Melissa Jensen

“Nice gate,Ella."I looked back at Daniel. He waved torward my lap."Oh." I draw on my eans when I don't have paper.My bus had gotten stuck behind a trash truck, right in front of a seriously old churchyard. "Thanks." I wasn't sure how I felt about Daniel staring at my thigh, even if he had recognized the sketch for what it was."Here." Suddenly, he had a booted foot on the rung of my chair, legs spread, one pressed against mine. "Draw something.""Oh,please," Frankie muttered from his other side.I shook my head. "I don't have a pen."Sadie promptly disappeared beneath the table.I could hear the clank of Marc acobs chain handles and had a feeling in a second she would be asking, "Blue ink or black?""Don't you dare,Sadie," Frankie said cheerfully. "Ella does not want to be inscribing my brother's crotch."True, I didn't. Except I had the clearest vision of how a little Italian portal devil would look on the faded denim..."Fair enough," Daniel said, sliding his foot off my chair. But he actually looked disappointed. For a second, anyway. "I assume there's food coming?""There is," Frankie answered. "I'm sure it will come a hell of a lot faster if you do your vampire boy thing on Chloe again.""Tsk,tsk. Jealousy, Miss Thing."They bared their teeth at each other. It was scarily pretty.”

“He shoved up his sleeves, displaying several thin leather bracelets and the red-and-black tip of a dragon tail just above his right elbow. I've never actually seen the head. It's on Daniel's back, Frankie told us once, between his shoulder blades. "So,my children, what is up?""We're trying to figure out how to get a soul-sucking, male lower life-form out of Ella's head," Frankie explained."Kill him," Daniel said casually. "Unless there's a symbiotic thing going on and Ella would have to die, too. That would be a shame."Here's the thing about Daniel. He has always scared me a little. I don't bother going through the scar-hiding motions; I'm convined he can see right through clothing. Not that he leers. He's not a leerer. He has two facial expressions: cold and amused. He also has a second tattoo, on the inside of his left wrist, that looks exactly like how I would expect a gang mark to look. Frankie has never said a word about that tat. Or much about his brother's friends.Who have names like Ax and spend time in police custody.”

“I watched the silent battle in awe. Daniel waited patiently, giving Chloe a half smile that was less a friendly expression than a display of his incisors, which are slightly longer than the teeth on either side. It makes him look even more feline than he already does. "Oh, go ahead.Card hime," Frankie said wearily. "He doesn't mind.""No,no.That's okay.I'll be right back..." And she was gone.Daniel bared more teeth. "Nice, bro.""What? You're disgustingly proud of that ID."Daniel laughed. "I am," he agreed. "I totally am.”

“Frankie looks like he might break your heart a little. Daniel looks like he might rip it from your chest, still beating, and bite it.”

“Listen, Liar Liar, you promised. Enough with Alex Bainbridge."Home truths are not meant to be comfortable, I know.Frankie knows it, too, and for a teeny tiny second, I hated him just a teeny tiny bit for knowing just where to stick the pin.I glared at him. "How did this go from being about Sadie to an assault on my honesty? Huh?"He shrugged. "I love you, Fiorella. We ain't got no money, honey, but we got love."I've never been able to hate Frankie for more than a second at a time.”

“So,if it's all love or money, which is Alex Bainbridge?"I blinked at him. "What?""He's a turd, Ella. He looked right through you like you were a ghost, but you still have a thing for him.""I do n-""Don't even. You've gone through the whole week watching for him. So what is it? I would really like to know. Love or money?""I have not been watching for him!" I snapped. Oh, but I had, in every hallway, at lunch, when I took my seat at the edge of English class. "And if I have, it's just so I can look away first."Frankie rolled his eyes. "Shall I get you a pail of water?""Why?""Your pants are on fire."I actually looked down at my lap. "Oh, very funny." I shot Sadie a look when she giggled.”

“Shall we go to Paris next spring? You will certainly be well by then. I agree that Dr. Tapper is far more intelligent and sensible than many of his profession. If he tells you that you are not to be slogging through the Wissahickon in this weather, you must deisit with your daily slog. Your lungs are fragile, my love. I would not have you expiring for a sight of interesting lichen. Love is one of two things worth dying for.I have yet to decide on the second.It is most certainly not colorful fungus.I shall be home as soon as this business is settled, certainly no more than a week.My mother complains that you will not have her to dinner. Good for you. Take pity on Hamilton's new wife and have her to tea.Fire the cook, please.I cannot face another dish of sweetbreads.With all my love always,Edward”

“You'd think that philisophy might have put the kibosh on some of the Freddy Krueger stuff," I mused, tilting my jaw until I felt the pull of the scar."And well it might, if you ever let on that it hurt."I'm inclined to agree with that, too, but there's a limit. "So I should start going strapless.""DOn't be snotty.”

