"It's not red, it's cranberry," Mom said.

"Whatever it is, it's not a good color on me," I said.

"What? It's beautiful, hon. You're beautiful."

I turned to Alison and rolled my eyes. "Mom doesn't have rose-colored gla.s.ses. She's looking through cranberry-colored gla.s.ses."

Later, after we changed back to normal clothes, Alison asked what was going on with me and why I seemed so stressed.

"It's me and Wittenauer," I said.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just hard sometimes, living apart." And, uh, thinking of living together. And has anyone seen Grant around lately?

11/29.

Shawna and her mother picked up me and Oscar and we came back to the Fort together. They talk a mile a minute and drive even faster. Got here in record time.

I sort of snuck into the house as soon as we got home. Not ready to see Grant right now, and definitely didn't want to see any reporters. But maybe the story died over Thanksgiving and there's more important news to report.

DeathKitty was sitting on the sofa, batting eyelashes, looking innocent. Downstairs, found my blanket shredded on my bed. Upstairs, Shawna's entire collection of perfume and beauty products were knocked onto the floor, some broken.

Dara got back at one in the morning; I was in bed, reading. Went up to say hi, then figured it was morning in Milan so I'd try Beth to tell her about W's plan-seems like she's the only one I can tell truly confidential things to, besides you, dear journal. You can't talk, and she's halfway across the world.

shoe92gurrl: Why do u not sound excited?

crtveg17: Idk.

shoe92gurrl: Id.

crtveg17: What?

shoe92gurrl: I do.

crtveg17: Tell me.

shoe92gurrl: It's 2 soon!!!

crtveg17: Right. Exactly.

shoe92gurrl: And we're supposed to get a place together after college.

crtveg17: Right!

But that wasn't quite it. It was that: If I'm living with W, how will I still see Grant???

I am a bad person. Very bad.

11/30.

I was eating lunch at the Pyth when I saw Grant and friends. Slouched down in booth, wearing a ski hat, but he recognized me anyway. (Have taken to wearing a ski hat in all situations. You never know when another embarra.s.sing article featuring my photo and an old man's photo will appear in the newspaper.) "Hey, what's up?" he asked as his friends left to find a table.

You have no idea, and I don't think I can tell you. "Not much. Just, you know. Lunch."

"That looks like turkey. Is everything OK?" Grant knows I only give up the veggie ghost during stressful times.

"Oh yeah. Fine." I nodded, covering my mouth while I chewed.

"Nice hat," he said.

"Thanks. Trying to not be seen."

"Oh right. Anything new there?"

"No."

There we were, making small talk like the last time we saw each other hadn't been really intense and exciting, like we hadn't stood so close to each other that sparks flew and I was afraid we might start making out.

"So, ah. How was Thanksgiving? The Von Dragens?"

"Great. Fine. Filling," I said. "My mom's, um, getting married."

"Really?"

That was all he was going to say about it? "Really. And how was your Thanksgiving?"

"Fine. You know, boring. I studied the whole time."

"You should have gone to Jane's party," I said. "Everyone missed you."

"Yeah? Everyone?" he asked.

"Oh yeah. The Tom was there."

"Hm. Some people you don't necessarily stay friends with after high school, and that's a good thing."

And others, I thought, looking up at him, you think maybe you're over, but then you're falling for them again, which is really inconvenient. "Well. See you," I said.

"Yeah. See you."

When he walked off, I felt like I was having one of those bursts of adrenaline you get after you nearly have a car accident and you're relieved you're OK but at the same time you realize what almost happened. Fatal accident. Fight or flight.

I chose flight. Tossed the rest of my lunch in compost collection can and bolted.

I may not eat much chicken, but I'm definitely 100 percent chicken.

12/1.

After Env. Activism cla.s.s, Dr. Bigelow started moving toward me in the crowd. For most people in cla.s.s, this would be thrilling. Private audience with genius. Groupie heaven. But for me, no. Frightening. Everyone else seems to have forgotten about my supposed affair with ice cream guy Gerry, but apparently not Dr. Bigelow.

"You. Ms. Smith," he said, pointing at me.

"Um, me?" I was trying to avoid the herd and move toward the door.

"Yes, you. I need you," he said.

I groaned. Oh, great. Here it came: the professor proposal. He'd give me an A if I slept with him, etc. "You don't necessarily know the whole truth-"

"I need you to meet with the advisory committee. I think you need to stage a coup, take it over. Their ideas so far are completely bogus." He cast a disparaging glance at a couple of my cla.s.smates that I'm sure they didn't deserve.

"M-me?"

"Yes, you. I've read your blog. A colleague tipped me off. I like your work, though you're a bit random and you need a decent editor."

