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elementary-school science-fair trophies were kept—both metaphorically and literally—under lock and key.
    Classic closet geek. It was the biggest thing she and Chris had in common.
    “So we can officially start the countdown,” she said—beginning, as usual, in medias res .
    “To …?”
    “Europe. My mom talked to Cammi’s mom, who’s in the Prep Boosters Club with some guy on the trip-planning committee, and he said Paris is a definite. Can you imagine?”
    “Not really.”
    “Because you’ve never been there.” Her voice was hushed, as if she were speaking of a pilgrimage to a holy land. “The Champs-Elysées, the Bon Marché, the Galeries Lafayette—”
    “That’s a mall, right?”
    “Try cathedral of fashion. And then there’s the food, the pain au chocolat , the crêpes Nutella— ”
    “You haven’t eaten chocolate since the Candy Bar Incident sophomore spring,” I reminded her.
    “What is your problem ?”
    Adriane had been looking forward to the senior spring-break trip for approximately her entire life. I preferred the delusion that it would never arrive, mostly because my scholarship didn’t cover European adventures and the closest to Paris my parents could afford to send me was a breakfast jaunt to Au Bon Pain.
    “I’m just trying to figure out what the big deal is,” I said.Adriane and Chris both knew I was at Prep on a scholarship, as they knew that, unlike them, I didn’t have my own car, credit card, or trust fund. But they somehow still didn’t understand what it meant to never have enough, and I was content leaving them in the dark, because I had no need for their understanding and no use for the pity that would accompany it. “Some of us didn’t spend the last three Christmas breaks slurping down chocolat chaud on the banks of the Seine,” I said, but lightly. “If it was so amazing, why waste half the trip texting me about how you were bored out of your mind?”
    “It was only two Christmas breaks. And everything’s lame when you’re stuck with your parents. This time it’ll be us. Did I mention there’s no drinking age in Europe?”
    “Only about a hundred and six times.”
    “Do you have to be such a pessimist all the time?”
    “It’s not pessimism,” I said out of habit. “It’s realism. And you know it’s your favorite thing about me.”
    “You know what they say about too much of a good thing.” Then she brightened. “Fine. I dare you to be realistically crappy about this: Chris is coming. They always get some college kids to chaperone, and I’m making him sign up.”
    “So I get to tag along with the two of you on your ultra-romantic Parisian getaway?” I grumbled. “ Magnifique .”
    “Wheelbarrow,” she said firmly.
    “Yeah, yeah. Wheelbarrow.” I sighed, but mostly for effect. The three’s-a-crowd complaints were proforma at this point, as I could no longer imagine it any other way. Wheelbarrow was Adriane-speak for stop whining , because—as she liked to say—the damn thing would be useless without the third wheel.
    “Besides, this time we’ve got one for you, too.”
    “One what?” I asked, suspicious.
    “One wheel,” she said. “One guy , idiot. Chris is going to get Max to sign up for chaperoning too, and then …”
    “And then …?”
    She waggled her eyebrows. “ Parlez-vous la language of love?”
    “Adriane! Not going to happen.”
    “Tell me you don’t think he’s cute.”
    “Ignoring you now.”
    “Or at least acceptable,” she said. “Nice eyes, if you ignore the glasses. And he’s got an interesting smile, sort of. Plus, accent. Always a bonus.”
    “How can you even tell he has an accent? He never talks.” Though, of course, that wasn’t quite true anymore. Over long afternoons and more than a few evenings holed up in the Hoff’s lair—the Hoff himself off napping or drinking or busy with whatever daily ablutions kept him from putting in more than an hour or two of work each week, and Chris taking