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  “Jill,” she says, “if it were only about getting a prom date, you could have said yes to Steven Price.”

  “Are you psychoanalyzing me?”

  Ramie nods.

  I wrap the belt around my finger even tighter.

  “Look at you,” she says. “You’re in a severe state of Tommy positiveness. You’re Tommified. You’re a Knutsonian.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Your finger’s purple.”

  “Ow.” I unwrap the belt and shake out my hand. “All right,” I say. “Maybe I kind of, sort of heart him a little bit.”

  “I knew it!” she says. “Well, this changes everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Because!” she says. “It’s not a lame prom strategy anymore. It’s a bona fide slurpy love thing.” Ramie smiles giddily and hugs her pillow. “It’s so cool.”

  “It is not,” I say. “I have to act like he doesn’t exist, Ramie. Like he’s a black hole.”

  “A deeply peculiar dilemma,” she says.

  “Ramie, you can’t bail out on me. Not now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she says. With renewed vigor, she picks up the cell phone and points it at me. “All right, let’s do this thing.”

  I back up to Ramie’s radiator, straighten my shoulders, tilt my head back and walk the Lexie walk.

  Curse my stupid heart. It was only supposed to be about the prom.

  Monday, March 19. Ninety-six days until prom night. Look out, Winterhead High. The new and improved, ingeniously rebranded Jill McTeague has arrived. Butt clenched, shoulders erect, I glide through the teeming hallways. Nose scornfully aloft, I make eye contact with no one. In fact, my gaze is so focused on the distance that I overshoot my homeroom door and Ramie has to drag me inside by the belt loop.

  But by the time D Block Spanish rolls around, I am in command of the Lexie Oswell walk and am starting to feel the mojo of this new attitude. Mercifully, Tommy is absent, which means I have the whole day to practice my new persona.

  To aid in the transformation, I have taken a page from Plan B and composed a new mantra: “I am a busy girl with a rich, full life. I am confident, strong and beautiful, and any man would be lucky to have me.” I repeat this silently to myself as I glide through the drab gray hallways of Winterhead High, where my graceless peers scurry to and fro. I am above them all. I am just out of reach. I am . . .

  A being.

  Like.

  No other.

  I’m so good at this act, I forget to turn it off when I meet Ramie for lunch and she has to whack me on the shoulder and say, “Snap out of it, bitch.”

  You do not condescend to Ramie Boulieaux.

  Day One of Project X swims along, well, swimmingly. But on Day Two, Tommy finally appears. It’s just after homeroom, and I’m heading to history class when I spot his pale chiseled face and brown shoulder-length hair in the distance behind a cluster of giggling freshgirls. His white button-down shirt is loose and open just one button at the collar, revealing, even from three classrooms away, the tender notch at his collarbone. I’ve never gotten close enough to smell Tommy Knutson, but I’m sure he smells like heaven. Angels do, you know. And the way he moves. He’s like a stingray—graceful and smooth amid the chaotic frenzy of dizzy fish all around him. He, not I, is the being like no other.

  And I’m staring at him! I take a deep breath, close my locker and pull my pale blue cashmere sweater down over the waistband of my black jeans. Eyes on the distance, head tilted back, I shoulder my backpack and head toward him. My pulse races as I sense him getting closer to me. I clench my butt cheeks and focus more intently on the art room at the end of the hallway. But just ahead and to the right of me are Jed Barnsworthy and his cluster of toady boys loitering, per usual, by the special needs room for another round of teasing the developmentally disabled kids. Jed lives two houses down from me, but I don’t speak to him anymore unless absolutely necessary. Now, though, in a freak confluence of events, Tommy approaches me just as I approach Jed, and for a brief but tragic moment, we are all drawn into a hideous Jed Barnsworthy vortex.

  “Hey, McTeague,” Jed says. “What’s with the stupid walk? Something lodged up your ass? Need me to dig it out?” He laughs like a hyena.

  My heart races, but I keep my pace constant, eyes front. Through peripheral vision, I see Tommy Knutson stop and face Jed. Then I hear laughter. Snarling, toady-boy laughter. Plus laughter from other sources I’m too shaken to identify. Stifling the urge to run, I continue gliding away, past the trophy case toward the art room.

