"But why is it," Danielle said, "that having sex with someone seems to be the thing that breaks me up with them?"

"Maybe you have a cursed vagina," Amy said.

"That would be terrifying," said Martin, and Danielle scooped up a piece of popcorn and threw it at Amy.

Summer had come and gone, though this one had been longer than usual; while high school started in August, most colleges held off until September. It was, Danielle's mom had told her, the longest summer vacation she would ever have, and Danielle had been doing her best to enjoy it. It was sad to be single; it was wonderful to be free of Weston.

"He said I was a bitch," Danielle said. It was a little more plaintive than she'd intended.

"Umm, Danielle," Martin chortled, "I hate to tell you this, but..."

"Shut up, asshole," Danielle snapped.

"I rest my case," Martin said. Liz, leaning against him, gave him a swat on the head.

"But how come they only say that after sex," Danielle asked.

"Well, does it come out during sex?" Amy asked. "Do you bite? Claw? Talk dirty? Dominate him?"

"No," said Danielle, affronted.

"Maybe they only feel comfortable saying it after sex," Liz said.

"No, David used to say it a lot."

Martin gave her a look. "David used to call you a bitch all the time."

"Well..." said Danielle. "Not like that. He'd say I was really stubborn. I think he thought it was kinda cute."

"That's totally different," Martin said.

"It's the flip side of the same coin," Danielle said.

"It's politer," Martin said.

"Still means the same thing," Danielle said, and Martin conceded that with a tilt of his head.

"Well, look," said Liz. "You're going off to college. I mean, you've already gone to orientation and met some people. And when you're there, you'll get to start fresh. No more of this 'Nutty Nellie' business. People don't know you from a hole in the wall."

"Except for the ones who come to Richardson University with me," she said.

"Well, that's just what you have to deal with," said Liz. "You could've gone to UC San Diego or Towson or somewhere in between if you wanted. You could've gone to Chinchilla College."

"Ugh, don't remind me," said Danielle. She had received her share of acceptance letters, and her share of scholarship offers too. One had been from Chinchilla College in southern New Mexico, offering her a full ride if she'd come there. The name was enough to get her to toss the thing out. What, are they that desperate for patronage? Why didn't they just do it via mass e-mail? Then they could have also asked for my bank account number and promised me millions of dollars in Nigerian diamonds or whatever.

"The point is, even at Richardson, the vast majority of everybody won't know you," Liz said. "You'll be just another faceless freshman to them. You can be whoever you want to be."

"Not a bitch?" Danielle said hopefully.

"I wouldn't go that far," Amy said.

"Shut up, asshole," Danielle said, throwing another piece of popcorn.

All in all, it had been one of the most relaxing summers of her life. Instead of going to summer school or finding a job, she vegged out most of the time, sinking hours of her life into YouTube, into The Sims, into Facebook and MySpace. It was also a chance for her to break out her camera. It had fallen off her radar in the aftermath of her break-up with David—not just because she'd been so lost, but because she'd brought her trusty pink PowerShot to the field with her that day and, in her distraction, forgotten to scoop it up. By the time she realized when it had disappeared—some time around Valentine's Day—and could return, it was gone. So, for her eighteenth birthday, she splurged on a good Nikon, an old D90 she found on eBay. It was still a good $500, but a newer model year had come out at the turn of the decade, and a lot of enthusiasts were trying to unload their old gear. And that led straight back into PhotoShop, which was of double usage to her: creating new textures for objects in The Sims. It was something she'd never done before, but always wanted to try; now, with the summer completely to herself, she had a chance to. It was harder than she thought, in some ways; more often than not she could never get the right image to appear on the right surface of the object, so that the back of a couch would have the picture of its cushions, while its backrest displayed on the spot you sat on. But the texturing and photo alterations... That was old hat to her.

