The trees grew thicker at the center of campus, enclosing the lawn in a semicircle of oaks and evergreens. Above them, the darkening sky was scratched open, bleeding bright streaks of red and orange. In the distance was the chapel, its bells still swaying.

“This,” Eleanor said, “is Fall Awakening.”

The students were divided into four sections, one for each year, she explained. Everyone was already seated on long wooden benches that lined the outskirts of the lawn in the shape of a U. The first row of each section was empty. Eleanor was already squeezing her way onto a bench in the sophomore section. I followed her, but when she saw me take a seat beside her, she shook her head.

“It’s supposed to be alphabetical,” she explained. “Which means you should be in the back with the rest of the W’s....”

We both turned to look at the back row. The only space left was on the far side, in between a scrawny blond boy with thick-rimmed glasses and a plump girl with frizzy brown hair who did not look very friendly.

“Oh … right. Okay.” I hesitated before standing up, studying the blond boy in the back, who seemed to be counting something that no one else could see. “Who is that?”

Eleanor ignored my question. “But since the guy who sits next to me isn’t here, I doubt anyone will notice if you stay,” she said just as I was about to leave. “You’re way better company. I’ve tried to make conversation, but he barely acknowledges me. Sometimes I think he doesn’t even notice that I’m sitting next to him. He’s like that with everyone. He even stopped hanging out with his friends, and now just does everything alone. He’s sort of like this social outcast, except that everyone is secretly obsessed with him.”

“Obsessed? What do you mean? I thought you said he didn’t talk to anyone.”

“He doesn’t. The thing is … he’s beautiful. He’s this rugged, devastatingly gorgeous guy who has inexplicably chosen a life of solitude. And he’s brilliant. Some Latin prodigy or something. Most people here can’t decide if they love him, hate him, or are scared of him. For most people it’s all three. Especially my brother. Brandon hates it when I talk about him, which is sort of weird because I don’t think they’ve spoken even once.”

“Who is he?”

Eleanor lowered her voice, the name rolling off her tongue like a dark secret. “Dante Berlin.”

I laughed. “Dante? Like the Dante who wrote the Inferno? Did he pick that name just to help cultivate his ‘dark and mysterious’ persona?”

Eleanor shook her head in disapproval. “Just wait till you see him. You won’t be laughing then.”

I rolled my eyes. “I bet his real name is something boring like Eugene or Dwayne.”

I expected Eleanor to laugh or say something in return, but instead she gave me a concerned look. I ignored it.

“He sounds like a snob to me. I bet he’s one of those guys who know they’re good-looking. He probably hasn’t even read the Inferno. It’s easy to pretend you’re smart when you don’t talk to anyone.”

Eleanor still didn’t respond. “Shh …” she muttered under her breath.

But before I could say “What?” I heard a cough behind me. Oh God, I thought to myself, and slowly turned around.

“Hi,” he said with a half grin that seemed to be mocking me.

And that’s how I met Dante Berlin.

So how do you describe someone who leaves you speechless?

He was beautiful. Not Monet beautiful or white sandy beach beautiful or even Grand Canyon beautiful. It was both more overwhelming and more delicate. Like gazing into the night sky and feeling incredibly small in comparison. Like holding a shell in your hand and wondering how nature was able to make something so complex yet so perfect: his eyes, dark and pensive; his messy brown hair tucked behind one ear; his arms, strong and lean beneath the cuffs of his collared shirt.

I wanted to say something witty or charming, but all I could muster up was a timid “Hi.”

He studied me with what looked like a mix of disgust and curiosity.

“You must be Eugene,” I said.

“I am.” He smiled, then leaned in and added, “I hope I can trust you to keep my true identity a secret. A name like Eugene could do real damage to my mysterious persona.”

I blushed at the sound of my words coming from his lips. He didn’t seem anything like the person Eleanor had described.

“And you are—”

“Renée,” I interjected.

“I was going to say, ‘in my seat,’ but Renée will do.”

My face went red. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Renée like the philosopher René Descartes? How esoteric of you. No wonder you think you know everything. You probably picked that name just to cultivate your overly analytical persona.”

I glared at him. I knew he was just dishing back my own insults, but it still stung. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said curtly, and pushed past him before he could respond, waving a quick good-bye to Eleanor, who looked too stunned to move.

I turned and walked to the last row, using all of my self-control to resist looking back.

“Sorry,” I said as I squeezed through the row at the end of the alphabet, stepping over feet and pushing past knees. I stopped in front of the blond boy I’d seen from up front. He looked up at me through his glasses, then quickly averted his eyes, as if he had done something wrong.

“Is this W?” I asked.

It took a few seconds for him to realize I was speaking to him. Finally he nodded. “Welch, like the juice,” he said, referring to himself, “and Wurst,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he pointed to the girl to his left, “like the sausage.”

I let out a surprised laugh. “I’m Renée. Winters, like the season,” I said, and sat down next to him.

He was a shrimp of a person, and blond all the way down to his eyelashes. He had inordinately skinny arms and looked like he’d spent the majority of his life in his parents’ basement playing video games. Yet still, there was something strangely interesting about him. I tried to place it. Was it the fact that he hadn’t blinked since we’d started talking, or the way he leaned a little too close when he spoke? No, it was something more.

“I’m Nathaniel. I mean, that’s my first name.” He adjusted his glasses. His shaggy hair looked like it hadn’t been washed or brushed in days, and his skin was as pasty as waxed paper, save for a collection of blemishes on his chin and forehead.