  Does Tommy say something to Jed? Does he notice my unshaken calm in the face of social disgrace? I will never know. I duckwalk down the hall until there is nowhere to go but into the art room, despite the fact that I need to be in history class, which is on the other side of the school. The sophomore students gathering their India ink and styluses look at me in confusion, but I don’t care. I can’t risk having Tommy Knutson spot me peering out of the classroom like a scared mouse. I am above all this, you see. I am a high-status woman, and this kind of juvenile nonsense does not concern me.

  I wait for the late bell, then hightail it out of the art room. At the special needs room, which wormy Jed Barnsworthy has mercifully vacated, I turn right down the North Wing, skidding on my gold flats. Dodging other stragglers, I slip into history class just as Mr. Bennett is about to close the door.

  “Thanks for joining us, Jill,” he says.

  Do I respond? No. I take my seat and make eye contact with no one. Project X requires one hundred percent commitment. It is not for dabblers.

  By the end of Week One, evidence of Project X’s success begins to trickle in. Lindsay Siggersall and her cheerleader pals are spotted mocking my new walk in the cafeteria to thunderous laughter from nearby tables. Daria Benedetti, my Spanish study buddy, pulls me aside after class to ask if I’m mad at her. At first I feign ignorance so as to keep up the act, because Daria has very loose lips. But it’s too hard to lie to a friend, so instead, I apologize profusely and explain Project X. She understands, having spent her entire sophomore year pining for senior basketball star Lawrence Fogerty, who wound up impregnating an Esswich girl and skipping town a week before graduation.

  By the middle of Week Two, the evidence is overwhelming. I have replaced Alexis Oswell as the coldest girl at Winterhead High. There are even rumors that my new attitude has something to do with my “mysterious absences.” The words “brain tumor” are bandied about. But the full price of Project X doesn’t become clear to me until one day in chem lab.

  Steven Price and I are heating a saline solution over our shared Bunsen burner when he starts swallowing compulsively, which is a nervous tic. I know from Wikipedia that you’re not supposed to draw attention to someone’s nervous tic, so I sigh happily and say, “So, how are things, Steven?”

  He shoots me a frightened look, then scowls and returns his gaze to the Bunsen burner.

  “Steven,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been—”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “No biggie.”

  He makes a big show of concentrating on the solution bubbling in the beaker.

  “Steven, listen. There’s a reason I’ve been . . .”

  He looks up and waits for me to finish. But I never do. Steven undoubtedly thinks my new frigidity is the result of his preemptive prom attack. I want to dissuade him, but I can’t tell him about Project X. He’ll think I’m ridiculous. Plus he’ll never forgive me for choosing Tommy Knutson over him.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  He looks down again and swallows three times in a row. For a short but desperate moment, I want to abandon Project X or at least make an exception for Steven. I want to throw my arms around him, hug all his nervous tics away and tell him how special and wonderful he is.

  But that is not what a Guide girl does.

  Instead, I stare at the bubbles in our beaker, then look up at the clock and pray for a fire drill to slice off the remaining
twenty-two minutes of chem lab.

  Like I said. One hundred percent commitment. Not for dabblers.

  I have alienated everyone: friends, acquaintances, even a few teachers, who, it seems, are not above maligning me in the faculty lounge within earshot of chatty students. Project X is a success.

  But (and yes, it’s a big one) Ramie has gleaned no news about Tommy Knutson. If my new status as aloof snob—I mean, a being like no other—is, in fact, driving him wild with desire to hunt me down like prey, the lad is keeping it to himself. He has asked no one why I don’t look at him in H Block calculus anymore. He has indicated to no one that he has noticed a change in my behavior. And, more critically, he has said nary a peep on the subject of the prom, which is beginning to loom like a storm cloud full of lightning. The boy is, to use Ramie’s term, “a total data abyss.”

  So one day, I enter the cafeteria, doing my snooty walk, and approach Ramie and Daria, the only people I am permitted to speak with.

  “My butt is killing me,” I say.

  Daria makes room for me and I sit next to her.

  “Yeah,” she says. “And everyone’s starting to hate you.”

  “Really?”