The decision to go to Richardson had not been taken lightly. It had accomplished the miracle of maintaining a strong reputation for liberal arts alongside reasonably good scores in the harder business and sciences; it hosted less than 15,000 students, counting post-graduates, so she would not be overlooked the way she might at a large school (she had been astounded to know that Ohio State University enrolled over 50,000 people). It was also two hours away from everything she had ever known—including Liz, who was going with Martin to the University of San Francisco, and Amy, who had enrolled at Wisconsin-Madison. Despite her fears, Danielle was fairly sure that she wouldn't run into anyone she knew. Would that be a blessing or a curse? She had never gone into anything before without at least one friend—typically, David—at her side. This time, for the first time, she was going to go it alone. The thought was both exciting and terrifying, all at the same time.

With so much time on her hands, she'd had plenty of opportunities to look back over the wreckage of her relationship with Weston. Leaving him didn't have the same ring of anarchic emptiness she'd felt when breaking up with David; she had a life now, if not much of one, and she could stand on her own two feet. Losing David had been the end of the world. Next to him, Weston was a gnat.

The funny thing was, they'd dated practically from the beginning of school to the end—give or take a few weeks—but had very little time together during vacations, since he was always being shipped off to his mother's place whenever he had time off. She had been looking forward to summer vacation, when they'd have plenty of time to spend together in the same state... And instead, here she was, the third wheel to Liz and Martin. At least she had Amy, newly single, to commiserate with. What had happened to Connor Amy would not say, except that she had gotten in trouble for their little hotel escapade on Prom night. Danielle wondered if he had gone to his parents with the story of his missing virginity.

The main problem with Weston was that he hadn't been over his old girlfriend. Constantly, constantly, Jodie was coming up—Jodie this, Jodie that, why can't you be more like her. Danielle could hardly blame him for that; David was rarely far from her own thoughts. But at least she wasn't stupid enough to say it out loud. Besides, how pointless was it to try and recapture something that was out of reach? She had felt like a stand-in most of the time; she had felt like he wasn't really interested in Danielle Mayer, only in Danielle-Mayer-inasmuch-as-she-replicated-the-Jodie-Wycroft-experience. It didn't make her inclined to be nice to him.

But the other problem had been her own: that, in truth, she wasn't over David yet either. Every time she looked up, she couldn't help but feel like he was supposed to be there. It made her unwilling to commit to Weston at the level he wanted; she always felt like she needed to hold something back in case David should, miraculously, show up. It was a disturbing thought, that she still wasn't over him; after all, they'd been split up for more than two years now. Shouldn't she be used to it by now? But, as the Stantons had pointed out, she'd had him in her life for ten years. "And most people barely remember anything before about the age of five or six," Ned had said, "we've known for years that the memory sectors of the human brain reformat themselves around that age, and most of everything that happened before is basically forgotten. Which means that, in some ways, you've actually known him for your entire life. That's like losing a family member."

God, am I going to be stuck like this forever? she wondered. Am I going to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my freaking life?—wondering where he is? 'cuz that's what it feels like right now. And now I'm about to go to college and away from him—I don't even know where he's going—and have to learn to live... On my own.

These were the thoughts, only somewhat comforting, that echoed through her head as her family drove away, leaving her to wave good-bye at the retreating back end of their station wagon, alone at Richardson College.

She spent a few minutes hanging her clothes and unpacking the important things. The room was small and snug, with two desks, two beds and a separate compartment with closets and a sink/mirror combo. How she decided to arrange her desk and bed, and which side of the room she ended up on, would have a big impact on her life for the next year, because there was only so much personalization she could do out here.

She had never met her roommate, a stranger named Magdalena Nicole Smith; she didn't appear for another few hours. Danielle's family had arrived early to avoid the rush, which turned out to be a horrible idea: just about every other Richardson College freshman had had it. Clearly, Magdalena Smith knew something Danielle didn't. When she did arrive, she turned out to be a pale waif of a girl whose active, take-charge parents made her seem almost transparent. From the first, Mr. Calvin Smith dominated the room, giving Danielle a beaming greeting "with blessings in the peace of God," and trying to decide (while dodging Danielle's half-unpacked clutter) where to put up the enormous picture of the Virgin Mary.

