“So you’ve never been here before?” A woman who’d been slicing loaves of bread turned to me with a smile. She looked like she was in her twenties. She had short, black hair and wore lots of silver jewelry, including three ear piercings and a nose ring. “It can’t be the incredibly helpful clerks, can it? Conor, your reputation precedes you.”

Conor, that’s a nice name, I thought. I’d never known anyone named Conor before.

“We used to go to this other bakery, but my sister got into an argument with the owner because her wedding cake wasn’t perfect.” I rolled my eyes. “My sister can be a piece of work.”

“Mine too,” the woman agreed.

“I mean, actually the cake was very nice, and I think it was everything it was supposed to be. But she said something about how the little figurines on top were supposed to be personalized, so they looked like her, and the figurine was too big or something…”

I’m babbling, I thought. I’m completely making a fool of myself.

“My sister is a control freak with a bad self image,” I explained, and the girl gave me a sympathetic nod.

“Got one of those at home, too,” she said.

“Double latte,” Conor said in a flat voice as he set a giant mug on the counter. “And we don’t do wedding cakes. In case you were wondering.”

“No. I wasn’t. No need for wedding cakes here,” I said. Not now. Probably not ever, at this rate.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Conor’s co-worker said to me. “This is what happens when you give a night person a morning person’s job.”

“Hey, Paula, you’re not exactly Mary Sunshine yourself,” he replied with a frown.

“Thank God,” she said. “Hi. I’m Paula.”

“Kirsten,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

“So. What are you doing here?” Conor said to me. “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

This guy gave the phrase “Minnesota Nice” a whole new meaning. Or took it all away, rather. “Likewise?” I said.

“Oh, he’s done with school. He’s Mr. AP Class.” Paula bagged a loaf of bread and fastened a twist tie to close it.

“I am not.”

“He has nothing else to do but hang out here and insult customers.” She poked his arm with a wooden stir stick and then tapped his ear with it.

“And co-workers. Don’t forget co-workers.” He swatted at the stir stick as if it were a fly. “I’m taking some time off before I start college in the fall. Well, actually, first I’m saving money to go backpacking through Europe this summer.”

“Slacker,” Paula muttered.

“I’m going to Europe, too,” I said. “Well, England. Then maybe Europe.”

He covered his mouth as he yawned.

“Well, talk to you later. Maybe when you wake up,” I said, and Paula laughed.

So much for flirting practice.

I went over to a table near the window, pulled up a chair, and opened my backpack. I wish I had one of those cool, really thin computers, but of course I don’t, because my parents are saving money to send me to college next year and I don’t make enough to buy my own. So I have the one my dad bought for himself about three years ago. It’s had more upgrades than Janice Dickinson on “America’s Next Top Model” (one of my favorite indulgent wastes of time) has had plastic surgery.

Anyway, it might not have been the newest, but at least it had a wireless card, so I could surf and email while I sat there trying to work on my Independent Study.

I looked up a few times as I head Conor joking around with other customers. He was funny and light-hearted with them…so why not with me? Why’d he have to give me such a hard time? Maybe he still resented me for nearly knocking him to the ice. That could sway a person’s opinion, I guess.

I felt like I should get to know him a little better. After all, it couldn’t hurt to try to meet as many guys as possible while I was here—or at least more than one. The old “putting all your eggs in one basket” theory. Although I didn’t really want to think about my eggs.

“So how long are you in town?” Paula asked when I went up for a refill.

“A month or so. I’m basically finished with school already, so they let me spend some time away working on my Independent Study.”

“Which is?” Conor asked, again in that blasé tone of his.

“It’s a collection of all kinds of writing. Stories, poems, letters, emails, IMs—”

“Since when are IMs worth collecting?” he scoffed.

“Oh. Well, maybe yours aren’t,” I said with a shrug.

Paula started laughing, while Conor looked at me as if I were the rudest person on Earth. Which I guess I sort of sounded like, but come on—he’d been equally insulting to me.

“So what are you saying? They’re letting you turn in a scrapbook as your final project? What kind of school is this?” Conor asked.

I felt like punching him. “It’s not a scrapbook,” I said. “And it’s a very good school. Very.”

I went back to my seat, and after sifting through some writing of mine, looking for poetry to include in my project, I couldn’t resist emailing.

Jones, remember skating/hat/grocery checkout boy? I think he’s following me—his name is Conor and

“That one going to make it into the book?”

Conor was wiping down the table next to me, which a couple of other customers had just vacated, leaving plates and mugs behind.

“Uh—I’m sorry?” I quickly hit the minimize button and made my silly IM disappear.

He must have seen me hit the delete key, because he said, “I thought you were writing things worth collecting.”

“Well, no. I mean, some things are worth saving, and some aren’t. And see, that’s the point of the project, to determine, like, what you save…and what you get rid of. And what that means.” As I was talking, I felt my face turning bright red. He was staring at me with his eyebrows slightly raised, as if I’d had too much coffee and was just ranting and raving.

Which I was.

“So that wasn’t worth keeping. Does the person you wrote to know that? Or share the same opinion?”

“No, of course not. She thinks it’s brilliant, like everything I write.”

“She must be a really good friend, then.”

I narrowed my eyes and glared at him.

Then all of a sudden there was this strange grating noise coming from the street. It sounded like someone was pushing a shovel against the cement and pulling it back and forth. It was like nails on a chalkboard, only ten thousand times worse.

“I think that dog’s had enough,” Conor commented as he gazed out the window and up the block. “Who would be dumb enough to tie their dog to a newspaper rack in the middle of winter? Talk about cruel.”

Bear! I realized. Oh no!

Conor went back into the kitchen. Thank God he was gone—didn’t he already think I was awful?

I jammed my computer into my backpack without even turning it off, left my mug on the table and just grabbed my jacket and ran out the door. I felt terrible. I’d completely forgotten about Bear. I wasn’t used to having a dog! He was attempting to drag the newspaper box down the street. He had gotten one side of it unbolted somehow, and he was turning it and running around in circles.

“Oh no, Bear—I’m sorry!” I said as I ran over to him.

He jumped on me to lick my face. It wasn’t long before he had the leash wrapped around my legs, and I was about to go down with the Star Tribune box.

Please don’t be looking out the window, I thought as I slowly and carefully untangled the leash. I unclipped Bear’s collar for a second, and miraculously, he didn’t run off. He just sat there waiting for me while I unhooked the leash from the newspaper box and then tried to reset the box so that it didn’t look like it had just been vandalized.

Then I realized Bear wasn’t being obedient and sitting there waiting for me. He was waiting for Sean, who was walking toward us. Of all the luck. Did I have time to grab a piece of gum? Fix my hair? Anything?