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"That's not what I said at all! I would never say that!"

"So you were just jerking him around?" Why did Win
do
this? Take everything I said and turn it around like that?

"I wasn't jerking him around! I was just trying to say whatever I could ... Listen, I don't even want to go to those schools. Okay?" There. It was scary, saying those words, but it was a huge relief too, to get if off my chest at last.

"What are you talking about?"

"Madison? Minnesota? I don't want to play D-I! I just want to go to some little school where hoops don't matter and there won't be any pressure—"

"Of course you want to play D-I," Win interrupted.

"Of course I
don't.
Just thinking about it makes me freak. There are tons of better girls—"

"Oh, yeah? You just had two coaches drive to
Red Bend
to offer you scholarships. You think they do that for everyone?"

"Win, you don't get it.
I don't want to play D-I.
"

"Jeez, D.J., could you stop being such a wuss?"

Which is why Mom walked in on my crying
again,
even though Win was still on the line. She took the phone away from me and shut herself in the office. Five minutes later she came out.

"Your brother is going to back off for a while," she announced. Guess Win's not the only bossy one in our family.

Which was one relief at least, one little tiny spot of good news. Because at the moment I was feeling about as bad as a human can feel and still manage to produce a pulse.

T
HAT NIGHT I CALLED BRIAN
. He was on my mind so much! I just needed to hear his voice. And—well, I wanted to hear a bit more. Find out if he really meant, you know, that thing about him changing.

So I called his cell, which I'll have memorized forever, and he picked up after only one ring. "Oh, man! It's so great you called!"

"Hello, this is D.J. Schwenk. Is Brian there?"

"Ha ha, very funny. Mucho congratulations, dude."

"For what?"

"For the scholarships! Listen to you, you're all like, 'Oh I've got so many offers I can't keep track of them all...' So where you going to go?"

I sighed. "I have no idea. I have no idea what I'm going to do."

"Because Madison and Milwaukee are really close, you know. We could hang together."

"
'Hang
together'? Who is this?"

Brian laughed. "You know what I mean. So. Have you, you know, made any decisions?"

"I told you, I have no idea."

"That's not what I was talking about," he said quietly.

"Oh. Listen, this is really hard for me..."

"What is?"

"You know. Being liked." I started to cry. I couldn't help it.

"Hey, it's okay..."

I gulped, trying to talk and sniffle and bawl all at the same time. "Do you know how many people watch D-I? I'd barf my guts out if I had to do that."

"That's not a good reason not to do it, though."

"Yeah, it is! People can die from barfing, like that thing you get when you're pregnant and you throw up so much that you
die
—" Which we'd just learned about in A&P and was now another thing I had to freak out about, whenever I ran out of all the normal subjects.

"No one dies from barfing, not anymore. They have IVs now and stuff."

"Like I'm going to go out on the court with an IV"

"Huh ... Would knocking over an IV pole be considered an offensive foul?"

"Oh, totally. But you could use the pole to set one heck of a screen—"

"Uh-uh. Six inches max between player and pole."

"Six inches? You really think so?"

And that's where our conversation went from there, thank God, both of us laughing our butts off at the thought of a hoops game between two teams on intravenous fluids. Which makes absolutely no sense at all; I know that. But that's why it cheered me up, because it was so absolutely stupid. It cheered me up more than I'd ever thought I'd be cheered up again.

We had a game Friday of course, which we won no thanks to me because I was so hyperaware of how everyone in the stands was probably thinking that those two schools had both made a huge mistake. Plus I couldn't stop wondering whether there were any other college coaches in the crowd, sitting there all ready to judge me or talk to me or something. So my shooting went completely to pieces and don't even ask about my leadership. Then Saturday night Beaner and I went out with a bunch of kids. Beaner was in a great mood of course, and he was joking up a storm. The whole time, though, I couldn't help thinking about Brian. I so wished I could talk to him, talk right that second. Which was some kind of wishful thinking seeing as I was next to Beaner, his arm around me but nothing more. Which meant something. How could it not mean something, that I used to make out with Brian every chance the two of us got, but now I wouldn't let Beaner lay much more than a finger on me?

