My terror that we'd pass the night in silence ebbed, replaced by the most powerful sensation of

disbelief I'd ever experienced. Was this really happening to me? More than anything, I wished I

could show a preview of this moment to my desperate, lonely, first-semester self.

Connor found a space right in front of the restaurant, a Japanese place called Osaka, and before

we got out of the car, we started kissing. I would have been perfectly happy if we hadn't made it

to dinner, but after a couple of minutes, Connor pulled away.

"I'm starving, Red." He pulled the keys out of the ignition and popped open his door. "Lez eat!"

Suffering from my usual post-kissing-Connor confusion, I took a little longer to extricate myself

from the car than he did. By the time I'd unbuckled my seat belt and maneuvered onto the

sidewalk, Connor was standing by the door of the restaurant, holding it open for me.

Inside Osaka there were regular tables and, toward the back, low tables at which people sat on

pillows with their legs crossed Indian style.

"Good evening," said the hostess, walking toward us carrying two menus. "Would you prefer to sit Western or Japanese style?" When she said "Japanese style" she gestured toward one of the low tables.

"Western," I practically shouted. She nodded, and Connor and I followed her to a regular table

against the

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wall. I sat down normally, grateful to have a tablecloth between the world and my thong.

"God, I love sushi," I said. "I don't think I've had it since we left San Francisco. My dad and I used to eat it practically every other night."

"Oh, yeah? That's cool, Red," he said. I looked down the menu. Yellowtail. Shrimp. Tuna. I

hadn't even realized how much I missed my regular sushi infusions until this minute.

"Ready?" asked the waitress. She flipped open her pad and held her pen ready.

"Take it away, Red," said Connor.

"Um, I'll have two pieces of yellowtail, an unagi, a shrimp, and the special hand roll," I said. She nodded, getting it all down. Then she turned to Connor.

"Wow, Red," he said. "You're daring. I'll have the steak teriyaki." He snapped his menu shut and handed it to her.

"Have you ever tried sushi?" I asked him as soon as the waitress had gone.

"Raw fish? No way," he said. He made a cross with his chopsticks as if to ward off vampires. I

was about to ask him why not, when the thought occurred to me that perhaps I should change the

subject rather than continuing to call his attention to the fact that I was about to eat food he

apparently found as revolting as the undead.

"Sorry you had to go through that whole scene back at my house," I said. I wanted him to know

what Mara

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and the Princesses were really like. "They never act that way."

Before I could explain what I meant, Connor slipped his fingers through mine. "Don't worry

about it, Red. Your family's nice. And your mom's so cool. I can see where you get your great

legs." He smiled and squeezed my hand.

"She's not my mother," I practically shouted. The idea that someone could think Mara was my

mother made me sick to my stomach. "She's my stepmother." Even the word itself had come to

have something black and spidery about it. I took my hand from Connor's and wiped my now-

sweaty fingers on my napkin, which, though Mara was absent, I'd put on my lap as soon as we

sat down.

"Gotcha," said Connor. I was glad he didn't start asking a million questions about my family. I

mean, I guess my boyfriend needs to know that his girlfriend lives with her dad and her wicked

stepmother because her mother is dead. But I wasn't exactly anxious to bring up a subject that

would undoubtedly be a huge downer.

Connor took a sip of his water and so did I. As soon as I put the glass back on the table, a waiter

magically appeared at my elbow and refilled it.

"Thanks," I said. He nodded and slipped away.

"Hey, did you watch the game last night?" Connor asked, chewing on some ice.

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"The Knicks or the--"

"No, the Syracuse game."

"Yeah," I said. "I felt like they just folded in the fourth quarter. Everybody's been saying they have this unstoppable offense, but I thought they were totally lame."

"Totally," he agreed, taking some ice out of his glass with a fork. "Did you watch all the way to the end? Did you see how they missed that last shot?"

I nodded and made a face. "It was tragic," I agreed.

As we discussed the game and who we thought would make it to the NCAA finals, I started to

get a strange feeling about the conversation. It was as if basketball was this tiny island of talk

Connor and I were standing on, and if we tried to step off it, we'd drown in a sea of silence. By

the time our food came, I was sure we couldn't possibly have any more basketball-related items

to discuss, but then Connor got onto the subject of the Glen Lake team, and how this year they

were better than they'd ever been.

Unfortunately, I couldn't really focus on what he was saying, only it wasn't because I didn't know

most of the people he was talking about. The second I leaned forward to take my first bite of

sushi, the strap of my dress slipped off my shoulder, almost taking the entire right side of the top

with it. I dropped the piece of yellowtail I'd been about to taste and grabbed at my dress, firmly

pulling it back up. Then I took a deep breath and,

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bending forward as little as possible, got the yellowtail back on my chopsticks. As I dropped my

chin to get the piece in my mouth, the strap started slipping again, and when I grabbed for it, a

clump of rice dropped off my chopsticks and slipped down the front of my dress. I felt it lodge

between my breasts, right where a tiny decorative rose might have nestled if I'd been wearing a

bra.

I panicked. Should I try to remove it? How do you reach down the front of your dress and subtly

pull out a rice meteor? Maybe the best thing to do was just leave it there and hope it went away

by itself. But what if it "went away" by heading south? I could see it now. I'd stand up, and a

second later a golf ball of rice would drop onto my chair. I'd look like Long-Eared Peter, the

rabbit we had in my second-grade classroom, who dropped little pellets wherever he went.

This particular image occupied a not-insignificant part of my brain for most of dinner. I kept

lightly stroking my chest just above the top of the dress, hoping to find an opportune moment to

plunge my hand into the bodice and remove the offending rice ball.

The problem with my plan was that Connor's eyes were glued to my hand, which I realized too

late was like a pointer directing his gaze to my (basically non-existent) cleavage. If he hadn't

dropped his fork halfway through the meal and needed to look around for a waiter to get him a

new one, I might have had to remain seated for the

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rest of my life. Luckily, the three seconds during which he was distracted were all I needed to

lean forward enough to loosen the tight fabric, grab the rice out of my dress, and drop it next to

my pile of wasabi.

"May I take your plates?" asked our waitress.

"Yeah, sure," said Connor, dropping his napkin on the table and stretching. "That was delicious."