Those of us who have seen the frightening photos of a too-skinny Abby hope she’s planning on eating during her break.

“I got accepted to Brown yesterday,” Whitney says happily, causing me to stop reading. “Did you get a letter, Peyton?”

“No, not yet,” she says. “But I don’t care. I applied to some more schools this week.”

Whitney looks surprised by this. “You did? I thought we were going somewhere together? We’ve talked about it since freshman year. We go to the same college. Join the same sorority. Party it up.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure the East coast is where I want to be.”

“Where else could you possibly want to go?” Whitney says in a snide voice. Like anything other than an Ivy League college would be unacceptable.

“I applied to a few California schools. I’d like to be closer to home.”

“California? Seriously? I’d hate to live in California. All that blonde hair and sunshine would piss me off.”

I purse my lips in defense of my favorite state and am just about to say something when Whitney turns to me. “No offense.”

“I love the feel of the sun shining on my face,” Peyton says, dreamily. “And I’d like to trade my car in for a convertible. Drive around with the top down all the time. Never have to deal with the snow again.” Peyton sighs. Then she tosses a magazine toward me. This one is rolled open to a certain page.

I flip it over and see a photo of Damian and Troy coming out of a club with a chesty blonde in a tight dress who’s hanging onto Damian’s arm. Could this unidentified blonde be the girl to finally snag Damian Moran, the son of mega-hit director, Matt Moran, and lead singer for the band Twisted Dreams, whose studio was mobbed by tweens earlier this week?

I take my phone out and text her, not wanting to say anything in front of Whitney.

Me: She’s with Troy.

Peyton: I know. I was just showing you the pic.

Me: California, huh?

Peyton: Yes!! We talked about it in St. Croix. I’m so happy!! Stop texting me though. I don’t want Whitney to get suspicious.

“Which colleges did you apply to in California, Peyton?” I ask.

“Pepperdine, USC, UCLA, and Stanford, but I’m leaning toward Pepperdine,” she says with a big smile. “It’s right across from the beach. How awesome would that be?”

“It sounds amazing. They’re all good schools.”

“Stanford is pretty good,” Whitney says. “But it’s the only one I would consider. I’m setting my sights a little higher. Shark already got accepted to Yale. That’s where I’m planning to go as well. Just waiting to hear from them. Then I’ll make my big announcement.”

“What big announcement?”

“Of where I’m going to college,” she says in a tone that is supposed to make me feel stupid for asking.

“How will you announce it?”

She gives me a wide smile. “Well, most people just tell their friends. I was thinking of something a little more grand. Like at Winter Formal.”

“Cool,” Peyton says. “I’m sure the school is on pins and needles waiting to hear your choice.”

“I know I am,” I say quickly, hoping to distract from Peyton’s snotty comment. “How cool to announce it at Winter Formal.”

Peyton rolls her eyes at me while Whitney favors me with a wide smile. “Thank you. I thought it would be very cool, too. And Shark is dying for me to reveal my choice, so it will be fun for him.”

“That’s a really cute way to tell him,” I say.

Most romantic city.

11:40am

When we get back to school, we find that most of the students are out of class, helping their various clubs or dorms.

I’m not really sure if Whitney is trustworthy, but she has been really nice to me, and all of us being friends seems to make Peyton happy, even though I’m not totally convinced that she wants to be friends with Whitney anyway.

And, since it’s my fault she can’t tell anyone about Damian, I figure it’s the least I can do.

Whitney has a long list of things we actually do have to check on for the weekend.

“Top of the Eiffel Tower, Sunset is going to be even better than Greek weekend!” she exclaims as we tour the campus.

“Let’s go check on the awnings,” Peyton says.

We walk to the front of the social center and watch as an alumni-owned rental company adds pink and black striped awnings to the outside of the building and sets up black iron bistro tables and chairs. They’ve even brought in portable heaters to make sitting outside more comfortable.

“Wow!” I exclaim. “It looks so good! Everyone will love it!”

“You fit right in, too. I love your outfit,” Whitney compliments me.

I love my outfit today, too. In honor of French weekend, I have on Louboutin black fringed ankle boots and am carrying their black spiked tote bag. I’m wearing an Alice + Olivia black leather box pleat skirt, pale gray knee-high socks with kitten faces on them, and a white fleece pullover with Magnifique! scrawled across the front.

“Thanks, Whitney. It’s too bad we couldn’t import some French shopping. Chanel. Dior. Lacroix. Gaultier, Louboutin, Chloe, Laurent. All lined up in a row.”

“That would be amazing. Maybe instead of going to the beach and partying with boring frat boys, the three of us should go to Paris for Spring Break and do nothing but eat croissants, drink café crème, and shop the boutiques and Parisian flea markets,” Whitney suggests.

“Oh, that would be fun!” Peyton gushes. “Paris is the most romantic city.”

“Yeah, maybe you could meet someone there,” Whitney says, getting in a little dig.

Peyton looks at Whitney with puppy dog eyes, but as soon as she turns away she gives me a little wink. She and Damian have talked every single night. He told her that they needed to keep their relationship under wraps for the time being. And, honestly, I probably shouldn’t feel too bad because I think the secrecy of it is just adding to her excitement.

The bell rings, signaling the end of fourth period and the beginning of lunch.

“Perfect timing,” Whitney says. “We’ll check out the café and then get everyone to sit at my table.”

We wander into the café.

It’s already been mostly transformed into a riverboat with porthole windows showing colorful scenes of the French countryside and Parisian landmarks.

“The drama and art clubs outdid themselves,” she says, checking them off the list.

“And you can smell the croissants baking,” I add, breathing in the wonderful aroma.

