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tee.
    Although I knew he was going to kill me, I bought every product Françoise used—including a $65 bottle of “invisible foundation”—and paid for it with my dad’s credit card.
    I took the subway back uptown and realized that Brian had his Arabic immersion class every day from three to five p.m. It was only four thirty. So I went to the coffee shop on the corner of his block.
    Eva, the Hungarian waitress, handed me a menu.
    “Where’s your boyfriend?” she asked.
    The question just slayed me. I kept telling myself, “Do not cry. Do not ruin your makeup. Do not cry. Do not ruin your makeup.”
    Even though I’d had a burger, fries, and a milk shake for lunch, I went ahead and ordered a piece of apple pie à la mode and a Coke. I mean, they weren’t just going to let me sit in the coffee shop and drink water while I waited for Brian. And it was way too cold to wait outside.
    While I polished off the pie, I went over my plan:
1. Go see Brian.
2. When he sees me looking gorgeous, he’ll ask me to come home with him for Thanksgiving. I’ll say that I’ll think about it.
3. Play hard to get if he asks me to stay for dinner. Tell him I’ve got dinner plans. But maybe the next day.
    Aunt Zo is always saying that feminist revolution or no, it never hurts to play a little hard to get. It reminds people that you’re valuable. Well, I wanted some of that. I wanted Brian to think I was more than valuable; I wanted him to think that I was irreplaceable . I had to prove to him that I was ready for the real thing. That I am mature. That I’m worthy of him.
     
    This is what actually happened:
1. I went to see Brian.
2. He said, “Wow, you look gorgeous.”
3. I made out with him.
    About two hours later, he said, “I gotta get ready. I’m supposed to meet up with some guys to check out this band downtown.”
    “Great,” I said. “I’ll go with you. I’ve got these new clothes and this new makeup . . . I’d love to go out.”
    “It’s all the way downtown at Arlene’s Grocery,” he said. “I’m probably going to crash at my friend Ty’s place. I don’t want to have to worry about you on the subway.”
    “I’ll just take a cab,” I said.
    Brian sighed. “Don’t do this, Bee.”
    All of a sudden, I was sobbing again. “I thought you said we could still hang out.”
    He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say that. I mean, maybe I said that. But clearly you’re too immature to deal with a casual relationship. Come on, Bee. You have to go.”
    And for the second time in a week, Brian closed the door to his apartment right in my face.

    The next day, I woke up feeling pathetic and sad. I wanted Brian back more than anything, but I needed to regroup first. I had grades to keep up, after all. My physics prof, Professor Trotter, was ruthless. So I walked over to Butler Library to get some studying done.
    I was back on track and dreaming of allotropic forms when I saw Brian and some girl coming out of the library. Maybe he didn’t even know her. Maybe he was just holding the door for her. But she was laughing and he was smiling that charming smile. I ducked behind a column so he wouldn’t see me. Then I turned around, ran down the steps, and hopped the subway to SoHo to MarieBelle, where I had a giant hot chocolate and instead of cracking open my lit textbook, I read the latest issue of InStyle magazine. Welcome to “Life Post-Brian,” in which our heroine (me, Bee) discovers that nothing douses the flames of heartache like a gallon or so of chocolate.

    A few days later, I was having lunch in the cafeteria by myself when Brian came up to me. I thanked God that I’d washed my hair and put on a little eye shadow despite the fact that I was still feeling miserable. But Brian wasn’t in the mood to notice. He was really angry.
    “Stop following me. I saw you at the library the other day,” he said. His normally sweet, handsome face looked so . . . different.
    “It—it was an accident, being there the same