It went downhill from there.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith were friendly, that much was certain, and generous; their presence was not of anger or manipulation. Instead, their good cheer simply swelled until it filled every crevice available. But they did control the room; it had clearly never occurred to them that other people might ever have a thought that contradicted one of their own. After the moving was done and the furniture set up, they swept Magdalena (they always used the girl's full name, though Danielle could well imagine her preferring "Maggie" or some other diminutive like "Vladimir" or perhaps "Cassock") out for a tour of the campus—and Danielle too. And after that a comfortable dinner at a nice pasta place downtown—with, again, Danielle included without questioning whether she belonged. Or wanted to. It was certainly nice to have been grafted onto this family that way... But did she really like it?

Finally, after dropping their daughter back off at the dorms at eight o'clock that night, after endless reminders to do her laundry and study hard and pray every night and call home to keep us up to date, you hear, the parents were off. And half an hour later, Danielle heard her roommate's voice for the first time.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," Magdalena was saying. Her voice hitched and rasped a little, as though underused. Well, with parents like those, can you blame her? Danielle was on the verge of just tuning the girl out when she heard a bit of a crackle, and smelled the scent of sulfur.

Her roommate had the Virgin Mary poster down off the wall and was burning it.

"—and blessed is the fruit of thy womb—"

"Hey, ummm," said Danielle. "You might set off the smoke detector."

Her roommate looked up. "There are smoke detectors here?"

"Didn't they tell you during Freshman Orientation? Every single dorm room has one."

"Jesus," said Magdalena. Her resemblance to a deer in headlights was uncanny. "Holy Mary, mother of God. I, uhh... I had better put this out."

"Maybe," said Danielle, trying to deadpan it the way Liz did.

Magdalena sighed and took the burning poster into the closet compartment. There was the sound of running water, and then the hiss of a quenched flame. And then a thunk, like something being tossed in a trash can.

Magdalena emerged from behind the partition. "That poster has been over my bed for the last eighteen years," she said. Her voice was a pale and insubstantial thing, much like the girl herself. "I could not wait for the chance to get rid of it."

"I... See," said Danielle.

"I'm sorry about my parents," said Magdalena. "They're... Like that."

"I noticed."

"All my friends always said... You know, 'How could you dislike parents like those? They're very generous, they take us out to dinner all the time, they're so friendly... We almost like them better than we like you!' "

"Hmm," said Danielle. "That might have something to do with it."

"Yes," said Magdalena, "it might." Under the dorm room's fluorescent lights, she looked not so much pale as bleached, like someone who had been kept out of the sun for too long. Or someone who had been continually outshone. "Please don't call me Magdalena, by the way."

"Why not?" said Danielle.

"It's... It's what I've been called for all my life," said her roommate, "but... I want to make a new start. I want to be known as someone else now."

"Maggie?" said Danielle, making a guess.

"Well, I guess that would work, but I was thinking that, maybe, I would... Use my middle name. Nicole."

"Nicole Smith?" said Danielle. "Well, aside from being associated with a dead slut, it's probably—"

"What?" said Magdalena/Maggie/Nicole. "Who?"

"Anna Nicole Smith?" said Danielle.

"Who?"

"Haven't you heard of her?"

"Was she an actress?"

"Umm..." said Danielle. "She was in Playboy."

"Oh," said Magdgiecole, visibly wilting. "Umm. I dunno about that then."

"Well, it's still better than Magdalena," said Danielle. "Or 'Maggie Smith,' for that matter, who is an actress."

"Yeah," said her roommate. "And... 'Nicole' seems younger. And... A little less timid."

Well, this girl could stand to be less timid, there was no doubt of that. "I won't tell anyone if you won't," said Danielle, smiling.

"About what?"

"About who Anna Nicole Smith was. It'll just be our little secret. Nobody else will know."

Her roommate Nicole gave her one moment of perplexity before bursting into laughter.

"And besides. Umm, don't take this the wrong way, but, I don't think anyone will confuse you with her." Nicole was wearing a perfectly demure ensemble—jeans and a light blouse, with barely any skin showing. Her dark hair was drawn up in a ponytail. Where Anna Nicole Smith had radiated sex appeal, Danielle's roommate was a model of virginal innocence. Which, to be fair, some man would probably find attractive somewhere. But it was still a different appeal. "She was, you know, showing off everything."

