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pull down the National Geographic coffee-table books with the photos of Africa, and I’d pretend I was going on safari. Now I’m more into self-help. That section is hilarious. Whatever problem you’re having, there’s a book with the solution. Fear of snakes? Check out the Phobia and Anxiety Workbook . Trouble with your hoo-hoo? You too can Overcome Painful Vaginal Symptoms and Enjoy an Active Lifestyle . Then there’s my personal favorite—the first place everyone should turn when they’re feeling sorry for themselves: Shut Up, Stop Whining, and Get a Life.
    We plop onto the blue velvet couch by the window. Everything in Twilight Books comes in shades of blue. Blue curtains, blue chairs, blue shag rugs. This color scheme can be either extremely soothing or extremely depressing, depending on your mood.
    “So,” my mom says, “how was the first day?”
    I shrug. “OK.”
    “OK?” Both eyebrows shoot up.
    Here is the thing: You can’t just say “OK” to my mother. You can’t just say “fine.” You have to get specific. There is no such thing as the fuzzy middle.
    “Teacher stuff, girl stuff, or boy stuff ?” she asks.
    I shake my head.
    “It’s one of the three.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I know.”
    “How?”
    She laughs. “Believe it or not, I used to be a sixteen-year-old girl.”
    “Gee, really?” I say, adding a little squirt of sarcasm. “I had no idea.”
    She takes a sip of milk shake. Stirs it with her finger. Licks the finger. Takes another sip. Waits.
    “If you must know,” I say, “it’s boy stuff.”
    “ The boy?”
    I nod. My mom knows about New Year’s Eve—the PG version anyway.
    She leans in.
    I sigh, reach for the milk shake, take a swallow. “This is disgusting.”
    “You’re changing the subject,” she says.
    “No, I’m not.”
    “So . . . did you talk yet?”
    “I told you, we don’t talk . We stare. And we say nothing. That’s what we do.”
    My mom raises her eyebrows again.
    “Just . . . never mind. It’s not a big deal.”
    Silence for a moment. Then she pats my arm. “Well, you’ll talk to him when you’re ready.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “When you’re ready to put yourself out there, to take the risk, you’ll do it.”
    “Oh, OK, Pot.”
    “What?”
    “Calling the kettle black much? When was the last time you put yourself out there?”
    “We weren’t talking about me,” she says.
    I smile. “We are now.”
    She gives me a look that’s halfway between annoyed and amused. Anused? Ammoyed?
    “When was the last time you went on a date? Huh? 1994?”
    I am referencing the Paul Tucci era without actually saying the name. I can’t. My mother hasn’t uttered the word “Tucci” since the Shop-Co debacle, which means she is not exactly—
    “Help!” I squeal, because she is pinching my thigh. “Child abuse!”
    That’s when the bells above the front door tinkle and a man walks in. Not too old, not too young. Blue eyes, wavy sand-colored hair. Suede jacket, khakis. Funky green sneakers. He spots us on the couch. “Wait—you are open, right?”
    “Absolutely,” I say, and stand up.
    “Great,” the guy says. Nice baritone voice. “Because I’m looking for a book.”
    “Break’s over,” I say to my mom, and boy do I hightail it out of there. Because sometimes, just when you need to end a conversation, a beautiful moment arrives.

Four
    THE NEXT MORNING my mom makes pancakes, which is not normal. Most of the time it’s toast or cereal. I sit at the kitchen counter, watching her slide pancakes onto a platter like Martha Stewart.
    “What’s his name again?” I ask.
    “Jonathan.”
    “Jonathan,” I repeat. “Not Jon?”
    “I don’t think so,” my mom says, shaking her head. “No.” She opens her mouth, closes it.
    “What?” I say.
    “Nothing.”
    I can tell she wants to say more, but she doesn’t want to jinx it. She’s probably saying to herself: Come on, Kate. He’s just a guy who came into the