A couple times Beaner asked what was wrong, and Kari too, because I must have looked pretty bummed. And I was, I was totally bummed, because it was becoming so clear that Beaner and I weren't working out.

How do you say that? How do you tell a guy—a nice guy, not one of those guys in country songs who takes your guitar and your cowboy boots and your second-best dog—how do you tell someone who's sweet and funny and affectionate, and good to his little sister, and never ever mean, that every time you look at him, you're really thinking about someone else?

Would I want to hear that? No, I wouldn't. But I also wouldn't want someone looking at me with someone else on their mind, and in their heart. Just the thought gives me the shivers. Because you know what that means? It means that the person is dating you out of pity. And as low as I feel sometimes, I never want to get to that.

Finally I couldn't stand it anymore. I didn't know what exactly I was going to do, or when, but hanging around all those happy people, sitting next to happy Beaner, was just making me worse. So I said I was beat and my mom wanted me home, and headed out.

Beaner came along, walking me to the Caravan. "You okay? Really?"

I shook my head. "No. You, um, want to hang out a bit?"

So we sat together in the Caravan, our breath making clouds as we waited for it to warm up.

"I'm sorry about that crack about Minnesota," Beaner said. "If you want to be a Golden Gopher, go for it."

"No, it has nothing to do with that—"

"It's just—I mean, it is a funny name. 'Golden Gopher.'"

I couldn't help a smile. Beaner always makes me smile "It is. It's just ... Oh, I don't know how to say this."

"Say what?" he asked, serious for once.

I studied the steering wheel. How do you possibly say it in a way that doesn't sound completely awful.
I really like you, but...
That's a lie. Because if you liked someone, you obviously wouldn't be breaking up. Or
I hope we can still befriends.
Yeah, right. Who'd want to be friends with someone who just broke up with you?

"If you can't find a dress, you know, don't sweat it—"

"No," I said. "That's not it. It's ... I don't think I can go to the dance with you."

"Because you can't find a dress?"

"No! No, because ... I don't think we're the best people for each other."

"What are you talking about? We have a great time together."

"Yeah, I know. I know we have a great time together. But I don't think we should see each other anymore."

"That doesn't make any sense," he said.

"I know it doesn't. I'm so sorry!" I started to cry. One of these days my eyeballs were going to just float away, I was crying so much.

"You don't like me?"

"No—I mean, yes, I like you. I like you a lot. I just don't ... I don't like you that way. And I—and you deserve someone who does. Who likes you in that way too."

Beaner drew squiggles in the fogged-up windows. "You're serious."

"Yeah. I am." I wished I had some toilet paper. Where was Curtis when you needed him.

Beaner laughed a fake laugh. "I guess that explains why we never got very far."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You know, you're making it really hard for me to be mad at you."

I sobbed harder. He was so wonderful. For him to be joking, even at a time like this...

"Guess you don't have to buy a dress after all."

"Yeah." I sniffled. My sleeves looked like Smut had drooled all over them, they were so soggy.

"Okay. Guess I'll have to find someone else."

"I'm sorry," I said in a small voice.

"Yeah," he said. He climbed out of the Caravan. "See you around."

You know that feeling Christmas morning, when you wake up and tell yourself it can't be true because you've been waiting so long, days and weeks and months, and then you realize that this time it really
is
Christmas, and you leap out of bed because you can't wait to get downstairs? Well, now imagine the exact 180-degree opposite of that. That's how I felt Sunday morning. Oh, I felt awful. Plus now Beaner was going to have to find another date to the semiformal.

Jumbled in all that misery, though, was one other thought: at least now I wasn't faking it. Yes, I'd hurt him, but I no longer felt guilty about us going out. It wasn't a good thought, really—I mean, how can it be good to think you're no longer guilty? It just reminds you of how guilty you used to be—but it was different at least. Different enough to tweak the pain a bit.