"Oh," said Nicole. "Yes. Was... Was she pretty?"

"Huh?" said Danielle. "Well, I dunno. I didn't pay much attention. Didn't you see her on TV?"

"We don't watch television in our house," said Nicole. "I've never heard of her."

"...Boy," said Danielle. "You're gonna be lost out here."

"Is there... A lot I don't know?" said Nicole.

"Umm... Some, yeah," said Danielle. "Desperate Housewives and Halo and Panic At The Disco and Wikipedia and what a keg stand is..."

"Oh, that's a lot," Nicole whispered. "Will you help me?"

"Of course," said Danielle. And just like that, she had made her first new friend.

What Nicole had done with her name stuck with Danielle that night, as the two of them talked, met their RA Bruce Winston (whom Nicole introduced herself to as Nicole—after a bit of a panicked look; "There are men in this hallway?") and said hello to whichever floormates dropped by. And as she stared at the ceiling that night, she thought it over to herself. I too am starting over here, aren't I? I can be anyone I want. Besides 'not a bitch,' that is. But even then... Our names are part of who we are, aren't they? 'Danielle' is a bitch; Danielle's been alive for eighteen years; Danielle has a lot of baggage concerning an ex-boyfriend she just can't get over. So what if... What if I were to be... Not Danielle?

And when Professor Frinkman asked her what she called herself, during the first college class of her life, she said, "Call me Elle."

It took a little while to get used to responding to it; more than a week, actually. She became known somewhat interchangeably as Elle, Danielle, and "You, there", for the people who had trouble remembering her name at all. Or remembering what 'Elle' was short for. (Some people think it was "L," a first initial.) She did not want to use her middle name; as she joked about it to Nicole, "Sabrina is a girly girl. She wears too much pink for me." Nonetheless, being addressed as 'Elle' made her feel... Different. It was a sleeker name, more capable, more sophisticated—the kind of name she should have been using while trying to ingratiate herself with Shelly Baumgarter and those types. Instead she'd let them shorten her to her first initial. It had been disrespectful. David had been right.

There was plenty to get used to in college, besides being referred to as 'Elle, (the name that eventually won). There were thirty new people to meet just on this floor of this wing of the De Auiello dorms alone: Jack, the zany one; Marcy, the nerdy one; Helen, the dorm mom; Bruce Winston, of course, the RA; Parker, who already had a reputation for coming home drunk every night; Leslie, the loose one; Arun, the immigrant; Quist, who liked to go by his last name; Bobby, the guitarist; and a dozen others whom she could barely keep straight. A few of them she saw in her classes, but most of the people there were strangers to her—or rather, even more strangers to her than the barely-known people she shared a hallway with.

There were things to remember about living in a dorm: bringing her keys everywhere with her, for instance, and her ID card, which gave access to meal plans, to dorm front doors, to copy machines, to washing machines, to all sorts of different things that she no longer had access to after she lost it on the second day. Because of how quickly it disappeared, they assumed it must have either been snatched up by accident or stolen; they gave her a provisional one and said she would owe them $50 for a replacement unless the real one was returned within a week. Thankfully, it was. There were new teachers to get the measure of—which ones would be kind, and which ones would be hard-asses, and which ones to run away from really fast. And there were boys to look at too: some of them with the gangly limbs of high school, some with the broader frames of adulthood. She could never tell which ones were seniors and which ones were freshmen.

Some of the boys were noticing her too. The most aggressive of the bunch was named Tom Gilmore... Which was not to say that he was particularly boorish about it. He simply made his interest known and didn't give up. She wasn't sure what she could say to him, in any case—besides, of course, "Well, it's only the third day of classes; give me a little bit of time to stabilize, you know?" Even then, she couldn't resist throwing a little bit of a flirt in—a warm smile, a little body language—because the truth was, she thought he was very attractive. He had dark hair, unlike Weston and David, and while he was tall he was not as overbearingly broad of shoulder as Weston, and his smile conveyed genuine warmth. She was reminded of the generous charm of Nicole's parents—he had that quality too, but without the accompanying insanity. He didn't seem upset when she rebuffed his advances; he had probably noticed, actually, that she wasn't really turning him down. That she did, as a matter of fact, like him.

