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pretend that Matthew heard me out, threw his arms around me and proposed, or at least asked me to the junior prom two years in advance. The Blissful End and fade out!
    Or, here’s the part where I can get all
Alice in
Wonderland
and swear that Frosty actually leapt up between Matthew and me and spoke aloud, in a piping little bunny voice:
    “Felicia! Matthew! My dear, sweet humans! How nice that you two, who are obviously and indisputably destined to be 2-gethah-4-evah, are finally discovering what we in the rabbit realm have always known! That the key to making happy burrows, which some call X, is quite simple, obvious really, but can only be attained by—Whoops! I’m late! I’m late!”
    But that’s not exactly what happens.
    What does happen is this:
    I look into Matthew’s eyes, still feeling Frosty’s encouraging teeth on my thumb, and I open my mouth, and out come words. They’re clumsy, mumbled words that communicate, if you can make them out, some vague sense of an amazing phenomenon that demands to be understood, one of those ideas so self-evident that it’s easy to miss, and clichés of that ilk.
    “Cool,” he says, unfazed by my idiocy. “What is it?”
    “It’s, uh, love,” I hear myself say.
    “Love. Whoa,” says Matthew. “That’s big.”
    “It is. That’s why I want us to work as a team.” My newborn voice is gaining some balance and starting to spread its folded, wet wings. “On their own, poets have only gotten so far on the subject of love, and they’ve mostly been describing the symptoms. And science, basically, is—”
    “Primarily concerned with breeding,” he mutters as Frosty hops from my lap to his and starts chewing a button on his flannel shirt.
    “Exactly.” I can see that Matthew’s mental wheels are starting to spin. But before I can continue, he interjects.
    “It’s too broad a topic. It needs focus. A place to start.”
    “We start with me,” I say simply.
    “You?”
    “Me. And you.” Matthew sits up a little straighter, now actually confused. Frosty starts climbing up his chest and sits on his shoulder.
    I lean forward. “Matthew, here’s the thing.”
    Okay, here it comes, here’s the thing. Breathe in, breathe out. “I have a huge, huge crush on you. I have for months.” There, I said the thing. “And this crush I have on you—it’s really fascinating!” I choose my words with care, working hard to keep this phenomenon of ME BEING TOTALLY (OHMIGOD I’M TELLING HIM!) IN LOVE WITH MATTHEW DWYER! in the realm of scientific inquiry. “I mean, you’re a great guy, of course, any girl might reasonably have a crush on you,” I go on, reasonably. “But there are so many guys at school! So why you? Why me? How does this type of thing happen?”
    Matthew’s not screaming, or laughing, or running away. My pal Frosty’s nibbling on his hair, which I take as a very good sign.
    I build up to my big finish. “Based on the amount of poetry, literature, art, and song that explores the nature of love, I think a lot of people would be dying to get some answers. Now,” I conclude, with a touch of drama, “it’s time for science to pick up the ball.”
    Matthew gently removes Frosty from the back of his neck and puts him on his lap, stroking his cloud-colored fur. He doesn’t look at me at all, he just pets Frosty.
    Who winks at me. (I swear, he really did.)
    After ten eternal seconds of no sound at all but the contrapuntal breathing of Love-Struck Kitten, Bewildered Dawg, and Genius Rabbit, Matthew finally looks at me.
    “I think we could win the science fair with this one” is what he says.

4
    The Scientific Method Swings into Action as Matthew and I Exchange Homework Assignments
    When Poet tries to correlate her Data,

She picks a form of verse that won’t frustrate her.

The Sonnets get iambic with her Theorem,

Which hap’ly scans; she has no need to fear ’em.

Blank verse is best for the Hypothesis,

Because nothing rhymes with it.
    I magine,