”
    â€œWhat’s deduced?” Michele said.
    â€œIt’s guessing,” Kaitlin said.
    â€œNo it’s not,” Valerie said.
    â€œA deduction is a conclusion drawn through logic,” Emma-Jean clarified.
    â€œWow,” Michele and Valerie chorused, shaking their heads with awe.
    â€œAren’t there a lot of left-handed boys?” Kaitlin said.
    â€œOnly one in ten people in the world is left-handed,” Emma-Jean said. “I have discovered that there are nine in our seventh grade.”
    â€œThat’s all?” Valerie said, grabbing Colleen’s hands. “And one of them is in love with you!”
    â€œThat’s a lot,” Kaitlin said. “And there could be more.”
    â€œKaitlin, stop being so negative!” Valerie scolded. “You’re ruining all the fun!”
    â€œThis isn’t a game, Valerie,” Kaitlin said in an aggrieved tone. “This is Colleen’s life! And don’t blame me for not wanting her to be totally devastated if this doesn’t work out how she wants!”
    All eyes turned to Colleen, who was indeed the most fragile of the girls, easily upset by even the most benign conflicts. A recent debate about soda flavors had caused Colleen to put her hands over her ears and implore, “Can’t we all just agree?”
    But now Colleen sat tall, her face serene. She did not look any different, with her long neck and neatly combed bangs and spray of freckles across her upturned nose. But she seemed changed somehow, more distinct and illuminated, as though there was a bright light shining out from behind her large turquoise eyes. Perhaps she was taking vitamins, Emma-Jean thought, or eating more leafy vegetables.
    It was Kaitlin who appeared agitated, her cheeks blotchy and flushed, her curls askew.
    â€œYou don’t have to worry about me,” Colleen said, putting her arm around Kaitlin. “No matter what, I’ll be okay.”
    â€œBut what about Emma-Jean?” Kaitlin said. “She’s totally stressed out. It’s too much