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ask.
    He cracks his knuckles noisily. "I get shot down all the time."
    I snort. "Not much."
    "Yes much."
    "But—"
    "It happens. Okay? I don't like to broadcast it." He frowns. "Doesn't go with my image."
    Image? Huh.
    The doorbell rings. Half a second later, Ronnie has bounded into the room and flopped onto my bed.
    "It isn't calculus," she declares. "That's why you're confused, Reed."
    "What?" I mutter.
    Ronnie talks very slowly. "There's no right answer, Reed. There isn't one way. Both questions worked because both questions
     worked. Let it go." She reaches for the last bun, beating Lonnie by only a hair.
    "Hog," she mumbles, watching Lonnie chew his bun with cowlike precision.
    "I'm a growing boy," he protests.
    "You're a growing orca," she retorts.
    "Guys," I say. The older we all get, the more they seem to ride each other.
    They both turn to me.
    "What would we do without you?" Ronnie asks, nibbling delicately on her bun. "We would've dismembered each other a long time
     ago."
    "Absolutely," Lonnie agrees. "And with plenty of gusto."
    'Anyway" I say impatiently.
    "Anyway," Lonnie repeats. "She's right. Both asking-out questions worked because they just did. There are no answers here,
     Reed."
    "But, if that's the way it is, how can I replicate it?" I ask.
    Ronnie frowns. "Why would you want to 'replicate' it? This isn't a scientific experiment. Maybe one of these girls will end
     up being your girlfriend. What—you want a harem or something?"
    Lonnie snorts. "What's wrong with a harem? And who says he's got to pick from these two? I say he asks out at least twenty
     more before he makes his final choice."
    Ronnie rolls her eyes.
    "I don't think I have the stomach for that," I say honestly.
    "It gets easier, dude, trust me."
    I don't know about that. I can't even bring myself to call these two girls to get directions to their houses. Ronnie leaves
     after a while, but Lonnie stays to jot down a "telephone script" and rehearse it with me three times before I decide to place
     the calls. My insides are swirling with overzealous pterodactyls.
    Lonnie sits on my bed while I talk to Sarah the belly-bearing sexy girl, shooting me nonstop, unreadable hand signals as if
     he's landing an F-14 on an aircraft carrier. I finally decide I want him out of my room when I call Janet. He seems put out
     by this.
    "Kicking me out, Reed? Your coach and consultant and best buddy in the world?"
    "Nothing personal, Lonnie," I say. "You're making me nervous."
    "No more hand signals," he promises.
    I run my fingers through my hair distractedly. "I feel like you're scoring me. Like you're going to hold up a card with a
     number on it."
    "Maybe it'll be a perfect ten."
    "Or a minus ten."
    "You're freaking out, pal."
    He's right. I feel like hurling Grandma's blue-ribbon cinnamon buns into the John.
    "I don't know if I can go through with this," I say weakly.
    He looks concerned. "Chill, dude, chill. It's just two dates with two girls."
    "Easy for you to say. You've got an infinite supply. Doesn't matter if you screw up with one or two."
    He lets out a laugh. "First of all, you're not gonna screw up. Second, even if you do, you've got an infinite supply now too."
    "No, I don't."
    "Yes, you do," he says firmly. His voice changes, gets more serious. "Third, this isn't a test you can ace or fail, Reed.
     Nobody's going to give you a grade on it—life's not a school transcript. You can get Cs and Ds instead of A-pluses in real
     life and still be okay. There's no Ivy League for girls."
    I don't know how to answer. Lonnie's a bright guy, but he doesn't take AP classes. He'll go to college, but not Princeton.
     And yet, he understands me better than I understand myself. What he just said to me is brilliant—pure unadulterated brilliance.
    I look down at my sneakers. "I'm not used to not being good at something," I mutter, not knowing how he'll react to this.
     I don't know how to react to it myself.
    "How do you know you're not good at this?" he