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if I didn’t sort of agree. They’re totally misjudging me. I’m not a dumb blonde! I’m just a dork who likes shoes.”
    â€œToo true,” he agreed, a little more readily than I was comfortable with. “Well,” he asked, amid more rustling sounds, “is there anything good in the Clamhole?”
    A tall, blond, muscular thought drifted through my brain. I smiled.
    â€œI may have hit the man jackpot.”
    â€œExplain, Miss Libby.”
    â€œSexy sailors!” I squealed. “In knickers!”
    â€œShut up!”
    â€œTrue!” I giggled. “But probably nowhere near as sexy as all the models you’re seeing, right?”
    â€œThey don’t let me near the models,” he said sadly.
    â€œWell . . . did you meet Anne Hathaway yet?”
    â€œLibby”—he paused dramatically—“I . . . AM . . . Anne Hathaway!”
    â€œUm, excuse me?” Someone from the outside addressed me. Startled, I lost my balance and shifted forward, toppling into the apple barrel. All except for my legs, that is, which were kicking in the open air.
    â€œEeek!”
    â€œLibby? Libby?!” Dev shrieked amid a great deal of static. Outside the barrel, I could hear a guy laughing. Uproariously.
    â€œDev, I’ll call you back.” I shut the phone.
    That idiot outside the barrel was still howling. He was laughing so hard, I think I heard a few snorts.
    â€œUm, a little help here!” I yelled. “Please!”
    Finally, still chuckling, whoever it was came over to the barrel, grabbed my waist, and lifted me out of it, planting me back on solid ground.
    â€œYou know,” my Johnny-come-lately rescuer said, removing a pair of rectangular plastic-framed glasses to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes, “I don’t think they wore underwear in the 1790s. Definitely not Hello Kitty underwear.” He dissolved into giggles again. And yes, I was right—those were snorts. He was laughing like Miss Piggy on acid or something.
    My cheeks flamed. “Thanks for the history lesson. Were you going to just leave me in the barrel for your own personal amusement?”
    â€œIf I didn’t have somewhere to be, yeah, I would’ve left you in there longer,” he said, chuckling. “It was pretty funny.”
    This stupid, tall, scruffy, brown-eyed boy may have had Clark Kent’s glasses, but he had none of his heroic impulses. Or manners. Or classic good looks.
    â€œIt was
not
funny,” I snapped. I pulled a disturbingly mushy piece of apple out of my hair and violently threw it to the ground. Oh, gross, gross, gross.
    Having composed himself, he put his glasses back on, blinking rapidly. “I should be hearing the dulcet chime of a thank-you right about . . . now.”
    â€œTh-th-thank you?!” I nearly choked on it.
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    â€œNo, no, I wasn’t thanking you!” I protested. “That was an expression of disbelief! Why on earth would I thank you?!”
    â€œIt is customary in these situations.” He straightened his glasses, blinking again. Oh my God. He was totally one of those guys who spent all his free time playing World of Warcraft, blinking at his computer screen, and being all “It is customary in these situations for Orcs to cede to humans when invoking the wrath of the Lich King” or something equally gross. You could just tell. He had WoW computer nerd written all over him. There was a whole troupe of them at SPA. They spent their lunches and free periods holed up in the computer lab, emerging only to go to class or to rush home at the end of the day to play some more.
    I looked him up and down, from the top of his curly brown hair to his “My Other Car Is the Millennium Falcon” ringer tee to his fraying cargo shorts and beat-up black Converses—whoa, extra tragic. I mean, seriously, it was like a mountain climber and an IT