I glanced at Chris. He was frowning. As Bree's friends reviewed the meager info, I stepped back, out of the crowd. I drifted to the entrance and put my hand on the heavy brass handle, swearing I could still feel the warmth from Cal's touch.

A week passed. As usual, I felt a tingle in my chest as I walked into physics class and saw Cal there. He still looked like a miracle sitting in a dinged-up wooden desk. A god on a mortal place. Today he was focusing his beam on Alessandra Spotford. "It's like a harvest festival? Up in Kinderhook?" I heard him asking her.

Alessandra smiled and looked flustered. "It's not till October," she explained. "We get our pumpkins there every year." She tucked a curl behind her ear.

I sat down and opened my notebook. In one week Cal had become the most popular guy at my school. Forget popular; he was a celebrity. Even a lot of the boys at my school liked him. Not Chris Holly or any guy whose girlfriend was salivating over Cal, but most of the others.

"What about you, Morgan?" Cal asked, turning to me. "Have you been to the harvest festival?"

Casually I flipped to the current chapter in our textbook and nodded, feeling a rush of giddiness at hearing him say my name. "Pretty much everyone goes. There's not a lot else to do around here unless you go down to New York City, and that's two hours away."

Cal had spoken to me several times over the past week, and each time it had gotten a little easier for me to reply to him. We had physics and calculus together everyday.

He turned in his desk to face me fully, and I permitted myself a quick glance at him. I don't always trust myself to do this. Not if I want me vocal cords to work. My throat tightened right on schedule.

What was it about Cal that made me feel like this? Well, he was gorgeous, for one obvious thing. But it was more than that. He was different than the other guys I knew. When he looked at me, he really looked at me. He wasn't glancing around the room, checking for his buds or trolling for prettier girls or sneaking quick looks at my breasts—not that I have any. He wasn't self-conscious at all, and he wasn't keeping score socially the way everybody else does. He seemed to look at me or Tamara, who was in advanced classes, too, with the same frank intensity and interest that he looked at Alessandra or Bree or one of the other local goddesses.

"So what do you do for fun the rest of the time?" he asked me.

I looked back down at my textbook. I wasn't used to this. Good-looking guys usually only talked to me when they wanted a homework assignment.

"I don't know," I said mildly. "Hang out. Talk to friends. Go to movies."

"What kind of movies do you like?" He leaned forward as if I were the most interesting person in the world and there was no one he would rather be talking to. His eyes never left my face.

I hesitated, feeling awkward and tongue-tied. "Anything. I really like all kinds of movies."

"Really? Me too. You'll have to tell me which theaters to go to. I'm still learning my way around."

Before I could agree or disagree, he smiled at me and turned to face the front of the room as Dr. Gonzalez walked in, thumped his heavy briefcase on his desk, and began to call roll.

I wasn't the only person Cal was charming. He seemed to like everybody. He talked to everyone, say by different people, didn't show favorites. I knew that at least four of Bree's friends were dying to go out with him, but I hadn't heard of any successes so far. I did know that Justin Bartlett had struck out.

"You have to admit he's good-looking," Bree pressed, leaning against my kitchen counter.

"Of course I admit it. I'm not blind," I said, busily opening cans. It was my night to make dinner. The washed, cut-up chicken was sitting naked in a large Pyrex dish. I dumped out a can of cream of artichoke soup, a can of cream of celery soup, and a jar of marinated artichoke hearts. Voila: dinner.

"But he seems like kind of a player," I continued mildly. "I mean, how many people has he gone out with in the last two weeks?"

"Three," said Tamara Pritchett, unfolding her long, skinny frame onto the bench in out breakfast nook. It was Monday after noon, the beginning of the third week of school. I could safely say the Cal Blaire's arrival in the sleepy town of Widow's Vale was the most exciting thing that had happened since the Millhouse Theater burned to the ground two years ago. "Morgan, what is that?"

"Chicken Morgan," I said. "Delicious and nutritious." I reached into the fridge for a Diet Coke and popped the top. Ahhh.

"Toss me one of those," Robbie said, and I got him one. "How come when a guy dates a lot, he's a player, but if a girl does, she's just picky?"

"That is so not true," Bree protested.

"Hello, girls and Robbie," my dad said, wandering into the kitchen, his brown eyes somewhat vague behind his glasses. He was wearing his usual uniform: khaki pants; a button-down shirt. Short sleeved because of the weather; and a white T-shirt underneath it. In the winter he wears the same thing except with a long-sleeved shirt and a knit sweater vest over it all.

"Hey, Mr. R," Robbie said.

"Hi, Mr. Rowlands," Tamara said, and Bree waved.

Dad glanced around distractedly, as if to make sure that this was really his kitchen. With a smile at us he wandered out again. Bree and I shared a grim. We knew that soon he'd remember what he had come in to get, and he'd return for it. He works in research and development at IBM, and they think he's a genius. Around our house, he's more like a slow kindergartner. He can't keep his shoes tied, and he has no concept of time.

I stirred the mixture in the glass pan and covered it with foil. The I grabbed four potatoes and scrubbed them in the sink.

"I'm glad my mom cooks," Tamara said. "Anyways, Cal has gone out with Suzanne Herbert, Raven Meltzer, and Janice." She ticked off the names on her fingers.

"Janice Yutoh?" I squealed, putting the dish in the oven. "She didn't even tell me about it!" I frowned and added the potatoes. "God, he sure doesn't have a type, does he? It's like one from column A, one from column B, one from column C."

"That dog," said Robbie, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

Robbie was such a close friend, I hardly noticed it anymore, but he had terrible acne. He had been supercute until seventh grade, which made it all the harder on him.

Bree wrinkled her forehead. "The Janice Yutoh thing I can't figure out. Unless she was helping him with homework."

"Janice is actually really pretty," I said. "She's just so shy, you don't notice it. I can't figure out Suzanne Herbert."

Bree almost choked. "Suzanne is gorgeous! She modeled for Hawaiian Tropic last year!"

I smiled at Bree. "She looks like Malibu Barbie, and she's got the brain to match." I ducked as Bree tossed a grape at me.

"Not everyone can be a National Merit Scholar," she said snippily. She paused and then said, "I guess none of us are wondering about Raven. She goes through guys like Kleenex."

"Oh, and you don't," I teased her, and was rewarded by another grape bouncing off my arm.

"Hey, Chris and I have been together for almost three months now," Bree said.

"And?" Robbie prompted her.

Self-righteousness mixed with rueful embarrassment crossed Bree's face. "He's bugging me a little," she admitted.

Tam and I laughed, and Robbie snorted.

"I guess you're just picky," Robbie said.

My dad wandered into the kitchen again, got a pen from the pen jar, and headed out again.