But the specter of her failure with Weston still loomed over her. She didn't want to get into that again. With Weston she hadn't felt quite as guilty about being unable to really get into him, because he had clearly never been into her. But this Tom Gilmore seemed like a nice guy. It would be unfair to lead him on. And with that in mind, what would probably be appropriate would be to sit him down and explain that she still had this albatross around her neck, and until she got rid of it... But then she'd come across as a psycho obsessive-type girlfriend who couldn't get over things, and Tom would probably lose interest in her. The best she could do was to equivocate, to make excuses... To delay. While she tried to figure out what on earth she was going to do with herself.

The answer walked into her on Tuesday morning the second week. She was heading through the Dining Commons, not really looking where she was going—glancing at the prices at the coffee shop, trying to figure out if there was anything worth stopping to get for breakfast—when she collided with someone and was rewarded with a flash of liquid down her shirt. "Ugh! Ah! Jeez! For crying out loud, why don't you look where you're..." She felt blood drain from her face. "David???"

"Nellie?" he said. He was a little taller than she remembered, and looked a little uncertain—but by and large, it was still the same face she had seen so often.

"David, what the hell are— Are you going here??"

"Well, it's got one of the best architecture programs in the country," he said. He had always longed to be an architect, but she'd always thought it was a childhood dream, like wanting to be a firefighter or an astronaut when he grew up; she hadn't realized he actually intended to pursue it. "God, are you okay? At least I decided to get orange juice this morning; think about if it had been hot coffee."

She had completely forgotten; she had other things on her mind. But one look at herself told her the worst: a lot of the orange juice had gone down the front of her shirt, which was (or rather had been) white, and there was no way she could wear it to class like that. "Come back to my room with me, we'll keep talking," she said. "Where do you live?"

"The Logan dorms."

"The one across campus?"

"One of them, yeah. You?"

"De Auiello."

"God, I almost signed up for those."

That would have been too creepy to contemplate. "So, you decided you wanted to be an architect?"

"Well, I dunno about decided," he said. "But I wanted to investigate it. And so Mom and Dad said, you know, 'Go to Richardson. If you decide to be an Architecture major, you're in one of the best programs there is. And if you don't, you probably still won't regret going there.' And... They had a point."

"Your folks are pretty smart," she said.

"What about you? Photography, right?"

"Umm... I don't know, actually. I kinda started playing around more with digital image editing and things. But either way, I went through kind of the same conversation you did. Whatever I want to explore, this is a good place to do it. I probably won't regret it."

"Your folks are pretty smart," he said with a smile. "I, umm. I heard through the grapevine that, umm. That you and Weston are over."

She felt contrary impulses at that question. It was uncomfortable to discuss, with her ex-boyfriend, romantic exploits she had gone on to after breaking up with him. But at the same time, this was Davey. There was nothing she couldn't tell him. Right?

"Yeah, we're over. It, umm. During Prom, actually."

His eyebrows jumped in surprise.

"Yeah. Yeah, we... Well, after you and I had our, umm, little conversation. You know, about..."

He nodded.

She couldn't believe he remembered it. Was that a good sign, or a bad one? "Well, I decided to go through with it. And so we went upstairs during the party—"

"I wondered where you'd gone."

Had he been paying attention? Or had he just noticed, at random, that he hadn't seen her for a half-hour or so, and idly contemplated if she and Weston were up to something? It didn't bear thinking about. "And, umm. We had our first time. And, it was also... Our last time."

"Hunh," he said. "Hope you aren't starting a pattern."

That set a different wash of pain through her gut. "Trying not to."

Perhaps he recognized the danger zone, because he said, "What happened, anyhow? Was he that bad in bed?"

