Natalie hadn’t yet tackled the jewelry box. Its contents, though not valuable, evoked all sorts of memories. Through the years, her mom’s admirers had gifted her with any number of baubles. She even remembered the guy who had given Blythe the hoops. Langdon somebody, a poet who had a beard and smelled of French cigarettes. Mom had met him when his publisher set up a poetry reading in the bookstore. Natalie had been in middle school and was helping at the cash register during the event. She remembered thinking it was her lucky night, because a group of students from Greenhill Prep showed up. Natalie had just begun thinking about boys as something other than an alien life-form. Every Sunday, she studied the Pink Pages in the paper and dreamed about going to a concert with a boy, maybe having her first kiss while Counting Crows were playing at Slim’s.

The clean-cut, straight-arrow guys and blond-ponytailed girls from Greenhill had intrigued her. She even caught the attention of one of the boys, a kid with perfect teeth and a twinkle in his eye. He sat in one of the metal folding chairs in the back and patted the empty seat beside him.

She had practically floated as she went to sit next to the boy. “I’m Natalie,” she said. “I work here.”

“Prescott,” he’d said, and she wasn’t sure if that was his first or last name. Rich kids tended to have first names that sounded like last names.

“You like poetry?” she asked.

“Nah. Our English Nine teacher said we’d get extra credit if we came.”

Natalie’s mom introduced the poet, supposedly one of the most gifted protégés of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the pride of the Bay Area. He sure seemed to be channeling Ferlinghetti with that beard and bowler hat.

The boy named Prescott took notes in a theme book with a marbled cover. Tucked between the pages was a brochure from Mr. Lee’s Driving School—that was the place where everyone learned to drive. Everyone except probably Natalie. Even though driving was a few years away, her mom was already warning her that there was no point in taking driving lessons because number one, they didn’t have a car, and number two, driving in the city was impossible anyway.

Prescott noticed her looking and drew a little thumbs-up next to the brochure. Then in the margin of the page, he wrote, What’s your number?