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novels involving tragic relationships and romance,” I explained.
    â€œThat is so easy,” Oswald said. “If Jane Austen was alive today, she’d be writing Harlequin romance novels.”
    I almost burst into laughter but stopped myself. I turned slightly to look at Julia. I think she was biting her bottom lip to stay quiet.
    â€œPotentially very good Harlequin romances,” Mrs. Johnson said. “She was a wonderful writer.”
    I think Mrs. Johnson’s comments were the only thing that saved Julia from exploding or imploding.
    â€œMaybe she would have teamed up with that Willy Shakespeare guy to write chick flicks,” Oswald suggested.
    He was on a roll. If I didn’t come up with something, I’d lose this bet for sure.
    â€œWhat about a famous poet like Walt Whitman?” I asked. Walt was one of Julia’s favorite poets.
    â€œYeah, we don’t really listen to poets much anymore,” a girl said.
    â€œActually, you listen to them all the time, but, reflecting our culture, they now write lyrics,” Mrs. Johnson said.
    I laughed because I saw my opening. “So if Walt Whitman was alive today, he’d be a rapper. I see him throwing down some beats. I can even think of a couple of rapper names for him.”
    â€œYou can?” Mrs. Johnson asked.
    â€œSure. Either he’d be W Squared”—kids laughed—“or, because he wrote so much about snow and ice, he could be known as The Iceman.”
    There was laughter and a round of applause. Julia didn’t cheer, but she didn’t talk. She’d been shaken, but she hadn’t broken.
    The bell rang to end class. The period had just zipped by.
    â€œWell, what did you think?” I asked Julia as we walked out.
    â€œInteresting class, but it confirmed two things that I already knew.”
    â€œWhat things?” Oswald asked.
    â€œThat you two are such idiots.”
    â€œI’m surprised you needed further confirmation of that,” Oswald said. “I thought that was already a proven fact. Sort of like gravity or—”
    â€œDid you really think you could get me to react to those cracks about Jane Austen and Walt Whitman?”
    â€œCracks?” I asked, trying to sound innocent. “We were simply trying to make the class more relevant for you.”
    â€œWas there a bet involved?” she asked.
    â€œLunch,” I admitted. “Loser was supposed to buy lunch.”
    â€œIn that case, since I’m obviously the winner and you two are even more obviously losers, I should get two lunches. Do either of you have any objections?”
    We both shook our heads in agreement. Fair was fair.

Chapter Three
    I could hear Oswald before I could see him. His car needed some work on the exhaust system, but he was trying to avoid doing it—“I don’t want the muffler to be worth more than the rest of the car” was how he’d put it.
    Then the car came around the corner and into view, rumbled up and stopped, brakes squealing. Oswald popped open the door from the inside—it didn’t open from the outside.
    â€œGood morning,” he sang out.
    â€œGood morning to you too. It’s rare to see you up this early on a weekend.”
    â€œWeekends are the only times I can sleep to my full potential. You know me, always trying to be the best that I can be.”
    â€œSo where are we off to?”
    â€œTo pick up Julia and then to the art gallery.”
    â€œNo, really.”
    â€œDon’t you want to pick up Julia?” he asked.
    â€œOf course I do, but where are we really going after that?”
    â€œWe are going to the City Center Art Gallery. Seriously.”
    â€œThis new you is a little hard to predict,” I admitted.
    â€œNot really. When you think of me, just think of culture, the arts and perhaps fashion.”
    â€œFashion? Did you look in a mirror this morning?”
    Oswald was wearing trackpants, no