Rhiannon,

You don’t need to know how. You just make up your mind and it happens.

I am in Laurel right now, over an hour away. I am in the body of a football player named James. I know how strange that sounds. But, like everything I’ve told you, it’s the truth.

Love,

A

A football player named James. Either this is the most elaborate prank ever pulled on a stupid girl or it’s real. These are the only two options. Trick or truth. I am trying hard to think of another explanation, but there’s nothing in the middle.

The only way to know is to play along.

A,

Do you have a car? If not, I can come to you. There’s a Starbucks in Laurel. I’m told that nothing bad ever happens in a Starbucks. Let me know if you want to meet there.

Rhiannon

A few minutes later, a reply:

Rhiannon,

I would appreciate it if you could come here. Thank you.

A

I have to excuse myself to go to the girls’ room because I can see Rebecca’s wondering who I’m emailing in the middle of lunch. The answer is so ridiculous that I can’t even think of a good lie to cover for it.

Safe in a stall, I type back:

A,

I’ll be there at 5. Can’t wait to see what you look like today.

(Still not believing this.)

Rhiannon

And then I am standing there, the girl in the stall with the phone out, staring at the screen that doesn’t even hold the message she typed, since it’s already flown away, into the hands of someone she doesn’t really know. There is nothing that can make you feel quite so dumb as wanting something good to be true. That’s the horrifying part—that I want this to be true. I want him—her? him?—to exist.

I promise myself I won’t think about it until five o’clock, and then I break that promise a thousand times.

Even Justin can tell I’m distracted. The moment when I least need him to pay attention, he finds me after school and is concerned.

“I missed you today,” he says. His hands move to my back and he starts to work the tension from the muscles there. It feels good. And he’s doing it in the middle of the hall, right by our lockers, which isn’t something he usually does.

“I missed you, too,” I say, even though it doesn’t feel entirely true.

“Let’s go find a Girl Scout and get some cookies,” he says.

I laugh, then realize he means it.

“And where will you find a Girl Scout?” I ask.

“Three doors down from me. I swear, she has a vault full of Thin Mints. Sometimes there are lines on her porch. She’s like a dealer.”

I have time for this. It’s not even three yet. If I get on the road by four, I should be fine to get to the Starbucks in Laurel by five.

“Does she have Samoas, too?”

“Are those the coconut ones or the peanut butter ones?”

“Coconut.”

“I’m sure she has them all. Seriously. She’s a cartel.”

I can tell he’s excited. Usually I can find complaints waiting in the corners of his words or gestures. But right now, they’re nowhere in sight.

He’s happy, and part of the reason he’s happy is because he’s happy to see me.

“Let’s go,” I say.

We park our cars in his driveway and then walk three doors down. He doesn’t hold my hand or anything, but it still feels like we’re together.

The girl who answers the door can’t be older than eleven, and she’s so small that I’m amazed her mom lets her answer the door at all.

“Have you placed a preorder?” she asks, pulling out an iPad.

This cracks Justin up. “No. This is more of a drive-by.”

“Then I can’t promise availability,” the girl states. “That’s why we encourage preorders.” She reaches for a table next to the door and hands us a cookie listing, as well as a business card with a website address on it. “But since you’re here, I am happy to see what I can do. Just note that the prerefrigerated Thin Mints are preorder only.”

Justin doesn’t even look at the paper. “We’d like a box of Samosas,” he says. “The coconut ones.”

“I believe you mean Samoas,” the girl corrects. “I am going to have to close and lock the door while I check inventory. Are you sure you only want one box? A lot of people say they only want one, and then they’re back the next day for more.”

“Mia, you know I live down the street. Just get us the box.”

Mia is clearly considering a harder sell, then thinks better of it. “One moment,” she says, then shuts the door in our faces.

“Her parents once got so desperate that they asked me to babysit,” Justin tells me. “And I was so desperate for cash that I said yes. She offered me cookies, then left a note for her mother to take the cost of the cookies out of my pay. I set the note on fire and dropped it in the sink. I don’t think she appreciated that.”

I can’t imagine asking Justin to babysit. And I can also imagine him being the most fun babysitter ever, if you didn’t try to bill him.

Mia returns with our box of Samoas. Justin takes the box from her hand and starts to walk away without paying, which makes Mia turn purple in outrage. Then Justin says, “Just kidding,” turns back, and gives her the cash in singles.

“Next time, preorder,” she tells both of us before slamming the door again.

“Not the sweetest girl,” Justin comments as we head back to his house. “But she gives good cookie.”