What makes you so sure? I asked her, but I had the answer already. She knew me too well. We were the most intimate of companions, and conversations with her were nearly like talking to myself. Psychologists might've gone so far as to label my relationship with Jane "benign schizophrenia," but I, of course, attributed it to something else entirely: to the power of an author's mind to transcend time and s.p.a.ce. A kind of literary Twilight Zone thing.

Or so I told myself.

On such days as those, however, when Jane argued vehemently back, I had to remind my confused psyche that consorting with the paranormal didn't automatically make me crazy.

It would be deplorable, and you know it, Jane said, still fixating on the dress.

Yeah, I know it, but I just wanted an excuse to try it on, I informed her.

Oh, well, if that is all, Jane murmured sarcastically.

I slipped the dress over my head and let the silky fabric fall against my skin.

Jane gasped.

Truly, and without a shred of modesty, I looked stunning.

It is lovely on you, she admitted as I admired my reflection in the three-way mirror. But now is not the time for such a garment. You have not yet the maturity...or the nerve.

I wanted to disagree with her-at least about the maturity bit-but, unfortunately, she was right. I didn't have the nerve. I wanted to be one of those women who made men's jaws drop in amazement. The kind of woman who'd turn male heads 270 degrees and make their testosterone levels skyrocket.

But I had a reputation to maintain: Bland, boring, brainy Barnett. I knew full well that while I was still in high school I wasn't allowed to change it, and I didn't dare try. Even if I waltzed into prom looking like a total knockout, I'd still be seen as the same old fish in the same old pond come Monday.

I sighed and opted, instead, for a traditional ankle-length, white gown with small pearl flowers. It was pretty. It was on sale. It was something Mom sanctioned. And, yeah, okay, it was as close to a wedding dress as I'd get for eons.

That is nice, Jane said, a hint of disappointment in her tone when I tried the white gown on for the third time.

Yep. I frowned. I looked nice, not beautiful.

You must stop this incessant worrying, Ellie. Truly. The day will come when life will embrace you as you embrace it. The day when you have learned to fully express yourself. Then you will not have to be as stringently proper as, indeed, you must be now.

Ah, yes. Cryptic projections about my future and the lessons I was bound to learn someday. All part of Jane's never-ending lecture series on Adulthood 101.

Jane continued, And you will not have to concern yourself so rigorously with others' perceptions once the pressure to marry has pa.s.sed.

She always spewed c.r.a.p like this and, after a while, I had to say, it really p.i.s.sed me off. I WANT to get married someday, Jane.

Hmmph.

I DO. And, for the eight-thousandth time, there's no "pressure to marry" while I'm still in high school. Trust me. It's discouraged.

Officially, perhaps, she said stiffly. But that is not the truth as I have observed it.

Look, just because YOU ultimately chose to stay single and to live in isolation with your sister rather than succ.u.mb to the rule of a man and the burden of bearing babies, doesn't mean I have to decide between similar fates. Women these days have as much power in a relationship as men do- Jane snickered. Loudly.

Oh, c'mon. It's...mostly true. Plus, we have birth control, so yearly pregnancies are optional, and we don't even have to sign any paperwork to live together. We can just move in. I stopped a moment to catch my breath. But, Jane, I'm seventeen and still a virgin. I'm going away to college in the fall. It's not like I'll let myself get emotionally attached to anyone. And as for Jason, he and I are friends, not lovers. Believe me, I won't get tricked into marriage.

There was a long pause.

Jane?

Perhaps not, she said finally. Perhaps marriage itself will not be foisted upon you just yet, but beware, Ellie. I more than suspect you will be made to feel incomplete without it. The seeds of such societal artfulness are planted early and, if not tempered by the greatest and truest of loves, can be dangerous, too. You will cease to work on your natural talents, and you will have the pa.s.sions of others set before you in place of your own. I fear this fate for you.

I swallowed. I decided she was being a combination of mulish and nineteenth-centuryish (she could get like that sometimes), and she was making this whole prom thing out to be far more symbolic than it was. I told myself it was just a fancy dance, that I wasn't getting set up for anything, that I'd become my own person in time without any undue pressure to bend to the whims of men and society. That the fact that she'd been disappointed in love during her lifetime had influenced her perceptions of romance too much.

But as Mom and I paid for my pricey purchase, I had to wonder if maybe Jane hadn't ama.s.sed a bit more wisdom about human nature than I had. I wondered further where her prejudices ended and the universal truth about a woman's experience began.

"Heard you're going with that loser Bertignoli," Sam said to me at the start of our chemistry II cla.s.s about a week before the big event. "Still have a crush on him after all these years?"

Sam's lab partner raised a very blond eyebrow at Sam. "You're talking about Jason? Jason Bertignoli? But he isn't a los-"

Sam elbowed him.

I'd be d.a.m.ned if I'd tell Sam Blaine, who'd been bragging about having the Hottest Prom Date in Town, that I was going to prom with anyone Just As Friends. So I said, "Jason's great. And he's hot. Really hot."

