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somewhere. I found boxes and boxes of Trevor and Troy’s old things, everything from Matchbox cars to Halloween costumes to Sesame Street stuffed animals to report cards to retired refrigerator drawings. Spiderwebs stuck to my face and arms like strands of sticky hair. I brushed them away and tried not to think about what other creepy-crawly things might be up here.
    Tucked in a corner under an old grapevine wreath I found a cardboard box with MELANIE’S STUFF written on it in loopy letters with faded purple marker, the I in MELANIE dotted with a red heart. The first thing I found was an eight-track tape of Carly Simon’s No Secrets . Yellowed paperbacks followed— Fear of Flying , Love Story , Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask , The Great Gatsby . A pet rock in a crate, a chocolate leatherette backgammon case, a ticket stub from The Sting , a picture postcard of the waves at Hampton Beach, New Hampshire, with a five-cent stamp. Having a great time! Wish you were here!
    Alone in my attic, I giggled across the decades. “Who the hell were you, Finn Miller? Wish I remembered!”
    I could have sworn my high school yearbook was blue and white, our school colors, but it turned out to be bright yellow with MARSHBURY HIGH SCHOOL written in orange psychedelic swirls.
    I backed my way down the attic stairs, holding the yearbook in one hand as if it were a Magic 8 Ball that might reveal my future: Signs point to yes. Outlook good. You may rely on it .
    I found my bar stool and placed my yearbook carefully on the kitchen counter. It was in pretty good shape for its age, but who knew, one wrong move and it might crumble into dust. I thought about looking for my own picture, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. What if it was even more embarrassing than I imagined? The remnants of my dwindling self-esteem might just crumble into dust, too.
    “Will I remember Finn Miller?” I asked my empty kitchen as I flipped to the M ’s.
    I found him in the middle of a page. The yearbook pages wereblack and white, which softened the clash of his plaid suit jacket and striped tie. He had a serious side part going on, his long, wavy hair obscuring most of one eyebrow before it tucked behind his ear. But his chin was strong and his eyes were dark and borderline sexy. His smile was a bit forced, but he was probably just camera-shy. I scanned down to his quote: School’s out. Memories past. Don’t ever doubt. The fun will last .
    I carried the yearbook into the little office we’d made in one corner of the guest room. I scanned Finn’s picture and the pictures of some other fairly cute male classmates. I enlarged them until their heads were big enough to fill a page of computer paper, then I printed them and cut them out like paper dolls.
    I left them on the kitchen island while I searched the garage, finally settling on two relatively clean brooms and a long-haired mop that had never been used. I carried them into the kitchen, turned them upside down, and taped the paper faces onto their business ends.
    Music. Poor Carly Simon’s eight-track tape was never going to find its match in a tape player again, so to make it up to her I downloaded No Secrets onto my laptop. “You’re So Vain” filled my kitchen with retro longing.
    “You bet I think this song is about you,” I said to Finn Miller.
    His mop hair was a good look for him, a step up from that old side-part swoop, almost like white dreadlocks. We danced around the kitchen together, his hair tickling my neck, his paper face crinkling when he leaned close. He dipped me, and I smiled up at him as Carly sang her approval.
    The two broom boys leaning back against their bar stools never took their eyes off us. “Sorry, guys,” I said in my sexiest,slightly wine-soaked voice. “I’m taken.” It came out low and scratchy, almost like a croak, the voice of a woman spending way too much time alone.
    When the song ended, I wedged Finn Miller