Lost in Love by Susane Colasanti Page A

times I hoped to meet a boy like him?
    â€œAnyway . . .” I put the other warm fuzzies I was considering back into my bag. “I better get back to leaving these around. Three down, twenty-two to go.”
    â€œHave fun. Hey, and if you’re ever in Strawberry Fields again, come on by. I play there most Wednesday nights.” More glittering eyes. More bright smile.
    â€œThanks. I might do that.”
    Danny goes back to his table. On the way out, I slip a warm fuzzy behind his laptop.

FOURTEEN
DARCY
    YOU KNOW HOW SOME PEOPLE drone on in a monotone that’s so flat their voice is more effective than a sleeping pill?
    Yeah. That’s my art history professor.
    This art history class might be more interesting if the professor wasn’t the most boring man alive. Apparently his idea of fun is being able to recite all the artists and titles and dates in the entire history of artistic creation. Why would you still have all that stuff memorized years after the test if you weren’t obsessed? He told us he studied at the Sorbonne in Paris. And that he’s been to every major museum in Europe. So the dude has passion. It’s just hidden under a wrinkled polo and extremely unfortunate khakis. What is it with middle-aged guys and khakis? Are khakis part of a uniform for guys over thirty? Do theythink khakis are flattering? Khakis are flattering to no one.
    My professor could definitely use a fashion hack. A fresh wardrobe might even motivate him to bring some pep and zing to his classes. He might actually be handsome with the right clothes. I can totally see him looking sharp in a tailored suit. Or even just a fitted button-down. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring. The poor guy is probably living a lonely bachelor life, coming home every night to frozen dinners and dreary TV. He is clearly in desperate need of a woman’s touch.
    Restraining myself from daydreaming is a test of strength. I can’t stand being cooped up in a lobotomizing class when it’s so gorgeous outside. This girl likes to run with the wind. But I’m also a girl who wants to graduate on time. Taking summer session to make up some general credits I missed while I was in Europe sounded like a better option than graduating a year late. Until summer session actually started. I can’t believe I’m cramming classes that normally take an entire semester into one summer.
    Class mercifully ends with a slide of Magritte’s The Son of Man . You have to respect an artist who paints apples over people’s faces as a metaphor for the conflict between the visible and the hidden in everything we observe. Magritte was the bomb.
    On the way out of class, a shy girl with thick black hair piled on top of her head trips over a chair. She crashes into the girl in front of her, who was talking to anothergirl—both of those girls get shoved in the kerfuffle. The first girl who got crashed into drops her large coffee cup. Coffee splashes on the shy girl who tripped.
    â€œI’m so sorry!” she says. She looks mortified.
    â€œThat’s okay,” the girl she crashed into says. “It happens. The coffee was cold, so.”
    â€œCan I buy you another one?”
    â€œOh, no. I was just going to throw it out.”
    Shy Girl still looks mortified. The shoved girls are staring at her as she blushes harder. I’m compelled to do something to smooth out the tension.
    â€œYou meant to do that, right?” I ask. “As a performance art piece exposing the hidden from the visible? Anything could have been in that cup. We assume it was coffee because she was holding a coffee cup. But it could have been anything. Even a Magritte apple.”
    All three girls laugh. Shy Girl gives me a grateful smile.
    â€œYou’re dropping some serious spin,” a boy who sits in the back says on his way out. “You should be in PR.”
    And just like that, it clicks.
    It clicks so hard I’m pretty sure I hear