Up close, even though he was saying somewhat insulting things, he seemed a lot nicer than he did when he was giving lectures and tirades.

"So you mean you didn't want to talk to me . . . because of me and that ice cream guy . . . ?"

"I really have no idea what you're talking about. Just help them. Talk some sense into them. We have zero time left here. Could you come up with a decent idea for the cla.s.s project?"

"I thought they'd agreed on an idea," I said, although I still hadn't figured out what it was. So much for my skills at investigative journalism.

"It's brainless, which will reflect on all of us. All of us," he repeated. "I may have tenure but I'm not immune to criticism. If you save this project, I'll be indebted to you."

So, I set up meeting time, place, and recruited more volunteers to attend. Dr. Bigelow is right. My blog isn't horrible, and can make a difference. They can't hold me down. I refuse to let Guy Nicollet ruin my career in journalism by censoring my blog.

Got home and tried to share the exciting news with Wittenauer. Don't think he was really listening to me. He kept talking about Baby Corn and how hard it was to train a new person. How it wasn't working out at all and they'd chosen the wrong person entirely and how they were supposed to go to the annual holiday bash at Dean Sobransky's house. . . .

Honestly, I could have dozed off if I didn't have to stay up tonight and plot my idea for the committee. Not interesting in the slightest.

12/2.

Breakthrough. TA David says I am totally caught up. He even said, "You've really improved, thanks to your careful exploration of detail and word choice. I'm glad I could help you."

Sure. He'll take the credit. I did all of the work.

Mom called about wedding plans. Went on and on about menu, napkins, flowers, favors, and how everything has to coordinate. She forced me to call Wittenauer to make sure his suit will coordinate with my cranberry dress by wearing something called a cranberry cravat.

Excuse me, but I need to get back to my real life now? Meeting tonight with EAC. Will report.

12/2 CONTINUED.

Turns out the EAC is very, very small. Consists of three dudes and one girl. No volunteers in sight. Here were their ideas: One guy's idea of ma.s.sive campus activism protest was to use pipe bombs. (Will need to double-check his last name and report him to campus security.) Another idea was to stage ma.s.sive nude protest. (Not interested.) (Not in a million years.) One was to create a rain forest for people to walk through and enjoy, and then ruin it with machetes and take it down.

Or idle cars on student center plaza and see how poisonous the air could get and how long it would take.

I sat there and thought, and thought, because if our grade was based on this, and Dr. Bigelow's performance . . .

We needed something shocking, attention getting, but not illegal and idiotic.

"Well?" They all stared at me, like I was going to be a guru and just say something brilliant instantaneously.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"We don't have much time," the other girl said, and I nodded.

"Yeah, time is, like, totally running out. On our project and on the environment," Pipe Bomb guy said. "And the whole world, really."

Have to remember to contact security about that guy. Don't want him near any of us.

Walked out of student center and was looking down to text Wittenauer with the report when I ran smack into Grant. Oops. I told him about the meeting and how I was supposed to report back tomorrow. While I talked, I was vaguely aware that my phone was vibrating with Wittenauer's reply, but I quickly reached into my pocket and shut it off.

"I feel for you. I hate oral reports," he said.

"It's not a report!" I snapped.

"Sorry!" he said, holding up his hands.

"No." I laughed. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . Bigelow, you know? He's so intimidating. My brain freezes up when he talks to me. And this committee . . ."

"You'll think of something," Grant said.

I rolled my eyes.

"You will!" Grant insisted. "What time is cla.s.s, again?" he asked.

"Ten thirty," I said.

"You've got twelve hours to be brilliant. You'll come up with a great idea. I mean, you're Courtney Von Dragen Smith, right? You always do."

"I do?"

"Do I have to make a list? Because I can make one," he said. "Except right now I'm late for a study group. Good luck. See you!"

Just like that, he was gone. Flying off. Like a superhero. Way better than that wimpy Prince Charming, anyway.

So Grantlike. He was always the one talking me up, giving me confidence when I had none. Even though I've been a total cretin to him at times, he still does it. Superhero or angel. Not sure of his status. Single?

12/3.

Despite Grant's confidence in me, I showed up for cla.s.s with nothing. I walked into the room at the last second, nodded at my cla.s.smates, and took a seat.

Dr. Bigelow strode in two minutes later and dropped his heavy briefcase on the desk. I was hoping he'd launch into one of his usual lectures, but no. He turned directly to me. "Well, Ms. Smith? What do you have?"

A nervous feeling. "We, uh, discussed things," I said. "And we're getting there?"

Dr. Bigelow sighed. "Courtney, I expected more from you."