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“I’m serious! Not another word,” she replied, teeth gritted into a nervous smile. “Go home, check your e-mail, and then we’ll, like, talk. Maybe.”

This was getting annoying. My only choice was to turn to the one person who wouldn’t be able to withhold information from me, what with my irresistible feminine wiles and all. It might take him six hours to spit it out, but I’d get it from him.

“Hey, Len,” I said. “Do the words Pinevile Low mean anything to you?” I had the answer before he even cleared his throat. His blank face told me that he hadn’t gotten it, either.

“Forget it,” I said, before he got his first word out. I was about to turn on my heels and hurry to class when he called after me.

“Um. Jess?”

“What is it, Len?”

The warning bell rang.

“Later.”

“Okay.”

The rest of the day was very strange. It was like Sara, Manda, Scotty, and everyone else in our class was making an extra effort to act normal. There was a falseness to all the talk about homecoming and the big Thanksgiving football game. It was like the new reality entertainment trend that Bridget has told me about, in which real people play the fictional roles they inspired. It was like everyone was cast as themselves, but weren’t giving very convincing performances.

Rampant paranoia. No one knew just who knew what I didn’t know yet.

Reread that last sentence. This is what senior year is doing to me.

The only class that was somewhat normal was French III, and that’s because it’s filled with juniors. Apparently, the only nonsenior student at PHS who knew about Pinevile Low was Pepe. The cool thing about French class is that Pepe and I can talk freely and no one in the class has the skills to translate what we’re saying. This is one of the greatest advantages of our friendship. I’m glad that I waited until sophomore year to take French I as an elective, otherwise I would have never gotten to know him.

“Tu l’as écrit!”

(“You wrote it!”)

“Quoi?”

(“What?”)

“Pinevile Bas.”

(“Pinevile Low.”)

“Il n’est pas moi! Je ne l’ai pas écrit!”

(“It is not me! I did not write it!”)

“Eh.”

(“Eh. I don’t think so. I know you really wrote it, you filthy liar you!”)

“Où est-ce que tu l’as vu?”

(“Where did you see it?”)

“Bridget m’a montré.”

(“Bridget showed me.”)

“Oh!”

(“Oh! Why would she show you and not me? You’re my friend! Not hers! Why are you hanging out with her?!”)

I must admit, I felt, well, not jealous exactly, but territorial. I’d known Pepe for three years now. He was my friend, not hers. Yet she shared the e-mail with him but she wouldn’t with me. I bet they even have their own inside jokes. I wondered if that’s just how things got when someone who has a crush on you asks you out and you turn him down for no good reason other than the fact that he’s not absolutely perfect for you.

But who is, really? Who is perfect?

No one.

I guess I was thinking about that when Len came up to me at my locker after tenth period.

“Um. Jess, can I talk to you? Um. Now?”

“Sure.”

And for the next forty-five minutes, Len proceeded to ask me to next week’s homecoming dance.

I don’t need to go into detail, because it was a very underwhelming proposal that dwelled a lot on his apologies for asking me on such short notice, which really hadn’t occurred to me at all because homecoming isn’t something I waste any time thinking about. I guess the important thing for you to know is that I said yes.

You’re shocked, aren’t you?

I figured, why the hell not? I’ve already done the stay-home-on-homecoming-night thing for the last three years. Why not just go? And I bet Len will look cute in his suit. If the music is loud enough, maybe we won’t even have to talk.

When I got home, I checked my e-mail. Sure enough, I had been left out. No e-mail from anyone about anything.

“Why didn’t I get the e-mail?” I mumbled to myself.

My dad happened to be in the office, looking for some wonky techie thingie.

“What e-mail?” he asked, which were probably the first two non-running-related words he’s said to me since I ruined my life by renouncing my status as a Pineville