I spend a lot of time wondering which of the boys in my immediate vicinity will be the one who finally falls in love with me. For all I know, it could be someone in this AP English Literature class: the guy with glasses in the second row who nodded along as I defined “juxtaposition” a few minutes ago, or maybe the bored-looking kid sitting sideways in the seat in front of me, the tip of his elbow grazing my desk. I steal a glance away from the projector screen to survey the rest of my dozen or so possibilities. I don’t know if it’s the sexy maroon blazers or my sorry excuse for a love life--it’s a hundred percent both--but I’m ready and willing to be swept off my feet by any one of them.

As my eyes dart from one potential suitor to the next, I accidentally tune out Mr. MacMillan as he scrolls through examples of short-story projects his students have done in the past, but that’s all right. The assignment seems easy enough: pick a theme; find three short stories that fit said theme; write a paper comparing and contrasting said stories. It’s the kind of thing I’d probably do for fun in my spare time, which is why I’m the lone junior in this college-level class.

Mr. MacMillan’s next words make me snap back to attention. “In the spirit of you all getting to know each other”--a few people visibly perk up in their chairs, myself included--“I’m going to randomly divide you into pairs. Over the next few class periods, I’ll give you time to choose your stories, analyze them, and write your essays together.”

Oh my God. Oh-my-freaking-God. My chair feels like a roller-coaster car that just left the station, and my blood pumps like I’m chugging up the first big hill. If the point of the group project is everyone “getting to know each other,” then that must mean . . .

I’m going to be matched with a guy.

Now that I’m almost seventeen, “possible conversation with boy” shouldn’t feel like such a momentous occasion, but this is a big deal for me, pathetic as that may sound. Our private school, Sullivan-Stewart Prep, has been coed for all of a week. Before, we were two separate schools: the all-boys Sullivan School in Lake Placid and the all-girls Stewart Academy in Saranac Lake, a cozier, less-tourist-packed town about fifteen minutes away. They bussed us back and forth for a dance here and there, a rare chance for those who liked guys to gain some semblance of sexual experience. We’d spend hours scurrying between dorm rooms to focus-group potential looks, all for a shot at a dance-floor make-out.

This getting-ready ritual always paid off for a handful of girls, and we’d analyze their exploits on the bus ride home. Sometimes they’d gush about a guy being good with his tongue; other times, they’d shudder about too much teeth or spit. Frankly, I would have taken either option. They were both more appealing than what I was getting, which was nothing. My most common achievement was embarrassing myself with my overeagerness, like when I tried to make conversation over the music with a guy who’d come up behind me and started grinding, and he yelled in my ear--as politely as possible--that I was supposed to stay facing away from him, like the other couples. If I hadn’t maintained a steady diet of romance novels all this time, I’d probably be as jaded as my mom, who buries herself in work to avoid having time for a love life.