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you, man.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.”
    â€œNope. I was at her brother’s house today with the band. And her brother, Hunter, read us one of her poems. And guess what it was called? ‘Ode to Cameron.’”
    Gagging noises from Cameron.
    â€œShe’s really nuts about you. Listen to this. Are you ready?”
    Sickening silence from Cameron, who is not at all ready.
    â€œâ€˜If thou wouldst croak, the snow would puke up yet another grave for me.’ Or something like that.”
    Awkward laughter from Cameron. “Man. Oh, man. It’s bad enough that she’s always staring at me in journalism class. Oh, man, this sucks.”
    This scene is a lot more believable than my dumb Emily Dickinson fantasy. Its dialogue sounds completely real, while the other one sounded fake.
    But maybe, maybe David will tell Cameron the real opening lines from my poem and Cameron will think they’re good ? Maybe he’s secretly liked me all along and will be glad to know I secretly like him?
    Kylee has gone back to her knitting, but I know she’s still thinking.
    â€œOkay,” she says when she gets to the end of another row. “Option number four—well, maybe this is just the same as my option number three—is that you act normal around him tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. I really don’t think Cameron’s brother is going to talk to Cameron about you, and if he does, he can’t say your poems are bad, because they aren’t bad—they’re wonderful.”
    Did I mention that I love Kylee more than anyone in the world? I do have other friends. Sometimes I go over to Isabelle Abshire’s house to watch old black-and-white movies, because Kylee won’t watch anything that isn’t in color. Sometimes Brianna Clark hangs out with Kylee and me; she once said we’re “soothing” to be around, but I know she really meant Kylee. But I love Kylee a thousand times more than I love either of them.
    So Kylee just said my poems are wonderful. Despite the horribleness of everything that happened, down deep—well, not even down all that deep—I still think they’re wonderful, too.
    â€œWhat if…” I begin, and then trail off. “Kylee, tell me honestly. I know best friends are supposed to believe in each other, but they’re supposed to be honest with each other, too. Do you really, truly, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die think my poems are good—and not just my poems generally, but my Cameron poems?”
    Without a moment of hesitation, Kylee nods.
    â€œWhat if—maybe this is ridiculous…” I say, even though I don’t think it’s ridiculous because it’s what I’ve been planning to do ever since I made my big announcement to Hunter and the band this afternoon, just sooner than I thought.
    â€œIn brainstorming, nothing is ridiculous,” Kylee reminds me.
    â€œWhat if I published my poems somewhere? Somewhere really impressive? And then it won’t matter what Hunter said, or what Cameron might say, because a famous poetry magazine will be on record saying that they’re fabulous. And Hunter will be like, Wow, I guess Autumn really can write, and I shouldn’t have made fun of her. And Cameron will be like, Wow, I guess this majorly published poet is a girl I’d like to get to know. ”
    Just this morning I wanted to be like Emily Dickinson and not publish my poems until after I die. A lot can change in a few hideous hours.
    â€œNow you’re talking!” Kylee said, though maybe she’s just so relieved that I’m not going to change schools or drop journalism or run away that she’s acting more enthusiastic than she really feels. But Kylee is a terrible liar, so I know she means whatever she says.
    I let myself play out a new script in my head.
    â€œHey, lil bro, is there a girl in your class named Summer or