“What is it you want, Ella?""What you had," I answered softly, "with Diana. That once-in-a-lifetime connection that makes everything good.""Fine.But you do realize that in orde to be loved like that, you have to let the lucky gentleman see you.I mean truly see you, scars and all.""Yes,Edward, I am fully aware of that.""But you don't want anyone to really look at you."He had me there. "Well,no.""Good luck with that,then," he said, then yawned and cosed his eyes, telling me the conversation was over.”

“She had a point,you know," Edward commented a few hours later. "Unnecessarily crude, perhaps, but apt. Our public personas frequently do not match our private ones. You, of all people, should know that.""This isn't about me," I said grumpily. "This is about needing to find more information about the private you.Something I don't already know.""I have terribly ugly feet.""Not what I had in mind.And probably untrue anyway."Edward glanced down at the empty space below his rib cage. "Probably. So, what did you have in mind?""A letter,maybe.From Diana.Something that connected your love to your work.""I rather thought I did that through my paintings.""You did.I mean, that's what attracted me to you in the first place.Well, o, that was your smile, probably,but the paintings helped. It's just that I need to know more about your muse.""Ah, darling Ella, the artist's muse is Ego.Nothing more.""You don't mean that.You married Diana because she made you feel like no one else in the universe ever did or could."He nodded. "She was extraordinary.""But not everyone saw that.Your family went nuts.Half of your friends stopped inviting you over, at least for a while.""Their loss. She was a woman who comes along once in a lifetime.”

“You're having a large disappointment," she drawled, "with a side of rare pissed-offedness."I thought about lying outright. But as it was medium disappointment with a side of self-pity, I just shrugged.”

“I couldn't even work up a tingle in holding An Account of the Manners and Customs of Italy; with Observations on the Mistakes of Some Travellers, with Regard to That Country. I figured people had been making goombah jokes even in 1768.”

“You wanna know something," was Dad's refrain while we were growing up, "get a book." Of course,he predates Google, but it stuck with me.”

“I'd always made a point of talking to Edward only when I could look him in the face. Otherwise,it seemed a little too nutso, even to me.”

“None were particularly interesting, although I got a kick out of a note from the Philadelphia Zoo suggesting that since the tiger was not entirely reliable around humans, perhaps Mr. Willing would consider a leopard for his painting instead. It had been a pet until the demise (natural) of its owner and would, if not firmly admonished, climb into a person's lap, purring, and drool copiously.I pulled a sheet of scrap paper (the Stars spent a lot of time sending all-school e-mails about recycling) out of my bag and made a note on the blank side: "Leopard in The Lady in DeNile?" It wasn't my favorite, Cleopatra Awaiting the Return of Anthony. It was a little OTT, loaded with gold and snake imagery and, of course, the leopard. Diana hadn't liked the painting,either, apparently; she was the one who'd given it the Lady in DeNile nickname.I wondered if the leopard had drooled on her.None of the papers were personal, but they were Edward's and some were special, if you knew about his life. There was a bill from the Hotel Ritz in Paris in April 1890, and one from Cartier two months later for a pair of Tahitian pearl drop earrings. Diana was wearing them in my favorite photograph of the two of them: happy and visibly tanned, even in black and white, holding lobsters on a beach in Maine. "I insisted we let them go," Diana wrote in a letter to her niece. "Edward had a snit.He wanted a lobster dinner, but I could not countenance eating a fellow model.”

“The last fire in the drawer was 1890. It was the year Edward painted Across the Delaware (acquired in 1961 by Jacqueline Kennedy and now hanging in the White House foyer), the year he married Diana (April), and the year he nearly made her a widow on their extended honeymoon (May) when he overestimated the water temperature at the cliffs in Brontallo, Switzerland, and had to be pulled, nearly unconscious and hyppthermic, from the water by a pair of passing Norwegian tourists in a rowboat.”

