THE SPEAKER OF THOSE WORDS WAS MY boyfriend, Nasim. It was the first time anyone ever said that to me, and I had to admit that it felt good. Right up there with “You’re pretty” or “You’re smart.” No, even better than “You’re smart.” “Thank you,” I replied. “You’re welcome.” Nasim was Persian and a sophomore at Herrin. He was tall and thin, yet broad shouldered, with long, straight black hair, olive skin, and the darkest almond-shaped eyes I’ve ever seen. Personally, I thought he was the best-looking boy at Herrin. At the moment of Nasim’s proclamation about my fame, we were hurrying along the sidewalk toward school, clutching paper cups of cappuccinos, and dodging the briefcase crowd trudging toward the subway to work. Nasim reached into his backpack and pulled out a copy of New York Weekly. “How many people do we know who have been profiled in a major magazine? New York City’s youngest paparazzo ever? I believe the correct answer would be one.” I grabbed his arm to stop him and we kissed in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, our lips pressed warmly as other bodies brushed past.