Peyton, Whitney, and I sit at the table, stopping all our friends and inviting them to sit with us. I never realized it before, but they didn’t even fill up a whole table. Now it’s crowed and noisy.

And fun.

Particularly when Aiden squeezes next to me and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“How’s the project? I didn’t see anything when we walked by your dorm.”

“It’s not quite finished yet.”

He puts his hand on my thigh as he whispers, “When it’s done, you’ll be the first to see it.”

“When will that be?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Logan says to Whitney, “We should start the announcements.”

They stand in front of the café and Logan clears his throat. “Hey everyone. If I can have your attention . . .” When the room quiets, he continues. “The Social Committee wants to give you a little update on the events for French weekend. The dorms will, once again, be competing for a dress-down day. Entries will be voted for on Sunday. Tonight’s café dinner will be steak frites and, afterward, everyone is encouraged to attend the basketball home opener. The coffee shops will be open late, serving pastries and drinks, and curfew will be extended to twelve-thirty.”

He hands Whitney the microphone. “Since we’re hosting a wrestling match on Saturday, be sure to go support our team,” she says. “The café will be open all day on Saturday, serving French grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, or croques monsieur, French pastries, and chocolate soufflés, as well as holding hourly French cooking classes. Then, Saturday night, everyone will get dressed up for the Seine River Dinner Cruise. Who knows what will happen on the river?!”

Logan finishes up. “Sunday afternoon, you can get involved in some games of boules and see a French film at two. Hope you enjoy all the activities we have planned! And a big thank you to all the clubs involved in making this weekend a reality.”

After they finish, Aiden whispers, “I need to get back to the shop. Are you going to French?”

“Probably not. I should go back to the dorm and help finish up the windows. Are you coming to dinner?”

He shakes his head. “No. I have to be in the locker room at six and there’s no way I could eat a heavy meal like that before the game.”

“I’ll miss you,” I say.

He grabs my hand and gazes into my eyes. “I’ll miss you too.”

“Will I see you before the game?”

“You gonna wish me luck? Offer up some dances?”

“I don’t know. How many points do you usually score?”

“Last year I didn’t start and I averaged eleven.”

“So, how many will you score this year?”

“Not sure. Twenty, thirty, maybe. Hopefully. It might depend on how motivated I am.”

“One of the dancers said that she gives her boyfriend a—” I whisper the word in Aiden’s ear. “For every dunk he makes.”

Aiden’s fingers graze the skin just under my skirt, giving my goose bumps.

I swallow, wishing his fingers would move higher and give me something else.

“Are you offering me that?”

“Can you even dunk?”

“You doubt my skills?” he says with a laugh.

“I probably shouldn’t. I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do.”

“I can dunk. Never have in a game, though. I don’t want sexual favors for my game performance, but if I dunk, what if I get something I want?”

“Uh, what do you want?” I ask, my mind going all kinds of sexy places.

He stands up, pulling me up with him and leading me out of the cafeteria.

Once we’re away from everyone else, he backs me up against the wall, his chest pressing into mine, his knuckles pushing my chin up toward his mouth. “I want a night alone with you in my room. No parties. No hanging out. Just you and me dancing before curfew, then you sneaking over to my room after curfew and spending the night. Sleeping with me.”

I’m not sure what his definition of sleeping with him is, but I’m totally game.

“I’d do that even without a dunk,” I say, pressing my lips to his.

He grins. “I know. Maybe I just want to impress you.”

When he goes to the shop, I go to my dorm and order a huge candy gift basket and a whole bunch of chaos glow-in-the-dark temporary tattoos to send to the dancers at The Side Door with my thanks for letting me dance with them.

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3RD

Some mutual pleasure.

5:30am

Aiden’s alarm goes off at five-thirty in the morning.

He gives his phone a dirty look as I snuggle into his arms.

“No one ever checks on us in the morning. Does your house mom ever?”

“No, and even if she did, Katie would cover for me. I’m still tired. Let’s go back to sleep.”

He kisses the top of my head and runs his hand down my hair.

“I love when you do that,” I say sleepily.

I close my eyes and think about last night.

How he dunked the ball during warm-ups, then blew me a kiss. How he scored twenty-two points. How, when he was the bench, he’d always catch my eye and smile at me. How his eyes stayed glued to me when the dance team performed at the end of the third quarter. And then how we danced under the twinkle lights to our playlist. How dancing with him makes me feel high. Happy. Emotional.

I can’t imagine dancing with anyone else for so long without getting bored.

But things are never boring with Aiden. Especially because he added a fun dance song in the middle of our playlist.

We moved our bodies to the beat, grinding on each other and having fun.

When the slow songs started again, he picked me up, put me on his bed, then lay on top of me and kissed every part of my upper half until I had to run to make curfew.

When I snuck back over later, all he had on were a pair of boxers and a sleepy grin. After some mutual pleasure, I fell asleep in the same spot I’m in now.

Gritty, raw performance.

3:30pm

Aiden and I get up late, have coffee and chocolate croissants, and cheer for Logan at his wrestling match. Now, I’m lying on my bed relaxing before I have to get ready for tonight and reading reports about Mom’s movie online.

Christian Protestors Picket Theaters in California

Christian protestors came out in number yesterday to protest the Abby Johnston movie, To Maddie, With Love. In Los Angeles, two theaters were shut down after receiving bomb threats. Bomb squads searched both properties and found no incendiary devices. Moviegoers themselves rushed out of one San Francisco theater after smelling what they were afraid was some kind of toxic gas, but turned out to be simply a sewer malfunction.

None of these incidents have effected ticket sales. Box offices are recording what should shape up to be a record-setting weekend. Despite her dismal personal life, it looks like Abby Johnston may finally win an Oscar.

Excerpt from Movie Critic, Bart Wallow