I lay there for I don't know how long, feeling a tiny bit relieved but mostly just sorry for myself, picking at last night's conversation the way you'd pick at a scab, when my cell rang: Brian.

"Hey," I answered. Even the thought of Brian couldn't cheer me up.

"Hey yourself. I'm sorry about last night."

"What...?"

"That guy. Breaking up."

Well,
that
got my eyes open. "How did you find out?" I managed at last.

"My buddy Carl Dietz. His cousin dates a friend of yours, Carrie something—"

"Kari." Tyler Dietz. Of course. Why should I even be surprised the news would travel so fast, considering that everyone's life mission around here is to poke their nose in everyone else's business.

"So. I just wanted to check in, make sure you were okay..."

"Thanks. It was awful, you know. I never want to do that again as long as I live."

"I know. Although you know what my mom says? She says you're not truly human until you've had your heart broken and you've broken someone's heart."

"That makes me feel so much better."

"I know, it sounds pretty lame. But you know, I think she's right."

"I'll get back to you on that one." But already I did feel better, just a tiny bit, talking to him.

"So..."

"So...?"

"So, were you—I mean..." He swallowed. "How are things, you know, between us?"

"I dunno. You tell me."

"Um, well, I think things between us might be okay. How about you?"

"Meaning, what do I think, or are things okay?"

"Yeah. Both of those."

I smiled. I actually smiled. "Yeah. Both of those."

"Hey! I just had an idea! You want to come over?"

"To your house?" I asked.

"No, to my private island. Of course to my house. I've got a ton of homework, and I was thinking, you know..."

"That you needed my help. Just say the word, Brian. I'm happy to help students who, you know, aren't as gifted as I am."

"Yeah ... How are you with organic chemistry?"

"An Einstein. Totally."

So I checked with Mom, who of course asked if his parents were going to be around and made me call back to make sure, and he said yes and didn't even seem to mind, and I grabbed my backpack and headed over. Not so Brian and I could start making out, thank you very much—I'm not the kind of girl who breaks up with a guy and then goes kissing another guy the very next morning—but because even more than being an ex-kind-of-boyfriend, Brian was my friend. He was a good friend, and I really needed some good-friend company right now.

I'd driven past Brian's house before, and I knew already it was brand new and huge. But you couldn't tell from the outside just how huge it was. Right off the living room was a den big enough to hold hoops practice in. Half court, but still. With a ginormous TV and these huge puffy leather chairs all lined up, and his dad sitting there with a beer and the biggest remote I've ever seen, watching golf.

"Hey there, D.J.! Great to see you!" he called, not taking his eyes too far from the screen. Like anyone would miss anything in golf.

Then in the kitchen, which was about the size of our whole house, there was his mom—well, not in the kitchen exactly, but in this little room off the kitchen. Kind of like our office, only this one had really nice windows and a pretty view and all these books. And Mrs. Nelson sitting in front of a computer, typing away.

"Hello, D.J. Help yourself to anything in the fridge."

"Working on homework?" I asked. Trying to be friendly and all.

She smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact. I'm speaking to the Western Wisconsin Lutheran Synod on Wednesday."

"Oh," I said. Luckily Brian dragged me away before I had to talk any more about
that.
Golf and Lutherans—no wonder he'd wanted me over.

We set up our books at the dining room table because Mrs. Nelson doesn't let him have girls in his room, I guess because she's not stupid, and I have to say it was awfully nice, awfully darn perfect, to work on A&P with Brian sitting right there beside me. Just one look at his organic chemistry made me super relieved I had A&P instead. We chatted while we worked, and I told him about how Mom's prom date had barfed on her shoes.

"You're making that up."

"Swear to God. She said she danced in them too. After."

"Ewww! Could you imagine? It'd be all like squishing between your toes..."

"Ew! Yuck!"

He laughed. "You're the one who brought it up."

"Well, yeah. But."

"My mom had a huge fight with her boyfriend at their prom. They broke up right in the middle of 'Freebird.' She had to walk all the way home. She says she still has the scars."