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“Well, it is,” he said.

How could this be happening? This was Paul Parlipiano, my former obsessive object of horniness, gay man of my dreams, my crush-to-end-all-crushes.

At that moment, I discovered a fundamental truth about this and all crushes-to-end-all-crushes: It’s so much easier to convince yourself you’re madly in love with someone when you know nothing about him. Now that I’ve seen Paul Parlipiano in his element, and have really gotten to know him, I’ve realized that we are truly not meant to be. You think the whole gay thing would’ve tipped me off to that inevitability, huh? No, that just wasn’t a big enough deal breaker for me. I could’ve dealt with his physical revulsion at the sight of my vagina. But what couldn’t I deal with? His preachiness. I just don’t like people telling me what to do.

“Paul, I never thought I’d say this, but I don’t think you and PACO are for me. I’m out of here.”

His response threw me off guard. “Are you venting your anger about my sister?”

“Taryn? Why would I have any reason to be mad at her?”

He pursed his lips. “Well, that’s something you need to find out from her,” he said, showing me the door.

“Okay, fine.”

“No hard feelings,” he said, regaining his impeccable manners.

“Maybe I’ll even see you around here next year.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, wondering whether Columbia was such a good idea after all, if this is how people here react to me and vice versa.

“I must say, though, that I am disappointed in you, Jessica.”

“Likewise, Paul. Likewise.”

I tried calling Bridget’s cell phone, but she didn’t pick up. For all I knew, she was still on the subway, so swift was the PACO in-andoutraduction. I figured I’d meet her at the bookstore, even though I had no desire to see Hy. Of course, when I got there Hy was in my face and all over the place. Huge pictures of her and blow-ups of that hot-pink book jacket covered all the store’s windows. I took a deep, bracing breath before I walked in.

I followed the sound of Hy’s voice, amplified by a microphone, until I found her. There were about fifty people—mostly college-age girls— lined up, waiting for Hy to sign their copies of Bubblegum Bimbos.

Bridget was not among them.

Hy looked just as non-Jersey as she did back when she was undercover at PHS. Her glossy black hair was spliced with shades of pink (surely to match the cover of her book) and cut in a piecey bob (which looks like bedhead but requires the touch of a celebrity stylist). She wore a peasant top and leather skirt that had a thrift-shop vibe (but were no doubt kustomized-with-a-k, which, I know from reading Bridget’s Vogue over her shoulder on the bus, is vintage stuff that’s been given a new zipper or a new hemline so the “designer” can jack up the price a bizillion percent). Her skin was tan and her cheeks were rosy, as though she had just come back from vacation. (Or “holiday,” as her kind call it. Bali, no doubt. Or some island that isn’t even on the map.) Her very white, very perfect teeth provided a stunning backdrop for her shiny hot-pink lips. Lips that were talking about Jenn Sweet, the cooler-than-I’ll-ever-be version of me.

I stood patiently in Science Fiction until Hy had finished signing everyone’s copies of Bubblegum Bimbos. When the last girl walked away with an autograph, Hy looked up and waved me over. She had a smile on her face, like she was genuinely happy to see me.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, girl,” she replied, standing up and leaning across the table to hug me. Much to my chagrin, I let her. “I always hoped you’d show up at one of these things.”

“Well, uh, yeah.” I. Am. So. Slick.

“You checked it, right?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“And?”

And.

“And . . .”

And what, Jessica? What?

“And . . . I read it expecting to hate you more than ever,” I said. “But . . .”

“But?” she asked curiously, somewhat surprised that I wasn’t going to continue on the hate trip.

“But I guess I have to thank you, in a way,” I said.

“For?”

“For, well, as uncomfortable as it was for me to read, you kind of showed me who I could be—that is,