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“I, uh . . .” A bright-red flush stains his cheeks. “I signed up this morning. For your, uh . . .”

“Oh.” I lower my eyes as the conversation takes an awkward turn. How will I ever do it if I can’t even talk about it? I need to tackle my fears, before I ruin everything. “I’m glad.”

“Hopefully, that means I’ll get another chance to take you out.” With a shy smile, Elijah coils a lock of my hair around his finger, drawing my face close enough for me to catch a whiff of watermelon Jolly Rancher.

If I lean in a little farther, I might even get to taste it. “I’d like that.”

“Me, too.” Elijah glances toward the burger line. “Guess I’d better . . .”

“Would you like to sit with me?” I hold my breath.

His face lights up. “Yeah?”

“Definitely.” I grin.

“I’ll grab something and be right back.”

While Elijah gets his lunch, I head for my usual table. The moment I sit, the chairs around me fill up, almost like magic.

Two guys I’ve never seen on campus before sit across from me. They could be brothers, if not twins, in their matching blue sweater vests paired with white button-down shirts and mirror-image haircuts consisting of poker-straight blond hair parted to one side and swept back behind one ear. But despite the striking similarities, they have entirely different facial features and bone structures, so I don’t think they’re actually related.

I’m not convinced they’re even enrolled at Springer, but they’re impossible to ignore, staring at me with identical grins. They look like they’d be more comfortable eating plain-baloney-on-white sandwiches in someone’s basement with a giant volume of Tolkien sitting open in front of them and a life-size statue of Chewbacca standing guard.

“Hi,” they say in unison like a pair of creepy Ken dolls.

I should introduce them to Zeta Nu Barbie.

“Hi?” I echo their greeting, but what I want to ask is, Are you anatomically correct?

Before I can stick my foot in my mouth and voice the question, two guys I recognize as players on the basketball team plop down on either side of me, drawing my attention from Ken 1 and Ken 2. They must’ve come straight from practice because they reek of salty sweat and too much cologne. Not the worst thing I’ve ever smelled, but not exactly something I want to experience up close and personal, especially while pretending to eat.

“Hey.” I figure I should greet them since they’ve already invaded my personal space like a pair of overeager puppies.

“Hey, pretty girl.” The guy on my left flashes me a Crest-bright smile and leans in so close I can count the pores in his dark skin. He’s cute but a little intense.

Instinctively, I back away from his space invasion, bumping into the guy on my other side.

“You’re a hard girl to track down,” Dennis, the star player on our team, says with a wink.

Rumor has it, he’ll have his pick of NBA teams when he graduates. In fact, according to Elijah, they’ll fight over him like a pack of wild dogs with fresh roadkill, thanks to his unbeaten record.

“Hard? Me?” A hot flush rushes up my neck, and I wish I could permanently shut off the switch.

“I didn’t say you were hard—but you do seem to inspire that in others.” Dennis flashes a lascivious grin.

Damn Nicole and her stupid dentist appointment.

Three more guys sit down, and the table fills up faster than a lifeboat on the Titanic. I’m having a hard time keeping track of everyone.

Elijah picks that moment to come back from the line, his tray brimming over with food—including a piece of chocolate cake that calls to my elusive appetite—and nowhere to put it, thanks to the Kennedy Beaman fan club.

“Uh . . .” He stands there for a moment before giving up and slipping into a seat at the far end of the table where we can barely see each other let alone speak without shouting.

My lips form the word, “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he mouths back, but his disappointment is obvious.

“You gonna eat that?” Completely ignoring the nonverbal communication between Elijah and me, Dennis motions toward my untouched pizza.