* * *

ON THE FIRST day of school, Mary Louise and I yawned amid the mustard-yellow kitchen units. Our homeroom was home ec, mandatory for eighth graders. I prayed Robby would be in our class, and sighed with relief when he walked in.

Consulting her clipboard, Mrs. Adams paired up students. “Lily and Robby.”

I elbowed Mary Louise, unable to believe my luck. Inching toward him, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Not “How was harvest?” Not even “Hi.” He kind of smiled at me. It was enough.

When Mrs. Adams held out a recipe card, neither Robby nor I moved to take it, so she placed the card on the counter next to the canisters of flour, sugar, and salt. Side by side, he and I read the instructions, and I felt the heat from his body. I measured the ingredients, he stirred them together with a beat-up spatula. We spooned the batter into the molds, then like proud parents, we peered into the oven to watch the cupcakes rise.

When they were golden brown, I pulled them out. Though they were hot, Robby bit into one. He chewed twice and said, “Gross!”

“Quit goofing around.” I popped a piece into my mouth. It tasted like a moldy sponge drenched in salt. I spit it into the garbage. “I must have mixed up the salt and sugar.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Are you kidding?” I said, practically in tears, mostly from the way the salt burned, but also because I didn’t want us to flunk.

“You’re worried about your 4.0.”

Robby scarfed a cupcake, barely chewing before forcing it down. His eyes watered but he grabbed another. I shoved one into my mouth, too, gagging on the yellow lump.

Mrs. Adams complimented Tiffany and Mary Louise on their masterpiece before moving on to us. She held up our empty pan. “How am I supposed to grade you?”

Grimacing from the sharp taste of salt, Robby and I shrugged.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” she said. “Start cleaning up.”

At the sink, we plunged our hands into the warm, soapy water to wash the pan and utensils. A tiny bubble rose in the air, and we watched it float away. I’d never been so happy.

In social studies, Miss Davis bristled about the Soviet boycott of the Olympics in LA. “Probably afraid their athletes would defect! How are we supposed to win the Cold War if they won’t compete?” Barely listening to our teacher’s bitter soliloquy, Mary Louise and I passed notes. “I’m starving,” she wrote. “Cheese fries for lunch?”

At my locker, I slathered on some of her lipstick before we crossed the street to the Husky House. I pushed open the smudged glass door, and there in the middle of the diner sat Robby with Tiffany Ivers balanced on his lap, her turquoise cowboy boots dangling an inch from the floor. I felt my eyes widen as I stopped dead.

Mary Louise crashed into me. “Hey!” Then she saw what I saw: Robby squirming; Tiffany Ivers’s triumphant smirk.

“Why him?” I asked. “She can have anyone she wants.”

“You don’t choose who you love,” Mary Louise said.

“Why are you always defending her?”

“Why do you let her get to you?”

The salt gave me heartburn. Or maybe it was seeing Tiffany Ivers on Robby’s lap. “I’m going home.”

“Don’t let her win.”

I ran to Odile’s and let myself in. “Why aren’t you in school?” she asked. “Did something happen?”

I was a sweaty mess. “I saw something… and now I’m sick.”

While she got me a glass of water, I flipped through her French-English dictionary. I took a gulp, then asked, “What are the worst French words to describe someone?”

“Odieux, cruel. Odious, cruel.”

I’d wanted “slut” and “bitch,” but guessed those would do.

“Why focus on the negative, ma grande? Does this have anything to do with that boy you moon over after church?”

Jesus, did the whole congregation know?

“Well?” she said.

When I told her, she said, “Sometimes we misread signs. I assumed much about Paul, my first… boyfriend, but I was wrong. Perhaps Robby squirmed because she made him uncomfortable.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I crossed my arms. “I’m done with him.”

“Don’t close your heart.”

I thought about the loved ones she’d lost and felt foolish complaining. “You made it through a war; I can’t even make it through junior high.”

“We have more in common than you think. Let me tell you which words describe you. Belle, intelligente, pétillante.”

I felt better. “What’s the last one?”

“Sparkling.”

“You think I sparkle?”

She smiled wryly. “You came into my life like the evening star.”

* * *

IF ROBBY WANTED to be with Tiffany, fine. In class, I watched the teacher the whole time. I wouldn’t look at him. I couldn’t. Mary Louise passed me a note, whispering, “It’s from Robby.” Probably an invitation to his wedding. I tossed it in la poubelle Je déteste l’amour Je déteste Tiffany Ivers. Je déteste everyone.

I dreaded seeing Robby and Tiffany on a date—his arm around her at the choir concert or sharing a doughnut after church, but that day never came. Around Halloween, I realized Odile had been right about misreading signals. I tried to catch his eye, but he no longer looked in my direction.