I got another lecture on using my diaphragm. He also told me my notes were breathy and in my throat as opposed to in my forehead, where I should be feeling them. Really. He told me that. I was supposed to feel the notes in my forehead. Which is why artistic people are so annoying, because they say these sorts of things and expect the rest of us to know what they're talking about.

Still I thanked him, promised to do my scales, my exercises, and to try and produce sound emanating from the region of my eyebrows.

After school we had cheerleading practice. Or at least we were supposed to—what we really did was practice our song. We had to do some sort of cheer routine for the halftime of the next game, but instead of coming up with a new routine, we decided to just modify our "Shoop Shoop" song and dance. Rachel, Aubrie, and Samantha would do the backup part wearing football uniforms, and I'd change the words of the song so they described a winning football team.

Easy enough and we wouldn't have to learn new dance moves.

After rehearsal I had just enough time to get home, do my homework, my chores—and all right, I admit it—primp nervously in front of a mirror before I drove to the Hilltop.

Samantha and Logan were meeting me there. Samantha because she'd been the one standing within three feet of me when I rashly decided to track down 'the guy,' and Logan because they'd barely spent any time together recently. Samantha used to work at the bookstore with Logan but had quit when school started up so she could spend more time on her studies. And she did study more—well, when she wasn't moping around because she didn't see Logan at work anymore. Anyway, Samantha insisted Logan come too because the Hilltop was "their restaurant." They went there on their first date.

I asked Aubrie and Rachel if they could come too, but they already had study plans with some guys from the team—something that Rachel sighed repeatedly about. "Can't you go to the Hilltop another day?" she asked. "Samantha already got to watch you make a fool of yourself this week."

Rachel has so much faith in me.

Anyway, it was just Samantha, Logan, and me. For once I was glad they were so engrossed in each other, because that way Logan didn't harass me about the pathetic depths my love life had reached. Although as we walked into the restaurant he did say, "Have you tried the guys at Taco Time? I bet they'd be cheaper to stalk."

I ignored him and we walked up to the hostess. Samantha and I had this part of the night perfectly planned.

"Table for three?" the hostess asked. She didn't look much older than us, definitely a college girl.

"Yes," Samantha said, "and if it's possible we'd like the same waiter we had last time."

"What's his name?" the hostess asked.

Samantha snapped her fingers and put on a look of consternation as though the name had escaped her. She turned to me. "What was his name?"

I shook my head. "I've forgotten, but he had brown hair, blue eyes. He was tall . . ."

The hostess considered this. "Was he an older guy with glasses?"

"No. He was young . . . and he had a nice smile . . . " I hoped the hostess would produce a name but instead she shook her head like she too was stumped. "Donald and David are both blond. Randy has red hair. John and Cleave have brown hair but brown eyes . . . Are you sure it was this restaurant?"

It had been this restaurant, but either he wasn't a waiter here or the hostess had forgotten him. And since she was a female and he was a hot guy I doubted she would forget him. So who was he? My hopes fell. "Maybe not," I said, and then I let her lead us to a table.

Dinner consisted of me glancing around the restaurant half a dozen times just to make sure I hadn't somehow overlooked the guy, and me feigning interest in the salt and pepper shakers so I didn't feel like a third wheel in Logan and Samantha's conversation.

Maybe he worked here as a busboy or a chef. Only there wasn't a way for me to casually ask about him now that I'd told the hostess he was a waiter.

Besides, Rachel was right. The whole thing was a stupid idea. It wouldn't have worked anyway.

I ate slowly, mostly because I had no appetite. Samantha and Logan finished way before I did and then had to sit there and watch me pick at my food. "You don't have to wait for me," I told them. "If you need to go, I understand."

"We can wait," Samantha said. "It's no problem."

"Are you done with your calculus homework yet?" Logan asked her. Logan is Samantha's self-appointed tutor ever since last year when she bombed the SATs.

"Not really," she said and looked at me to see whether I wanted her to stay or not.

"You might as well go," I said. "We came in separate cars anyway."

The waitress brought our checks, and Logan took care of their bill.

"Sorry Romeo didn't show up," Samantha whispered to me.

Logan leaned closer to me and said, "Don't feel bad. It wouldn't have worked out—I've read the story and you both die in the end."

Then Samantha and Logan said their good-byes to me and walked out of the restaurant holding hands.

I dug my wallet out of my purse, laid twenty dollars on the bill, and took a drink, waiting for the waitress to come.

When she did, she looked over her shoulder, then back at me. "Can I see some ID with that?"

I blinked up at her, wondering if she'd automatically assumed I laid down a credit card. "I need an ID to pay with cash?"

"The manager requested it."

"The manager," I repeated, and blushed.

I dug my driver's license out of my wallet and gave it to her. Maybe in some horrible twist of fate I'd unknowingly given them a counterfeit bill and I'd be dragged off to a police station for questioning. Rachel would be so disappointed to have missed it.

Or maybe, yes—it was the guy, and he was walking toward me with my ID. I wondered when he had noticed me and why I hadn't seen him.

He sat down on the chair across from me and handed me both my money and my driver's license.

"I'm comping your meal, Chelsea. It was worth it just to find out what your name really is."

"Thanks." I slipped my ID back into my wallet. "I told you all along my name was Chelsea."

"Yes, but you did it under suspicious circumstances. Why was everyone else calling you Juliet?"

I hesitated, thought about it, and took the fifth. "I could explain, but I'd rather appear mysterious. Is it working?"

He tilted his head down and laughed. The tenseness left his eyes. "I guess so." He held out his hand to shake mine. "I'm Tanner. Now we've officially met."

I shook his hand, afraid I was blushing again. College girls probably didn't blush when they met guys. "Aren't you kind of young to be a manager here?" I asked and held my breath, hoping he didn't answer with something like, "Yeah, everyone tells me I look so young. Actually I'm twenty-five . . ."

Instead he shrugged. "I'm really an assistant manager. For a while my brother took to shortening the term 'assistant' to—well, it's just easier to say manager—so that's what most of the employees call me." He shrugged and his blue eyes crinkled around the corners as though he was letting me in on a secret. "My parents own the restaurant."

How come every time I saw him he looked better than the time before? "That must be nice," I said. "I bet you always get really good dinners and stuff" I didn't know what else to say and realized my last sentence had verged on babbling. Having a hot guy sitting so close will do that to you.