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transferring the lipstick up there, and reminded me, “Nobody likes a pouty B & B.” She swung open the door into the dining room, where eight strangeadults eagerly awaited me. They would ask me embarrassing, none-of-their-business questions they would never ask if they weren’t on vacation, such as, Do you have a boyfriend?
    Answer: I wasn’t sure. Kennedy hadn’t so much as texted me since Friday at school.
    After the guests were served, Mom sat down to eat with them, putting on her best “colorful local character” act. She was their font of information on the best beaches and restaurants and sights in St. Petersburg and Tampa.
    She set a place for me at the table too, but breakfast was the one time I suddenly took great interest in making sure the B & B ran smoothly. I always volunteered to stay in the kitchen and unload the dishwasher or watch the next batch of rolls. I was able to get away with this only because Mom’s first rule was never to have an argument where the guests could hear. At the B & B, we were a hotel staff, not a family.
    I wasn’t trying to sabotage Mom and her business. The truth was, I couldn’t stand to sit at the dining room table and talk to a new group of strangers each week as if it was a family meal. I didn’t want to answer a million questions about my school and my friends and my boyfriend. It was too much like making get-to-know-you small talk every time Mom brought home some guy she was dating. Inevitably she whispered to me that this one was the one.
    I supported her dreams. I only wanted her to leave me out of them.
    This morning, I hid in the kitchen, periodically dropping a knife in the sink to make actually-busy-in-the-kitchen noises while I noiselessly opened the three-times-weekly local newspaper to the sports page. I expected a triumphant review of Friday night’s game. Reading about Brody as a hero would give me the fan-girl fix I’d been bluesing for. Simultaneously it would remind me how out of reach he was.
    But the headline was cruelty in six words: LARSON DISAPPOINTS IN PELICANS’ FIRST WIN.
    The article explained that Brody’s signature as a quarterback was his willingness to wait until the last nanosecond to pass the ball. That increased the chances he’d be sacked—tackled, clobbered, hit incredibly hard by the other team, who wanted to take him out of the game so we’d have to rely on our second-string sophomore. Brody didn’t care. He braved getting hurt, which gave him more time than quarterbacks normally had to choose a receiver for his long, accurate passes.
    At least, that’s what had happened in practice, and that’s what sports reporters had been so excited about when they hyped the season. But the article went on to say that Brody had lost his mojo. During the game, he’d gotten rid of theball as fast as he could, like an inexperienced quarterback running scared.
    No wonder he and Noah had seemed so down after the game.
    I couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong.
    Strangely, that one negative article about a guy I hardly knew threatened to ruin my whole holiday. That and Kennedy giving me the cold shoulder, and Mom’s comment on my outfit. But once I’d passed the second batch of rolls around the table, shouldered the strap of my camera bag, and escaped from the B & B, my mood improved. Just around the corner, the town square had been blocked off to traffic. The sidewalks teemed with laughing people of all ages. They watched down the street for the first finishers of the 5K race.
    I ducked under the retaining rope—not over, which would have been awkward in my tight skirt—and walked into the middle of the street, a few yards in front of the finish line. Mom had made me doubt the wisdom of what I was wearing. I guessed her opinion bothered me so much because I was afraid she was right. I was sweating already underneath my waistband and my bra. But dressing this way made me feel as beautiful as Lois Lane and as talented behind my camera as