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The oddest thing about Ms. Susan Patrone’s pro-separation-of-the-sexes spiel was that it drew so much attention to what made the coordinate system a fundamentally doomed concept. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the glossy, colorful Piedmont University brochure mentions the coordinate system almost as an afterthought. I think the publicity people know the truth: If a single-sex environment is your thing, fine. But why would any guy—or girl for that matter—go to a school where two thousand menstrual cycles get in sync? What a nightmare!

It made me hate the Piedmont publicity people, for being so underhanded and sneaky about something that could have such a huge impact on happiness—especially since I almost bought into it. It just goes to show you how little we really know about the schools we pin our hopes on. I can’t believe I actually considered going here before Paul Parlipiano intervened. I don’t know if I know Columbia any better, but I do know this: It’s the diametric opposite of Piedmont, which is a step in the right direction. Thank you, Gay Man of My Dreams, for helping me narrowly avert certain collegiate catastrophe. (Just nineteen days! I’m so excited! I’m sooooo excited that I won’t even dwell on how absolutely pathetic it is that the highlight of my spring break social calendar is attending a social protest with a homosexual! When other girls are island hopping, I’ll be protest hopping!)

And isn’t part of the point of going to college getting to know all different kinds of people, including—horrors!—guys? At Columbia (if I get in, please let me get in), I’ll be peeing next to the opposite sex on a daily basis because even the bathrooms are coed. I can’t see how Piedmont could possibly promote anything but unhealthy relationships between the sexes. Guys are lazy dogs. They are not going to leave the comfort of their own dorms, walk a mile—across a bridge, over a lake, and through the woods—just to hang out and watch television. No, the only reason they would walk a mile, across a bridge, over a lake, and through the woods, would be if they knew they were going to get their hobs nobbed while they watched television. In summation, the coordinate system rewards whoredom, which really would make it the perfect school for Manda, wouldn’t it?

Speaking of heinous skankitude . . .

“Look who I found!” my mom said brightly. “Isn’t this a coincidence?”

Call Me Chantalle. And her mom.

Holy shit.

This was not a coincidence. This was a sign. Any second now, I expected Ashleigh, she of the broccoli schnozz and aggressively annoying personality, to show up, saucer in hand, nibbling on a dry, tasteless shortbread cookie.

“Maybe we could be roommates again!” Call Me Chantalle gushed.

I looked around the room. It was full of chattering, excited girls. This was insane. Why was I here, wearing an outfit I hated, putting on a happy face for my mom and the likes of Call Me Chantalle?

“So it’s true,” I said.

“What’s true?” asked Call Me Chantalle.

“That psychosis is a symptom of advanced-stage syphilis,” I whispered so only she would hear.

“What do you mean?”

“Because you’ve got to have a sexually transmitted brain-eating virus to think I’d ever live with you again.”

Call Me Chantalle’s huge head turned red with anger and she looked exactly like a stop sign. I was pretty sure I could take all seventyfive pounds of her in a catfight, but I didn’t want to stick around to find out. My mother and Mrs. DePasquale were too busy bragging about the scholarships Piedmont was offering their daughters to notice the tension. I grabbed my mother by the arm and told her it was time to go.

“But Jessie, honey,” she cooed. “We just got here.”

“Which has already been long enough for me to realize that I will never, ever go to this school with these people,” I replied, without breaking my stride.

When we got to the car, my mother attacked.

“What has gotten into you? I’ve never seen you behave so poorly in my life!”

“Mom,