“You two are not oenophiles, are you?” asked Mr. Z. The two shook their heads meekly. “Ah, it’s so easy to forget you’re only children. But here’s how terroir is relevant to you—I find myself just fascinated by the fact that you two are such prime examples of terroir as applied to human beings.”

“We’re like grapes?” asked Rosemary.

“Don’t be obtuse. What I mean is that you are who you are because of where you are. For example, all things like money and genes being equal, the Rosemary Park born and bred in Seoul would taste different than the Rosemary Park we know and love who’s born and bred in LA County. Similarly, the Arik Kistorian from Yerevan would be entirely different from the Arik Kistorian we know.”

“Isn’t that just nature versus nurture?” Arik said.

“Well, it’s a bit more than that. I don’t think culture is everything. Terroir also covers natural influences like sunshine and air quality. For instance, you two are gorgeous. You both have that wonderful California tan, that slouchy unformed charm—I mean it lovingly! If you two were doing manual labor in some other part of the world or had to enlist in a children’s army, you wouldn’t have the posture you have, your hands wouldn’t be as soft as they are. In other words, you exhibit all the privileges of your terroir.”

As their mentor walked ahead of them, Rosemary and Arik exchanged another uncertain look. They’d never seen Mr. Z like this, rambling on, making weird slips. But neither of them wanted to be the one to say it. And Rosemary needed to pee.

When Rosemary emerged from the building, Mr. Z was leaning against his car.

“Need a ride?” he asked. She paused, uncertain.

“Want a ride?” he asked. She nodded.

She watched Arik get on his bike and leave the school gates before she climbed into Mr. Z’s car. He handed her a rewritable disk in a paper sleeve.

“Here’s the CD I promised you. Sorry I took so long.” Song titles were listed in hasty Sharpie writing that looked like chicken scratches. Somehow she’d imagined something more special, like a CD in a plastic jewel case, personalized with his doodles in three or four colors. The songs didn’t remotely fill up the seventy minutes the CD could hold—there were just a couple of songs by Billie Holiday, including “Strange Fruit,” and a couple of tracks by a guy called Van Morrison she’d only vaguely heard of.

“Thanks.” She shoved the CD into her satchel and slumped back, wanting him to notice her displeasure. She watched the familiar streets fly by her window.

“What do you think of Arik now?” he asked her after a while.

“I like him.”

“Are you excited about kissing him?”

“Kind of.”

“I thought you might be.”