“I noticed that she left her office door open, too.So she could keep an eye on me, no doubt, in case I decided to grab the andirons and make a run for it.I stood for a minute, taking it all in. Not what I'd expected at all. And Edward hadn't been any help: "Heavens, how should I know what's there? Whatever was left after my collective vulture of a family descended,I assume..."The first thing I did was to sit down on the sofa. The old leather creaked loudly enough to make me flinch. But it was worth risking the return of Dr. Rothaus to sit where Edward had sat. Only, it didn't feel very significant. Just cold and little slippery.”

“The bequest was for the contents of Edward Willing's library," she said tersely, "and did not include the paintings.Those went...elsewhere." Her already disapproving expression became even more pinched with the word. Like elsewhere was Hell, or Overseas, or MoMA.”

“I might have stood there for a long time, hand halfway up like a religious statue,if Frankie hadn't gently pulled it down and held on.He stood behind me, vibrating with anger. "That is not an honorable man, Fiorella."Without thinking, I lifted my free hand toward my neck.But I was wearing a turtleneck and my hair was down. There was nothing to see,and all my fingertips found was the rigid peak under my jaw. "Don't do that," Frankie hissed. "Don't you dare. It's not the scar and it's abso-freakin-lutely not you."I dropped my hand. "Yeah,right." I sagged against him a little. For being skinny as he is, Frankie's really solid. "It's never me."I felt his sigh against my shoulder blades. "We are young; heartache to heartache we stand.""Let me guess," I said. "Old Korean proverb.""As if.Pat Benatar. 'Love is a Battlefield.'"I laughed.I had a feeling I might cry, but not there and then. "Thanks.""Don't mention it." Frankie wrapped his free arm around me so my chin rested on his forearm. "Enough,right? That was enough of Alex Bainbridge-for all of us. Promise?""Yeah.Promise?”

“He came to find me," I offered, a small indication, maybe,that this was a Phillite boy who'd grown into doing the right thing."I'll give him that. He could have just sucked down his spaghetti and gone." Frankie stuck the cap back on the lipstick. "You look very pretty in..." He flipped the tube over and read. "You've gotta be kidding. Poysonberry? Who comes up with this stuff? Anyway.I'm sure Alex Bainbridge will agree.""Thank you.""Anytime.Just keep this in mind, if you would, please. I know that you look very pretty every day, with or without the ridiculously named wax products.""Saint Francis," I teased, feeling just delightfully poysonous enough in the glow of his approval. "Too good for this world.""That's just what Connor said." Frankie's most recent boy. They met in a bookstore."Bookstore Connor of the fantasy realm?"Behind us,the gong went. Frankie started to scoop his stuff together. "Careful.His fantasies do not involve one-dimensional Phillites or dead men."I tapped him on the tip of his perfect nose. He hates that. "How do you know? He might have a thing for dead, one-dimensional Phillites.”

“Frankie had used one (reverently) to wipe his eyes.This specimen was old and soft,monogrammed with a J in the corner. "Makes it interesting," he told me once, after finding a box monogrammed with M for fifty cents at a sidewalk sale. "Was it Max or Michael? Maybe Marco...""Here," he said now. "You have lipstick halfway down to your chin."Humiliated, I scrubbed at my face.Frankie held out his hand, palm up. "Okay,let's have it." I pulled the tube out of my pocket. "Not really my thing, madam, but since I've seen what happens when you don't use a mirror..." I'm sure it helped that he was holding my face, but he read it like a pro. "You had a mirror.""I did.I'm hopeless.""Maybe.Open." He squinted as he filled in my upper lip. "I don't like this.""The color? I knew it was too pink-""Quiet.You'll smear it.The color is fine. Better for Sienna, I'm sure..." He surveyed his handiwork. "I don't like that you're doing this for him.""Don't start. I told you how nice he was.""In excruciating detail."Given, the post-Bainbridge family dinner e-mail to Frankie and Sadie had been long. But excrutiating stung, especially from the boy who'd used every possible synonym for hot in describing his Friday-night bookstore acquisition. No name, just detailed hotness and the play-by-play of their flirtation over the fantasy section.”