Sam's lab partner grinned.

Terrie, my lab partner, nodded helpfully.

Sam gave me a long, blank stare.

The bell rang and all conversation ended. As we left cla.s.s three-quarters of an hour later, though, carrying our last week's quiz on molecular elements (I got 94 percent, Sam got 97 percent and, yes, I did keep track), Sam brushed up against me.

"Look," he said, "you know I hate that guy but-"

"If you're talking about Jason, yeah, I know you can't stand him. And I also know your hatred is totally immature."

Sam shrugged. "Whatever. I just wanted to say to...to be careful because, uh, sometimes guys like that aren't what they seem." He shrugged again. "Okay?"

My heart started pounding for no good reason. Sam must know something about Jason's motives that I didn't. I opened my mouth to question him but closed it again. What, exactly, would I ask? It would be humiliating and embarra.s.sing and- Jane scoffed at this. Ellie, I dare say you ought not to give credence to the opinion of one such as this Wickham.

Before I could answer either of them, Sam said, "Later." He bolted down the hall.

Good riddance, Jane hissed.

But what if he's right? I said. What if Jason has ulterior motives for wanting to go to prom with me? Maybe he's trying to make another girl jealous and Sam knows about it.

This was actually the only reason I could think of, besides that Jason really, truly liked me. I'd plunk down money that all the guys in my cla.s.s knew I was a virgin, so I was confident I didn't have the reputation of being an easy lay.

If Mr. Bertignoli is a young man of little honour, Jane said, you shall soon be sensible of it. I, however, would think him a better suitor-if indeed you must have one-than Mr. Blaine. Thankfully, the latter seems well occupied with others.

But maybe Sam's not entirely wrong- Nonsense. Jane's response was swift and dismissive. Your Jason may be of simple mind, but his manners are consistently pleasant and attentive, despite his limitations.

Of "simple mind," you say? His "limitations"? Be nice, Jane.

Jane laughed as I raced toward my locker. It is hardly a secret that Mr. Bertignoli lacks wit- Hey, Jason gets good grades in calc, which is more than I can say for most of the senior cla.s.s. Stacy Dasch.e.l.l, for instance, couldn't even get in to calculus or chemistry II, which blissfully meant I hadn't seen much of her since soph.o.m.ore year.

He receives pa.s.sing marks in mathematics. He is far from your intellectual equal, however, Jane retorted.

I threw my chem II book in my backpack and fished out my Shakespeare notebook. Lit cla.s.s started in four minutes. Jane really liked lit cla.s.s.

If you're basing your view of who I ought to spend time with on the intelligence factor alone, how do you account for Sam? I asked her. He's a stellar science student. He routinely outscores me. And, though we're in different periods for calc, I know he does exceptionally well in there, too.

There was a pause. It is true, of course, that intellect is not everything. One must also take character into consideration when drawing conclusions about a man's nature.

Uh-huh.

You are too, too generous to trifle with young men such as these. Either of them, she added. Your willingness to overlook their faults would be better suited to a saint. I have little patience for saints.

Perhaps it's YOU who is too generous to trifle with ME. I slammed my locker door shut. I wonder-frequently, in fact-why you do it.

She gave a girlish laugh. Do not allow your imagination to get the better of your sense. The exalted beings of heaven have a logic all their own, and their infinite wisdom will surely be revealed to you. In time.

I arched an eyebrow at the pervasive spirit of Jane Austen, knowing even if she didn't see me directly that she surely intuited my every emotion. Don't try to tell me you're my guardian angel, Jane. I'd have a real hard time believing that one. Especially now that I'd grown well accustomed to her mischievous streak.

I make no such claim. But, Ellie, there is a purpose behind everything.

And yet, your part in being in my life remains a mystery. Why won't you tell me what you know? Why do you keep me guessing?

Because, she said, what I know will not satisfy you.

Try me.

There are lessons, Ellie, that we both must learn.

I stifled a sigh. Again with the lessons. Like I didn't get enough education at school.

These are lessons we must learn from each other, she added. And I fear they will not be mastered quickly.

Really? I said, delighted by the idea of getting to instruct Jane on something for once, and praying I'd finally convinced her to answer one of my most pressing questions. What are they?

But she changed the subject. It is at last time for "Hamlet."

I sighed. I wish you'd just be open with me and stop treating me like a child.

If the shoe fits...Jane murmured.

It doesn't. And while you're at it, you can d.a.m.n well leave off the Cinderella references.

So, prom night came.

"Whoa. You look sweet," Jason said when he picked me up, dressed in his black tuxedo with tails and carrying a red-rose corsage for me. He briefly eyed my traditional white dress and sent me an absentminded nod of approval.

I handed him his boutonniere and said, "Thanks. You look great, too," but I thought, Sweet? Even as a synonym for lovely, I didn't want to look sweet. That word had such overtones of nice. I wanted to summon to a man's mind something more memorable, something like spicy. Sweet was nice, but you remembered spicy.