"What? Oh, no, no, it wasn't that, it was, just... He had this ex-girlfriend, Jodie. And... He was not over her. Everything I did, he was always, 'Jodie did it better.' It was ridiculous. I felt like a replacement goldfish or something."

"Huh?"

"You know, a goldfish." She unlocked the door of her room and led him in, knowing Nicole was out at class. "You can't really tell one goldfish from another, right? So if the goldfish dies, your mom scoops it out and replaces it with a new one, and little eight-year-old you doesn't notice the difference."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess."

"And... It just wasn't working out." She pulled open her closet, doffed her shirt and tossed it into the hamper. "Great. I can't just put on another shirt, it got all over my bra. ...And all over my me, too. Okay, turn around."

David gave a little chuckle, but did as he was bade. It suddenly occurred to her just how absurd this was: her ex-boyfriend, her ex-best-friend, who had seen it all hundreds of times before... And now she was making him look away because she had to take her bra off. The thought made her a little angry, and she yanked a wad of paper towels off the roll to vent her frustration.

"So what about you, then," she asked as she dabbed at herself with the towels. There wasn't much, but she needed to get it all off, and there wasn't time for a shower. "Are you and Angela still together?"

"Umm... No, we've decided to go our, umm. Separate ways."

"Oh. Why, what happened?"

"Well, she's at Crocker State," he said, "that's part of it. But, I mean, just... Well, it was nice while it lasted, but we both decided that... It was time to move on. We were going different directions and we didn't want to feel... Limited or anything. If nothing comes up, we might get back together in the summer."

"Just for the fun of it, eh?"

"Yeah, basically," he said. "And in the meanwhile, I... I dunno, but I think I'm gonna stay single for a while."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I mean, I was dating Missy Renquist for, you know, like, two weeks or whatever; but really soon after that, I got together with Angela. And then before Missy Renquist was... You. It's, umm. It's been a long, long time since I've been single for any length of time. I think it might be healthy for me to get back to that."

Danielle, who was rarely single by her own choice, didn't quite understand his viewpoint, but she knew that her own understanding was secondary in this case. "Well, whatever works for you, is what you should do," she said.

It took a few more minutes to finish dabbing the orange juice off her front; they chatted together about mundane things: classes, roommates, the people they'd met, the dangers of being 150 minutes' drive away from home. And at the end of it, she'd come to a decision. "Let's keep talking," she said. "It's good to have a familiar face around, and it's not like either of us has so many friends that we never have time."

He gave a laugh. "Yeah, totally. Come over to Logan some time, there's a few people on my hall I think you'd get along with."

At the cafeteria they headed their separate ways: David to the Markkula building for his Architecture 101 class, and Danielle to English. David was the first to say it. "Look, Danielle, I've really missed this."

"Oh?" she said.

"Yeah. I mean... Yeah, there were... Other things we did, and other things we meant to each other, but at the heart of it... It all started because we were friends. Because we were friends. And that's the one thing I just can't find from anybody else—someone who knows me as well as you do. And... I miss that."

"I've missed it too," she said. "Even with, with Liz and with Amy, and now with Nicole—I mean, they're all great gals, but... Well, we've known each other since we were six. It's hard to compete with that."

"And, if it's okay with you..." he said. "I want it back."

"The friendship. The knowing-each-other-since-we-were-six."

"Yeah."

"The being able to go to you no matter what, and knowing that you'd always be there for me."

"Yeah," he said.

She gave him a crooked smile. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

He laughed. "Sorry, but those days are over now. I'm looking for something more important."

"A friend."

"Yeah."

She gave him her hand. He took it.

And just like that, she had made her second new friend.

Heading off to class, she wondered just what bizarre tricks of fate were conspiring to place her at the same college with David. But, upon reflection, perhaps she should have expected it. Of course we were going to go to the same college. If I had chosen something else, he would have too. And if he had chosen somewhere else, I would have too. We're just too... Similar. There are too many ways in which our minds work exactly the same, in which we value the same things. Suddenly she felt a sense of relief that they were no longer together. Surely she would've gotten bored of him by now! What was the appeal in dating someone who was that similar to yourself?