“I hadn't wanted to explain the lipstick. Or the mascara. Or the skinny jeans I'd snagged from Sienna's laundrey and washed under cover of darkness and paired with a black turtleneck that a jaunt through the dryer had made, to ne honest, a size too small. But this news about the Willing Archive trumped all of that.He gave me a careful once-over. "Well."I sat down next to him, aiming for casual. I should have aimed my butt. I sat on his geometry book. "Well what?""Don't even.The day you become a good liar is the day I leave you for one of the Hannandas.""I have an appointment at the Willing Archive."I will say this for Frankie: He pays attention. "The utterly-off-limits, place-to-bury-your-face-in-Edward's-old-knickers archive?""Nice.But yes,that one.Mrs. Evers got me in.""About time someone did." He bumped a shoulder against mine. "I really do hate to burst your bubble, Fiorella, but Edward is a century past appreciating the sight of you in tight jeans. So tell me whassup."I squirmed a little."What sort of idiot do you think I am?" He sighed. "You look good, but I am concerned about the inspiration.""It's not a big deal. It's some makeup.""When I want a boy to look ta me, it's a day that ends in y. You, it's something else. It's a big deal.”

“I was going to walk right into the hallowed halls in my battered Chucks and eans, to sit among first-edition Trollopes-assuming they'd restored them. Walk right up to whatever heavily armed security troll was at the door and demand admittance.They wouldn't let me over the threshold.”

“After history, which I occasionally enjoy, and French, which I tres don't, I have double art. The art studio hasn't been changed in, like, a hundred years. The floors are battered and creaky and covered with so many layers of dried paint that if looks like Jackson Pollock Was Here, minus the cigarette butts.Apparently, past generations of Willing Art Girls had tossed their cigarettes onto the tiled window well outside rather than onto the floor. "They were more ladylike," Cat Vernon told me once, pointing out the window beside her easle. The butts are gone, but there are burn marks, scattered like leopard spots,over the terra-cotta surface.”

“I couldn't think of any possible universe where wrapping myself around his knees to keep him in place would be construed as anything other than psychotic."Okay." He unfolded himself from the stoop, six feet of spendid, and actually held out his hand.For a second, I thought he wanted to shake. I levered myself halfway up before realizing he was offering to help me up.What a gent.What a spaz. Me, that is. I crouched there, helpless, sat back down a little, then realized how incredibly stupid that must look,started up again. By the time I finally took his hand, I was almost upright,and if I haven't let go almost immediately, I would have looked even more ridiculous than I felt."So,Ill see you Monday, maybe," he announced. "On the floor somewhere.""Not unlikely," I managed. "I can often be found on floors." Whatever that meant. I winced inwardly. Then compounded the idiocy. "I watched a Brady Bunch marathon once when I had strep throat."He laughed. "Nice try, Grasshopper, but no dice.”

“You're really good." That one got away from me. "Your drawing, I mean."He shrugged. "Not really. Besides, what difference does it make? It's not like I'm going to do anything with it. What's the point...?" He winced. "Jeez, I'm sorry.You're probably heading for MoMA via the Sorbonne and Bennington.""NYU if I'm really really lucky." I smiled, letting him off the hook. I still couldn't quite wrap my head around the fact that I was bantering with Alex Bainbridge. "After that, not a clue. You?""Yale,then Powel Law." No With Luck or I hope or even If all goes as decreed."Wow.It must be nice to be so certain in your path." I didn't mean to snound snide.I really didn't. "No starviing artistry in your future,that's for sure."Occasional stupid Mafia comments aside, Alex is no dummy. "It must be nice to be so certain in your convictions. No moral low road for you, that's for sure."I felt myself blushing, felt that Blood Surge of Humiliation beginning.”

“I'm sorry I looked. Or saw, I guess. I didn't go digging through your book. The pages fell out.""Yeah. I kinda figured that might have been what happened." He scuffed one heel against the cement. "The book fell out of my bag again...and,well..."And,well, there he was,forgiven."Zippers," I said. "One of mankind's better inventions. Your bag has one; I've seen it.""You see much, Grasshopper."I blinked at him."C'mon. Kung Fu?" He let go of his knees and sliced both hands through the air in a choppy spiral. "Shaolin monk fighting against injustice while searching for his long-lost brother in the Old West?"I shook my head. "Nope.Sorry."""Sad. I bet you wouldn't recognize 'Live long and prosper,' either.""Nope.""How did I know? My dad got me into seventies TV.It's awfully brilliant. Or brilliantly awful, maybe." He had relaxed and was looking monumentally pleased with seventies television or himself or something.You're awfully beautiful, Alex Bainbridge.I managed to keep that one to myself,but... "You're really good." That one got away from me. "Your drawing, I mean.”

