I’m telling you, you’d like him. He goes to a public school and just started at Spencer’s. The other day, he was going off on unaerobic vs. aerobic respiration, and I was thinking, ‘You know who this sounds like? Melbourne.’” -- Trey

Lucky Charms?” I asked. “Magically delicious,” he explained. “Requisite for any sort of building project.” I shook my head, still amazed at how he had managed to weasel his way over here. “This isn’t a date.” He cut me a scandalized look. "Obviously. I’d bring Count Chocula for that.

I felt a strange fluttering sensation in my chest. Butterflies, cardiac arrest . . . it was hard to say what exactly.

Jailbait," he declared, leaping up. "You're a saint. A goddess, even.

Stick." I said in Russian. I had no clue what the word for stake was. I pointed at the silver ring I wore and made a slashing motion. "Stick. where?" He stared at me in utter confusion and then asked in perfect English, "why are you talking like that?

Having your own, um, cave at eighteen is pretty cool.

Really, Sage? A date?” I sighed. “Yes, Adrian. A date.” “A real date. Not, like, doing homework together,” he added. “I mean like where you go out to a movie or something. And a movie that’s not part of a school assignment. Or about something boring.” “A real date.