It wasn't the first time David had come up, of course. As she learned about Nicole, and told Nicole about herself—well, of course he was mentioned. Nicole even asked about it. "This David person you keep talking about... Is he your boyfriend?"

"What? Oh. No, not at all; we broke up a long time ago." It did feel that way to her; she was a new person now, in new circumstances. "Why?"

"Well, because you mention him so often," said Nicole. "I mean, I think that, if I had ever broken up with somebody, I think I would want to put it behind me."

"Yeah," said Danielle. "Me too. It's just that we knew each other for a long time, so... There's a lot to put behind."

"Oh," said Nicole.

That was the thing about Nicole: she was a sweet girl, and forgiving, but... So naive. Danielle flinched to think of what would happen if some exploitative frat boy should set his eyes on her. The good news was, she didn't think that would happen any time soon; Nicole was a homebody, going to classes and to church choir and nowhere else, and seemingly content with the very few people she met there. She wasn't nearly as religious as her parents' behavior might imply, but she still prayed every night, and reacted with shock whenever one of the girls down the hall would walk by in a top that didn't leave much to the imagination. But every time, she just shook her head, set her shoulders, and kept going. There was a lot she didn't know, but she was determined to learn. Danielle wondered if she could keep it up. HBO was going to blow her mind... But at the same time, there was more steel in her than Danielle had expected.

And so the first three weeks passed. Danielle called home a couple times, but there wasn't all that much to say; she had more to comment on to Liz, who had arrived safely with Martin and was getting settled in. There were always questions from Nicole to answer, and clubs to look into; there was always homework to do, and the increased pace of studying to get used to: Richardson College moved on a 10-week-quarter system, and some of the people in "real" majors (maths, sciences, business) already had midterms in the fourth week. ...Or the third. And there was David to talk to. They spent a whole Thursday evening just getting caught up with what they had missed in the last two years—Mrs. Glass had breast cancer, the poor woman, and had had to have a mastectomy—and Danielle was reminded of how comfortable they were in each other's presence, how easy it was for them to fall back into the old patterns. I mean, jeez, I felt totally comfortable just yanking all my clothes off in his presence. When it comes to feeling like the person's just part of you, it doesn't get much more than that. She had missed this; she had missed having someone who knew her mind, and whose mind she knew. She had missed how easy it was.

And one more thing. On Friday of that third week, as they emerged from History class, Tom Gilmore came to walk beside her as she headed for the Dining Commons. "So, Miss Elle Mayer, what excuse will it be this week?"

"What do you mean?" she said.

"Well, you have been kind of blowing me off," he said, with a broad smile to take the sting out of the comment. "I ask you if you're doing anything and you just sort of make noises and excuses. You never say anything concrete."

"Well..." she said. "Yeah."

"So, let's get it straightened out already. Am I wasting my time? I think you're a beautiful person and I'd like to get to know you, but it's okay if you're not interested. Won't have been the first time." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Go on, tell me the truth, I can take it."

"The truth?" she said.

"Preferable to lies, I've always thought," he said.

The truth, then. Could she see herself with Tom Gilmore?—on his arm, laughing at his jokes. In his arms, kissing him. The truth was that she could; she had always been able to. ...And the truth was that she no longer felt that instinct of utter panic at the thought of spending time with him. She didn't feel like she needed to hold herself back anymore.

"The truth is that I had some things to work out," she said, "and I've worked them out. And the truth is that, actually, I don't have anything planned tonight, and was hoping to find someone fun to spend the time with." She couldn't put it more blatantly than that.

And thankfully, he caught on. "Six thirty at the Dining Commons, say? I've got a car and I know of some nice places around here."

"Six thirty sounds great," she said, smiling.

His path was taking him to another classroom. "I'm holding you to that," he called. "I mean, I've worked this long to get an answer out of you; I'm holding you to that. If you don't show up, I'll hunt you down and beat you with a wet noodle."

"That sounds terrifying," she said, grinning, "I'd better be there."

She waltzed all the way home.