I continued to mull over this distinction as we muddled our way through the Mocktail Hour, the first of several pre-prom events. Held at prom-court member "Princess" Amy's house, this affair (complete with fake pina coladas, olives-n-wienies on toothpicks, annoying "royalty" and endless small talk) was about as much fun as sticking my hand in a meat grinder.

It was followed by dinner at Chez Alexander's with Terrie and her boyfriend Matt; Jason's buddy Steve and his giggly girlfriend Krista; Terrie's kid sister Sabrina, a junior, and her date Nate, a nice but intensely quiet senior. While I had no complaints about my chicken Kiev, my wedge of key lime pie or even my watered-down iced tea, the event itself was worse than the mocktails.

Why?

Well, because Jason-although unfailingly friendly toward me in the manner befitting a date who was "just a friend"-seemed awestruck by the cleavage of every other girl in attendance, from the tiara-wearing Princess Amy to the incurably ditsy Krista to the envy-inspiring Amanda Roberts.

And while on the subject of Amanda, I kept running into her. Every-f.u.c.king-where. At the mocktail hour. At the dinner. With Sam trailing her heels and gazing at her as if she were the only female in the entire state of Illinois. She wore some sleek and dazzling outfit, of course. And though it wasn't as short or as slinky as the purple dress with the fringes that I'd loved, it was, painfully, the same color. Naturally, Amanda looked amazing in it.

I tried to relax and have fun. I tried to catch the prom-night spirit. I tried to at least appear as though I were enjoying myself, especially when I'd spot Sam, Amanda and their friends having a rollicking good time. I wanted Romance and True Love so much that night I could've cried. And I thought maybe, if I acted the part, it would happen for me.

It didn't take long to realize I'd need decades to master any such social charade. My heart wasn't in it, and all the fake grins and fake drinks in the world wouldn't convince my soul otherwise.

By the time we slid into the white limo to go to the dance, I could feel myself beginning to lose it. The dejection, discouragement and frustration had built up, leaving me seething with an anger I couldn't justify or control.

On the road, Jason grabbed for my fingers. The other couples were all holding hands, so I didn't pull away when his hand covered mine. But I did curl my fingers into a fist and, a few times during the drive, I squeezed it tight, letting my nails bite into my palm. Marking it the way I'd once marked Sam Blaine's wrist.

You are not thinking of coming to blows with someone, are you, Ellie? Jane whispered, her humored voice rising above the roaring in my head. It is most unladylike to consider striking another person. However well deserved.

I clenched my fist tighter. If I could decide who to punch out first, you might have something to worry about, I told her in my snottiest silent voice. But as it stands, I'm mad at too many people to single out only one of them.

Ah, she said. So the list has lengthened beyond the irredeemable Sam and his lady friend, the inattentive Jason, the Princess Amy, the frivolous Krista, the dreary Nate and the irksome Steve? You have had much to occupy your thoughts, I see.

I grimaced. She knew very well that would've been plenty, but I was also mad at myself. While self-loathing was never pretty, it wasn't the only emotion I felt. Sadness, anxiety and resentment kept playing musical chairs inside of me, making it impossible to decide when I was feeling lonely versus furious. And of course, as usual, Jane wasn't making matters easier.

Just imagine, Jane told me, all the sparkling moments ahead for you at this ball. The dancing and the- Prom. It's called PROM.

Ball. Prom. Similar events, Jane replied. I could almost feel her shrug. Regardless, there will be much to experience and observe, Ellie. Keep your fists at your side and your eyes open.

I squeezed my fist even tighter and pressed my eyelids closed.

My, you are a defiant one, are you not? Jane said, her parting words to me before I slipped out of the limo and entered the glittering "ballroom" of our high school.

As Jason and I danced, I was rocketed back in time to soph.o.m.ore year, seeing him as I had that long-ago night. Seeing the possibility of a relationship between us. Maybe. Someday.

Then, just like that night, I saw Sam. Only this time he was watching us over Amanda's shoulder. Our gazes collided seconds before the DJ shouted "Switch Dance!" into his microphone.

A gleeful shout went up. Chaos swirled around me, a flurry of pastel taffeta and ivory lace. Sam and Amanda stood toe-to-toe with us.

"Wanna switch?" Amanda asked me cheerily. Then she grinned at Jason.

"Um," I said.

Jason said, "Yeah!" at the same time, staring with obvious appreciation at Amanda's low-scooping neckline. He dropped my hand and reached for hers.

Sam remained silent, but he held out his palm toward me in an unlikely invitation. Freaky deja vu.

How unfortunate, Jane murmured.

I reluctantly put my hand in his and, for the first time, I decided Jane might've had a point with her "ball" references. This must've been how Elizabeth Bennet felt at the Netherfield Ball, dancing with an aloof, impa.s.sive Mr. Darcy.

Sam wound one arm around my waist. I shivered at his touch. Wait! What was I thinking? Sam was a Wickham type, not a Darcy. Wickham wasn't even at that ball. Remember that, I told myself. And remember those were book characters. This was real life.