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smiles wider. “You’re a smart girl, Theodora.”
    “I wish I were an idiot. Life would be a lot simpler.”
    She shakes her head. “Trust me. It wouldn’t.”

Emily
    Ray Roarke is walking down the hall, about to pass me. I tell myself to call out his name. But I can’t.
    “You’re shallow!” Belle accuses me as he walks by.
    I open my locker and put away my math and science textbooks and stuff Romeo and Juliet and Human Psychology into my backpack. “There’s a difference between being shallow and not being attracted to someone,” I say in my own defense. “There’s no way I can even imagine kissing Ray Roarke.”
    “He could be the love of your life,” Belle says. She sighs dramatically. “Passed up because of his slightly large nose and his love of chess. Such a shame.”
    “It’s not his nose,” I insist, watching him stop to drink from the water fountain. I actually like his nose. And unlike Todd, he has great hair. “It’s that—” I can’t say it.
    “That he’s not Zach?” Jen says.
    I nod. “ And that he might be another Todd Tuttle. I can’t do this, okay?”
    Belle squeezes my hand. “You can. Forget Todd. And try to forget Zach.”
    I shrug. “I can’t.”
    “So your gorgeous prom dress is going to hang in your closet till next year?” Jen asks.
    Sigh. I don’t know. I just know that Ray Roarke can’t be the answer to the meaning of life.
    After school I spend a little too much time lying flat on my bed, staring at the one photo of me and Zach Archer that I have. It’s my only proof that we were ever a couple—that it wasn’t all just a dream. It’s been over two weeks since we broke up, two weeks since he’s even acknowledged me in the hallways at school, so every now and then (okay, every day ) I look at the picture to remind myself I’m not nuts. I didn’t imagine it.
    Jen was the photographer. Zach and I were walking his beagle, Lucy, when we ran into Jen, who’s taking a photography class in the city on Saturdays with her mom.
    Zach put his hand over his face. “I hate having my picture taken.”
    “C’mon. Just one,” Jen said.
    The hand came down. I smiled. He didn’t. But it was a great shot. We’re not holding hands or kissing or doing anything remotely adorable. But we’re in the same frame. We’re together.
    Bzzz! Doorbell.
    “Em, could you get that?” my mom calls from down the hall. “I’m in the middle of changing Sophie!”
    Better her than me. I head downstairs and look through the peephole, and there stand three of the best-looking people I’ve ever seen in my life. People who look like they just stepped out of a TV screen. I open the door. They—two women and one man—are wearing sunglasses, which they all whip off at the same time. They smile bright white smiles at me.
    “We’re Theodora’s People!” says one of the women. She’s wearing a tiny black jacket, a white micro-miniskirt, and high-heeled black shoes with glen plaid feathers poking out of the toe. I stare at the feathers for too long. The woman smiles and whispers, “Manolos.”
    I know what Manolos are (seriously expensive hot shoes). I don’t know what Theodora’s People are. Theodora as in Theodora Twist? I’m trying to figure out why they could possibly be standing on our doorstep on an ordinary Monday at five o’clock when my stepfather comes up behind me and welcomes them in. Apparently, he’s been expecting them.
    There’s nice-talk of how the flight was (Theodora’s People flew in from “the coast,” which I soon learn means Los Angeles), whether there was congestion on the New Jersey Turnpike (which is how you get to our house from the airport), a few exit jokes, and more nice-talk about how lovely the house is, and “would you like some coffee or a nice glass of fresh-brewed iced tea?” There’s also a brief debate on whether scones or bagels have more carbs; Theodora’s People are all on no-carb “eating regimens.”
    My mother comes downstairs