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like testosterone-crazed lunatics, Casey couldn t help but wish
that she d made it into the same section as Sophie, Phoebe, and
Madison.
Casey sat back in her ergonomic chair, inhaling the scent of
fresh paint (the classrooms were retouched each August with-
out fail), as Madame LeCombe, a French woman in her mid-
thirties who looked like she put on her makeup with a trowel
and consumed men instead of food, sauntered over to her desk
in a tight, black pencil skirt and sighed heavily before walking
over to a supply closet in the back of the room. When she
returned, all Casey could see was the brand-new, shining tita-
nium MacBook in her hands, her short crimson fingernails tap-
ping the metal casing. She held the computer out to Casey, one
excessively plucked eyebrow raised.
Voila! Madame LeCombe said cheerily, pointing out the
jack embedded in the desk where Casey could plug in. When
Casey opened the laptop, it hummed and whirred like a happy
kitten, and Casey felt suddenly worlds away from the battered
PC her mom had bought her three years ago and Normal
High, where the students still took notes on arcane substances
like paper and tired their hands out writing with ballpoint
pens.
Thanks! Casey said, unable to keep the surprise from her
voice. Should I just give this back to you at the end of class?
Madame LeCombe blinked at her uncomprehendingly, and
the girl sitting in front of Casey wearing an electric-blue Milly
sundress and the highest silver wedge sandals she had ever seen
giggled nastily. The girl s chin-length blond hair bobbed
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THE ELI TE
healthily up and down as she laughed, and Casey felt her face
fill with heat.
Non, non, Madame LeCombe chided, wagging a jeweled
finger in Casey s face, c est pour vous! Now she was really con-
fused. Did she really just get to keep this monumentally expen-
sive piece of equipment . . . just because she happened to be
enrolled at Meadowlark Academy? Was this standard? It cer-
tainly looked that way, as every single student in the twenty-
seat classroom had the exact same model MacBook opened up
on the desk in front of them, and was staring at her like she
was a world-class idiot.
We all get one, said a voice directly behind her. Casey
craned her neck around and came face-to-face with Drew
who was grinning widely.
Oh, Casey said, turning her body so that she could see
him more easily, I didn t know nobody told me. Twisted
around like a pretzel, Casey felt like her diaphragm was dou-
bled up and pushing into her chest cavity. Or was it just the
elastic waistband of her underwear cutting into her overfull
stomach? Maybe that second blueberry muffin she d eaten
while listening to Madison s advice was a bad idea . . .
Yeah, Drew said, removing his own laptop from his mes-
senger bag and opening it onto the desk. Well, get used to
it free laptops are just the beginning. Drew rolled his blue
eyes, smiling crookedly while he fussed with his computer. As
she looked at him, Madison s words rang out in her ears be
aggressive. The truth was, Casey hadn t had that much experi-
ence with guys in general, much less with flirting, and she d
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JENNI FER BANASH
never made the first move either. It wasn t that she liked play-
ing hard to get or anything, she just didn t have any experience
playing period. The only guys she d ever flirted with had al-
ways approached her first . . . and she hadn t exactly managed
to come off as a femme fatale then either.
Commencez votre conversationz, Madame LeCombe called
out from her perch on the edge of her desk at the front of the
room, her legs crossed, kicking one black stilettoed foot in the
air. The chatter in the room suddenly reduced to a low hum,
and Casey watched her fellow classmates pair up, turning in
their seats to practice their French conversation skills with the
person seated directly behind them which, as far as she could
tell, meant that she d be practicing on . . . Drew.
Casey s pulse started racing so fast she was sure she d
probably have a stroke by the time the bell rang. What was
she going to say? Her mind was a complete and total blank.
Not only did she have to figure out a way to be aggressive,
but she had to do it in French. It wasn t like she was so great
at flirting in English in the first place and English was her
mother tongue! To make matters worse, Casey hadn t exactly
paid rapt attention during her French classes back in
Normal mostly she d stared out the window, dreaming of
the day when some ridiculously cute guy would make out
with her after school in the parking lot, the ultimate campus
hookup spot.
Casey smiled at Drew uncertainly as he closed his laptop,
leaning forward, his elbows on the desk.
Voulez-vous parler avec moi? Drew said with comic exag-
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THE ELI TE
geration, rolling his R s around in his mouth like it was full of
jawbreakers, sounding like a demented Pepe Le Peu.
Bien sûr! Casey answered confidently. As long as they
stayed at this kindergartenesque level of conversation, she
could probably handle herself even though talking to Drew
in French felt really cheesy, like she should be wearing a beret,
chain-smoking Gauloises, and carrying a baguette.
Que faites-vous cet après-midi?
What was she doing this afternoon? Was he asking because
he was just curious and making conversation, or was he actu-
ally asking her out? Ugh, was there some kind of bizarro rule
that made boys so totally mysterious on a daily basis, even in
French? Be aggressive! her inner Madison screamed out. Don t
just sit there like a schlub!
However uncomfortable it made her feel, she knew that she
had to go for it before she lost her nerve completely and ran
out of the room. Casey leaned forward, feeling like a complete
alien from the planet Don t Date Me, and rested her hand
on Drew s arm, gently running her fingertips over his smooth
skin. Quoi que vous faites, she answered, her eyes fixed on his
face, her cheeks burning like she d spent the day lying out in
the park with no sunscreen.
Oh my God. Did she really just say: Whatever you re do-
ing? More important, did she even say it right? Because he
was looking at her like she was a total lunatic, then down at his
arm, where her hand still rested. Casey grabbed his hand and
turned it over so that the palm faced up, and with her favorite
red pen, proceeded to write her phone number in large block
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JENNI FER BANASH
letters on his skin. Telephonez-moi ce soir, she whispered in
what she hoped was a sexy voice, feeling the sweat break out
under her arms like it had been held back by a dam all this time.
Drew looked up, his expression uncertain and slightly queasy-
looking, and then back down at the series of numbers penned
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