  Ramie pulls out her cell phone. “I can confirm new artwork in the North Wing boys’ room.” She shows me the picture—a graffiti drawing of a stick figure with what looks like a firecracker exploding from its butt. Underneath it is written “Her Royal Highness, Jill McTeague.”

  “That’s good news?” I say.

  Ramie snaps her cell phone shut. “They didn’t do it when you were nice.”

  I take out my own cell phone, look at the date and do a quick calculation. “Eighty-seven days till zero hour,” I say. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

  Ramie sips from a bottle of Italian soda. “The thing is,” she says, “with this Guide business? It’s more of a filtering system than an attainment strategy.”

  I take out my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Expand.”

  “I mean, it’s fine if you can wait all your life for a guy who’s so obsessed he’ll hunt your snobby ass down and propose marriage, but—”

  “It’s not proactive, is it?” I say.

  Daria steals a potato chip from me. “Yeah, well, the whole Guide philosophy is a lesson in enforced passivity.”

  I glare at Ramie, because that was deeply not a Daria thought.

  “What?” Ramie says. “You have to admit she has a point. I mean, how’s Tommy supposed to give you what you want if he has no idea what that is? Bit of a problem, no?”

  “No,” I say. “The problem is one of focus.”

  Ramie and Daria exchange doubtful looks. Obviously, they have been bad-mouthing Project X behind my back, the dirty traitors.

  “Think about it,” I say. “I’m broadcasting my high status to everyone. But that’s like putting up a billboard and just hoping the right customer drives by. I should be aiming my high status directly at Tommy Knutson.”

  “Like a weapon,” Ramie says.

  “Exactly.”

  “But how?” Daria says.

  Ramie inhales sharply as if a lightbulb has just gone off. “By getting him alone,” she says.

  “Without violating The Guide,” I clarify.

  Daria sucks her teeth. “Deeply challenging.”

  “Deeply, deeply,” Ramie says. “But not impossible. Jill, what are your thoughts on skiing?”

  “Apathetic to hostile,” I say. “Rames, you know I don’t ski.”

  “Reconsider that,” she says.

  Thus was born Operation Swoon.

  Winterhead is practically in the Arctic. We have our own ski slope. It’s not the Alps or anything, just a smallish hill anchored by a wooden shack that rents skis and serves hot cocoa. We call it the Bump. But did I spend every single wintry day of my childhood going up and down this glorified snowdrift? No. I took cooking classes inside, where it was warm. Damn my lack of foresight.

  So guess who loves skiing with a passion that, in Ramie’s snooped lingo, “approaches religion”? You guessed it. Tommy Knutson. And guess where Tommy Knutson spends his weekends?

  The Bump.

  All day Saturday. All day Sunday. He even teaches beginner skiing to little kids on Wednesday afternoons. How adorable is that?

  For a smaller mind, this not-inconsiderable deviation in our respective interests might signal a stumbling block to prom-related coupling. Not for the talented trio of Jill McTeague, Ramie Boulieaux and Daria Benedetti.

  Here’s the plan.

  Daria will wait in my Nissan in the Bump parking lot, on the lookout for Tommy Knutson’s silver Prius, which, according to Ramie’s sources, always arrives between nine-thirty and eleven-thirty every Saturday and every Sunday. As soon as she spots it, she’ll call my cell phone and Ramie and I will take up first positions. Ramie will be stationed inside the cocoa shack. I’ll be outside by the ski racks. When Tommy comes out to put his skis on, I’ll toss him a big warm smile and wave. I know. I know. Not a Guide move at all. Be patient.

  Now, Tommy, who has never been on the receiving end of so brash and unfeminine a gesture from me, will be confused. Is she waving at me? he’ll wonder. Wow! What a gorgeous smile. Etc., etc. Then, being a gentleman, he’ll wave shyly in return.

  Here’s where it gets interesting. I’ll sigh exasperatedly and wave an even bigger wave, then crank up the smile into a full-blown laugh. (I’ve practiced this transition with Ramie and her cell phone camera. I’m not Julia Roberts or anything, but so long as I don’t squint, I can achieve something in the vicinity of Julia brilliance.) This is meant to confuse Tommy. What’s she laughing at? he’ll wonder. Is my fly down? Am I emboogered? Out of politeness, he’ll wave back and laugh nervously along with me.