“Look.I'm...uh...When you told me you'd looked at my stuff.I didn't...I shouldn't have..."What is it about those two words-I'm sorry-that makes otherwise articulate guys into babbling idiots? I mean, I love you, I get. That's a tough one, putting yourself so completely, nakedly out there. I haven't ever said that to a guy. A guy other than Frankie or my dad, anyway. But I'm sorry? I say it twenty times a day.To Nonna, when I just can't face a three-course breakfast at seven in the morning, to the half-dozen people I bump into on my frantic rush up those eight blocks to school. To Sadie, for having to copy her algebra homework for,like,the thousandth time, because I didn't get to mine.I'm still waiting for Leo to apologize for totalling my bike three years ago. I forgave him eventually. Riding a bike in the middle of the city is a little like playing RUssian roulette with a bus. Still, it would have been nice t have gotten an I'm sorry instead of a litany of excuses. I figure I'll be waiting forever.”

“Tina can be a B-,and she's high maintenance in every possible way. She's also prone to asking questions like whether vegetarians can eat animal crackers. She actually once asked Frankie what Asians throw at weddings, since Americans throw rice. He said shredded math tests.I think she believed him.”

“Leo!Scusi, Nonna." But he still managed to get a good, quiet curse or two out as he backed his way gingerly through the swinging door. "Here.I got it." Tina took the beer and glass from me. "Ya know them?"I nodded."She looks like butter wouldn't melt.But her kid..." She pursed brilliantly pink lips. "All that and a bag of baked tofu chips?"I had to smile a little at the image. "No.He's not...He doesn't act like..." I wasn't entirely sure why I was defending him.He hadn't exactly been the Prince Charming of Dinner Orders. Come to think of it, I couldn't completely vouch for Alex Bainbridge being Prince Charming of Anything. Except my own little Villink fantasy. "Maybe.""Cute,though.""Yeah.""Yeah?" I have no idea what is was Tina saw in my face. Something. "Aw, sweetie." She sighed. "Want me to shake up Daddy's beer a little?""No," I answered. "but thanks for the offer.”

“When Marino's needs us, we chip in.I just hate when chipping involves waiting tables. I have to write down orders so I don't forget them, am scarily clumsy with hot plates, and, humiliatingly, have to get someone else to bring the wine or beer when customers order it, because I'm not eighteen, and it's illegal for underage me to seve alcohol.”

“Tina was hosting. She's a thirty-five-year-old version of Sienne, only bottle blonde.Same blind-you lipstick, same taste in clothes,same complete disregard for anyone else's opinion on anything.They hate each other."You hate me!" Sienna wailed.It wasn't Tina's voice that snapped back, but Dad's, "Oh,no. I am not playing that game with you. Do you have any idea what a hundred pounds of filet is gonna cost me? And now you want lobster?""But it's my wedding! Daddy-""Don't you Daddy me, princess! I'm already five grand in the hole for the damned hotel,not to mention two for the dress, and every time I turn around, you and your mother have added a new guest, bridesmaid,or crustacean!"First of all,Dad was yelling.Almost. Second,he was swearing.Even damn is fighting talk for him.I set down my pizza and debated the best route for a sealthy escape.I'd seen the dress.Pretty, in a Disney-princess, twenty-yards-of-tulle, boobs-shaped-into-missiles sort of way. Sienne looked deliriously happy in it. She looked beautiful.The less said about the bridesmaids' dressed, I'd decided, on seeing the purple sateen,the better."No lobster!" he yelled.There was a dramatic howl, followed by the bang of the back door. When I peeked out,it was like a photo. Everything was frozen.Dad was standing over the massive pasta pot, red-faced and scowling, wooden spoon brandished like a sword. Leo and Ricky had retreated to the doorway of the freezer. Nonna had her eyes turned heavenward, and Tina was halfway through the dining room door, smirking a little.”

“Sienna's voice has been known to cut through solid steel.”

“Sadie looked like she'd just discovered the gym showers didn't have curtains.”

“With Thanksgiving approaching, I quietly hoped this would finally be the year I wouldn't find myself at the children's table.”

