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both of us, I thought. They came over, but only to talk to Jules. I noticed they never looked directly at her face but at her white tank top, where all the action was.
    â€œGuys love you,” I said later, but Jules just laughed and said, “Guys love anything with mammaries.”
    Right now the only person at the table with mammaries smaller than mine is Phoebe, and she’s six. The first thing she said when I sat down was, “Are you a boy?” and I said, “It’s Evyn with a Y, not Evan with an A ”—my stock answer, which doesn’t explain such problems as my hair(chop cut), my outfit (Mackey’s old sweats), or my chest (non-existent).
    â€œI have three sisters,” she tells me. “And two brothers.”
    â€œYes,” I say. “I know.”
    The brothers are sitting across from me at this moment. The younger one, Ajax (if you can believe that anyone would name their son after a cleanser), is my age. He is shaped like a brick, and all he talks about so far is sports. Apparently, he is the star forward on the eighth-grade soccer team, and we are all supposed to watch him play in a scrimmage on Saturday. Goody.
    The older one is a different story. Ever since he sat down I haven’t been able to stop sneaking glances at him. His name is Linus, and I know what you’re thinking, but you are wrong. This Linus is no thumb-sucker. He’s nineteen years old, first off, with stubble on his chin. Also he is tall, with big shoulders, brown eyes like M&M’s, and dark curls flopping on his forehead. I think about those curls all through dinner—how it might feel to grab hold of one of them and pull, then watch it spring back into place.
    I have to pinch myself. No drooling at the table.
    Linus eats everything Eleni puts on his plate: olives, stuffed grape leaves, stinky cheese. He has lamb juice on his chin when he says, “Why can’t you cook in my dining hall?”
    Eleni pats his arm and says, “Move home.”
    It kills me that he lives in a dorm, not with us.
    Linus laughs. “How can I move home? All the beds are taken.”
    You can have my bed, I think. I’ll sleep in the storage drawers.
    Then I open my mouth. “So. Linus. What’s your major?” This is the question grown-ups are always asking Jules’s sister, Agnes, whenever she comes home from Yale.
    Linus looks at me for the first time, and his face says, Who are you?
    I look down at my plate, which has suddenly become fascinating; it’s not just a pile of lamb, it is a landscape of pink. Not unlike my face.
    â€œI’m thinking about poli-sci,” Linus says. “Maybe econ. I don’t know.”
    He tells us he isn’t sure what he wants to do when he graduates. “I don’t really see myself in politics,” he says. “Or crunching numbers all day. I’ll probably move to Vail and be a professional ski bum.”
    I went skiing once. With Jules, when her dad got free passes. My first time down the mountain I thought I was doing great—taking my time, making nice wide turns—when some guy in gold snowpants whizzed past me, yelling, “This isn’t the giant slalom trail, moron!” When I tried to flip him the bird, I wiped out and broke my arm.
    Professional ski bum. Huh.
    I picture Linus at the top of a snowy peak, holding a cup of change and one of those homemade signs. WILL SLALOM FOR FOOD.
    Birdie says, “There are worse things to do with a college degree.”
    â€œTrue,” I say.
    Now everyone is looking at me, so I am forced to continue. “You could be a pirate.”
    Linus smiles when I say this. His teeth are as white as a box of Chiclets—a dentist’s dream. Linus has dream teeth. When he says to me, “Very funny,” my stomach jumps up and does the mambo.

CHAPTER FIVE
    In the morning, I go up to the attic and stand around in my underwear. This is because I’m getting