  That’s when we turn the screws on him.

  Using my finely manicured right pointer finger, I’ll beckon him toward me while shaking my head as if he were a very naughty boy. (I’ve practiced this look extensively so as to avoid the allure-killing scowl.) Tommy, bewildered now by this totally unprecedented breach of the common laws of aloof femininity, will glance behind him to make sure that I am not, in fact, beckoning someone else. Then, being a gentleman and not incurious as to my intentions, he’ll walk somewhat hesitantly toward me.

  When he is halfway there, we’ll unleash the Grand Twist.

  Ramie, all flustered, will run out of the cocoa shack, cell phone in hand, and plunk herself right between Tommy and me. “So sorry, darling,” she’ll say. Air kiss. Air kiss. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was on the phone with the fashion editor from Paris Vogue.” (Ramie insisted on that part.)

  Now picture the tableau: Ramie and I united at last and Tommy Knutson feeling utterly foolish for thinking that I was so brazen a girl as to beckon him to me. But lest you think the plan ends here, there is one final turn of the screw.

  Ramie and I will walk away, leaving an embarrassed Tommy Knutson behind. Then Ramie, klutz that she is, will drop a ski glove and turn to retrieve it. What do I do? Oh, only unleash the alluring over-the-shoulder glance. Head downward, gaze upward to enlarge the eyes and evoke a sense of innocent vulnerability, I’ll look not at Tommy Knutson, but just past him. Poor Tommy, overcome now with a love he can barely comprehend for this being like no other, will simply collapse in the snow.

  That, ladies and gentlemen, is Operation Swoon.

  It takes the passive approach of Mom’s Guide book and sharpens it into a deadly weapon, all the while preserving the underlying principle of hunter and prey that makes femininity so powerful and mysterious a force.

  So Saturday morning rolls around. It’s ten-fifteen and Ramie and I have downed three cups of cocoa in the insufficiently heated cocoa shack while Daria waits in my Nissan for Tommy Knutson to make his promised arrival. I’m swanked out in Ramie’s pale pink ski suit with green figure-flattering stripes. My hair is blown perfectly straight and my makeup is light and natural. I’ve got lip gloss, blush and eyeliner stashed in t
he pockets of my coat for touch-ups. Ramie, sporting last year’s blue ski suit, stares longingly through the steamy little window at the dozen or so skiers going up the rope tow and down the slope.

  At 10:47, she turns from the window and says, “I just timed Sarah Mecklenburg. I swear, we can get up and down in under three minutes. That’s plenty of time to get into first positions.”

  From the hard wooden bench where I’ve sat anxiously for going on two hours, I remind Ramie that I do not ski.

  “It’s barely an incline, Jill,” she says. “Little kids make the run on their very first lesson.” She reaches into her tight back pocket and pulls out a wad of twenties.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  She walks over to Norm, the ski rental and day pass guy, who sits in a little closet in front of an army of upright skis. “Two day passes, please,” she says.

  Norm glances up from his car magazine and looks at me questioningly.

  “I’m not skiing,” I tell him.

  “She’s just nervous,” Ramie says. “Two day passes, please.”

  Norm palms the twenty. “It’s your money,” he says. Then he hands Ramie two day passes.

  Ramie peels her day pass from its backing and sticks it to her jacket. “I can’t believe you’ve never even tried it, Jill. You should deeply come to Sugarloaf with us.”

  She tries to hand me the day pass, but I pivot away and face the smelly popcorn machine. “Why would I want to go to Sugarloaf, Ramie? Why would I want to spend more time outside?”

  “Because winter is so much more fun if you ski.”

  “Winter is for suckers.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  Undaunted, Ramie peels my day pass from its backing and slaps it over my left boob.

  “Ouch.”

  “There,” she says. “Now you have to ski.”

  “Gee, Rames, I guess you got me there. It’s not like I can just sit here and ignore the sticker.”

  “Exactly.” She grabs my arm and tries to drag me off the bench.

  I hold firm with my other hand. “Get off me, you psycho.”