“This would be the third year that she would try halfheartedly to keep her mother unaware that there even was a Fall Ball,let alone the theme. But there was no question that Mrs. Winslow would get the info somehow, probably within six hours of the announcement. It didn't matter that she was presently in the Caribbean. She was connected. By morning,she would be on the phone to someone in New York or Paris or Milan, finding the perfect costume for her daughter.The last one was a historically accurate replica of an eighteenth-century dress, appropraite to rural New York State gentility, no less. It had possessed a wig, corset, and padded butt. Sadie,itchy and unable to breathe, let alone eat or drink or shake her extended booty, had spent the four hours of the dance sitting in a dark corner.I,dressed in a high-necked, tattered, and "blood"-spattered white dress and veil (Bride of the Headless Horseman),sat with her.”

“My sister taught me the best trick. When the salesclerk isn't looking, you make Sharpie marks on the front of all the others so no one else will buy them. I mean, how embarrassing would it be to have someone else show up at the dance wearing the same dress! This way, I know I'll be the only one.""God,I wouldn't have the guts.What if you got caught!"The Sharpie-wielding Phillite shrugged. "I would put them all on my dad's card. But then I wouldn't be able to buy the Manolos..."She and her impressed friends headed down the hall.Frankie banged his locker closed with unnecessary force. "Mind-boggling," he muttered. "All that money, and they can't buy a clue.”

“What do you know about 1969, anyway? It was after your time.""I know everything." He gave me that sleepy-eyed smile of his. "Love or money, I'm afraid.""Great," I sighed, unable not to think about Alex and trips to Europe and the Hannandas with their Prada bags. "The two things that show absolutely no hint of ever coming my way. Shoot me now.""I can't, darling girl. No arms. Besides, even if I had the ability, I would never do such a thing. It would be dastardly.And...""And?""Ah,Ella.Fond of you as I am, there is no passion in my feelings.""Love or money," I droned."Love or money," Edward agreed.”

“We're not supposed to have electronic stuff out during the school day. Yeah,right. I would say with confidence that 250 of Willing's 311 students can text without looking.”

“I wove my way between the tables, pulling my hair forward over my shoulders as I went.Alex was still sitting when I reached him."Hey.This was on the floor in the upstairs hall..."I stood behind his chair.Completely frozen.I might have stood there for a very long time if he hadn't pushed himself away from the table to get up. The chair thumped me in the stomach first, then in the knees.I think I made a noise. I dropped his book."Oh.Oh,crap.I'm really sorry!" Alex jerked the chair out of the way and bent down a little. He had to, to see my face. "You okay?"I did manage to nod."Seriously.I must have really pounded you there.You sure you're all right?""Yes,fine," I whispered.Across the table, Chase Vere laughed. "Dude, she was,like, standing right behind you.”

“Hey,Alex." I composed the words in my head. "I have your book..."D'oh.I would be standing there, holding his book."Alex.Thought you might want to have this back."Nope.Sounded like I'd taken it, which would be bizarre, or that he'd given it to me, which would be ludicrous."Hey.This was on the floor in the upstairs hall, and I figured you probably didn't know where it was." Truth is always good.He would look blank for a sec (he probably had no idea he'd dropped it; European history was first period ), then smile gratefully, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, that mouth turning up in that unbelievably cute way."Wow.Thanks,Ella! I didn't even know I'd dropped it."See?And I would hand it over-if our fingers brushed, no complaints-and say, "I saw the stuff inside.It's really...""El.Ella." Sadie bumped me with her button again. "Coming?""Hmm?""Where were you? Oh, yeah..." She followed my slightly unfocused gaze and nodded. On her other side, Frankie snorted. She elbowed him.No button on the other sleeve.”

“Besides, I'm not a mirror girl. I have Frankie and Sadie to tell me if I have lettuce in my teeth. I don't have shiny lip gloss to check. I don't do anything that necessitates Visine. Still, sometimes I'll come out of a stall or look up from washing my hands and catch sight of myself: a small, startled person behind a curtain of dark hair who looks away quickly, as if embarrassed by being caught staring.”

“Oh,for God's sake." Frankie rolled his eyes under his green porkpie hat. The color perfectly matched the VINCE stitched onto the pocket of his brown bowling shirt. Frankie is all about vintage chic. "Give me the book.I'll throw it at him."Frankie's daring. He's also conversant in postmodern art and tells me he loves me on a regular basis. He does lie like a rug,but only to people he doesn't care about, like the gym teacher. "Badminton?" he gasped once, early in our friendship, when I assumed I'd found a gym partner (him) who would actually talk to me. "And risk this nose?"It's a good nose. In a really, really good face.”

