Natalie nearly fainted, but she grabbed his pencil and wrote it on the page next to her name. When the author started reading, the poem seemed kind of low-key, a collection of images about trains and tunnels. Then she heard one too many references to grinding gears and thrusting pistons and a woman outlining her moist mouth with a lipsicle … and that was when the elbow jabs and snickers started. Most of the subsequent poems were filled with further obvious references. Natalie’s cheeks and ears caught fire, and she slumped in her chair, feeling trapped in a vortex of the poet’s loud, gruff voice and the hisses of suppressed amusement from the high school kids. When the guy recited a piece about going to the zoo and seeing a gorilla eating a raw hot dog, she nearly melted into a pool of mortification.

During a pause in the presentation, the earnest adults sitting in the front of the room started a discussion, and Prescott asked her what school she went to.

“St. Dymphna’s,” she whispered. It wasn’t as prestigious as Greenhill. “Maybe I’ll go to Greenhill for high school,” she added. Yeah, right. If she asked to go to Greenhill, her mom would say they Couldn’t Afford It, which was her answer to pretty much everything.

“You’re not in high school?” Prescott asked. He looked down at the number she had neatly penciled in his notebook. “Maybe I’ll call you in a few years, then.”

Natalie tried to force herself to die right then and there. When that failed, she slunk away, exiting through the stockroom and up the back steps to the apartment. Grandy and May were watching Northern Exposure. When Mom came up later, Natalie pounced. “That guy was totally weird, Mom. Those poems about churning and burning … geez.”

Her mother had laughed, her big blustery laugh that everybody loved. Instead of kicking off her shoes and shrugging out of her work clothes, she took a coat from the closet. Her good cherry-red one from I. Magnin. “Those are my favorite parts. He’s not weird. I think he’s nice.”

Natalie recognized her mom’s tone. She tended to get fluttery when a new guy came around. “What? You’re going out with him?”

“Sure.” Mom leaned toward the hall mirror and fluffed her hair. “As soon as I put on my lipsicle.” She winked and took out a tube and turned her mouth into a red oval.

“Mo-o-om.” Natalie turned the word into an elongated complaint.

“Don’t worry. I probably won’t keep him long.”

“Close your eyes and hold still,” said Shelly the stylist, tilting Natalie’s face up to the light. “I’m going to give you a tiny bit of eyeliner, just for definition.”