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major that I was actually trying to achieve. I was a Harvard man, after all.
    â€œSomething like that,” I answered, and then quickly changed the subject. “I’m Marcus.”
    â€œDaria,” she said and held her hand out to me. I took her small palm into my hand and shook it. “I thought maybe you were here for the summer program.”
    Busted. Did I have High School Kid plastered across my forehead, or did I look as if I had milk in the corners of my mouth? I guess I didn’t fit the profile of the average Harvard student; maybe I didn’t have the bags under my eyes fromstaying up all night studying or I wasn’t as refined as some of the college men that she knew. After all, I was from urban Atlanta—right off of Old National Highway, a major road that ran right through the hood. What was a boy from College Park, Georgia, doing on the campus of an Ivy League school right in the middle of Cambridge, Massachusetts?
    â€œI am here for the summer program,” I admitted— reluctantly . “I’m from College Park, Georgia. What about you?”
    â€œI’m from Riverdale, Georgia.” She smiled. “Small world, huh?”
    â€œNo doubt.” I couldn’t help but grin at the fact that Daria was a Georgia peach.
    â€œWhat time is your next class?” she asked.
    â€œI’m done for the day,” I said.
    â€œMe, too. Come on. Let’s go grab a bite to eat, Marcus.”
    â€œCool,” I said and then swung my backpack on to my shoulder.
    Daria and I stepped outside into the afternoon sunshine. Before I knew it we were headed for the “T,” Boston’s subway station. I dug into my pockets to make sure I had change for the “T,” and also enough for a burger or whatever we decided to grab to eat. Pulling two dollars out of my pocket, I stepped in front of the machine in order to buy a CharlieTicket.
    I plopped down into an available seat and Daria slid in next to me. It was then that I noticed the smell of her cologne—enticing. I took a glance at her long slender legs; didn’t want her to catch me taking a peek so I quickly looked away, but the memory of them stayed stuck in my mind. They were silky smooth. She had a nice set of toes, too—not crusty or funny shaped. I adjusted in my seat, peered out the window as the train came to a halt at Central Square Station.
    â€œThis is us,” Daria announced and stood.
    I stood, too, and then we squeezed through the crowd and onto the platform. I followed her up a flight of stairs and onto the sidewalk. As we stepped into the coffeehouse, the aroma of coffee and pastries hit my nose immediately. Several people lounged in furniture around the room. Students studied for tests or simply read novels in the corners of the room. A few people punched the keys on their laptop computers. One guy, dressed in an old T-shirt and cut-off khaki shorts, sent a text message from his iPhone. Conversations were low as light jazz played. Daria stepped up to the counter as a cheerful girl greeted her with a smile.
    â€œWhat can I get for you?”
    â€œI’ll have the iced latte,” Daria said, “and a banana muffin.”
    â€œAnd you, sir?” The girl behind the counter turned to me.
    â€œUm, I’ll just have a Coke.”
    â€œWe don’t sell Coke.” She gave me a smile; one that said she understood that I was a fish out of water.
    Coffeehouses weren’t my thing. At home, I hung out at the mall or at the gym at school after practice. My friends and I might end up at McDonald’s or Burger King after a game, but never a coffeehouse. The only other time I’d stepped foot into a place like this was the time Pop wanted to see what all the hype of Starbucks was about. He’d dragged me along as he ordered a cappuccino and then complained about how much it costs.
    â€œHmm,” I said, scanning the menu. “I’ll just have what