“You might think lunchtime at Willing would be different from other high schools. That everyone would be welcome at any table, united by the knowledge that we, at Willing, are the Elite, the Chosen, stellar across the board.Um.No.Of course not.High school is high school, regardless of how much it costs or how many kids springboard into the Ivies. And nowhere is social status more evident than in the dining room (freshman and sophomores at noon; upperclassmen at one). Because, of course, Willing doesn't have a cafeteria, or even a lunch hall. It has a dining room, complete with oak tables and paneled walls that are covered with plaques going all the way back to 1869, the year Edith Willing Castoe (Edward's aunt) founded the school to "prepare Philadelphia's finest young ladies for Marriage,for Leadership, and for Service to the World." Really. Until the sixties, the school's boastful slogan was "She's a Willing Girl."Almost 150 years, three first ladies, and one attorney general-not to mention the arrival of boys-later, female members of the student body are still called Willing Girls. You'd think someone in the seventies would have objected to that and changed it. But Willing has survived the seventies of two different centuries. They'll probably still be calling us Willing Girls in 2075. It's a school that believes in Tradition, sometimes regardless of how stupid that Tradition is.”

“I bent and twistend and distorted everything ... to fit my pretty picture. God, I belibed my own hype. How stupid, how incredibly stupid was that?”

“It was Day Three, Freshman Year, and I was a little bit lost in the school library,looking for a bathroom that wasn't full of blindingly shiny sophomores checking their lip gloss.Day Three.Already pretty clear on the fact that I would be using secondary bathrooms for at least the next three years,until being a senior could pass for confidence.For the moment, I knew no one,and was too shy to talk to anyone. So that first sight of Edward: pale hair that looked like he'd just run his hands through it, paint-smeared white shirt,a half smile that was half wicked,and I was hooked.Since, "Hi,I'm Ella.You look like someone I'd like to spend the rest of my life with," would have been totally insane, I opted for sitting quietly and staring.Until the bell rang and I had to rush to French class,completely forgetting to pee.Edward Willing.Once I knew his name, the rest was easy.After all,we're living in the age of information. Wikipedia, iPhones, 4G ntworks, social networking that you can do from a thousand miles away.The upshot being that at any given time over the next two years, I could sit twenty feet from him in the library, not saying a word, and learn a lot about him.ENough, anyway, for me to become completely convinced that the Love at First Sight hadn't been a fluke.It's pretty simple.Edward matched four and a half of my If My Prince Does, In Fact, Come Someday,It Would Be Great If He Could Meet These Five Criteria.1. Interested in art. For me, it's charcoal. For Edward, oil paint and bronze. That's almost enough right there. Nice lips + artist= Ella's prince.2. Not afraid of love. He wrote, "Love is one of two things worth dying for.I have yet to decide on the second."3.Or of telling the truth. "How can I believe that other people say if I lie to them?"4.Hot. Why not?I can dream.5.Daring. Mountain climbing, cliff dying, defying the parents. Him, not me. I'm terrified of an embarrassing number of things, including heights, convertibles, moths, and those comedians everyone loves who stand onstage and yell insults at the audience.5, subsection a. Daring enough to take a chance on me.Of course, in the end, that No. 5a is the biggie. And the problem. No matter how muuch I worshipped him,no matter how good a pair we might have been,it was never, ever going to happen. To be fair to Edward,it's not like he was given an opportunity to get to know me. I'm not stupid.I know there are a few basic truths when it comes to boys and me.Truth: You have to talk to a boy-really talk,if you want him to see past the fact that you're not beautiful.Truth: I'm not beautiful. Or much of a conversationalist.Truth: I'm not entirely sure that the stuff behind the not-beautiful is going to be all that alluring, either.And one written-in-stone, heartbreaking truth about this guy.Truth:Edward Willing died in 1916.”

“Love is one of the two things worth dying for. I have yet to decide on the second. It is most certainly not colorful fungus.”

“It's not the scar and it's abso-freakin-lutely not you."I dropped my hand. "Yeah, right." I sagged against him a little. For being as little as he is, Frankie's really solid. "It's never me."I felt his sigh against my shoulder blades.”

“Make poverty, sickness, and death central issues in the contract," he says, "it's no wonder the divorce rate is fifty percent.”

“Would you rather be loved unconditionally and not love, or be desperately in love and not loved in return?”