Operation Trow isn't going so well. Not that I actually know what its objective is， mind you. I'm not good at that kind of planning. I try to read the stars about it， about him， but I've never been able to read other people's stars， just my own. Mom can read other people's stars. I've asked her to teach me how to do it， but she says not to worry about it. Worry about it. Like I'm sitting around at night fretting about Mom reading other people's stars. It's not like people believe in witches anymore in this day and age； she's not going to be burned at the stake. And anyway， it's not like she can actually tell the future. She usually just says things like， It doesn't seem good， but it's all fuzzy. What good is that？ I love Mom， but really， anybody can make up something like that.
But anyway， back to Operation Trow. I consider it while I'm supposed to be doing shavasana at the end of yoga class the next day. In my head， I have a clear mental list of the ingredients for Operation Trow. Although "ingredients" makes it sound more like a recipe than an operation. What are the components of an operation？ Steps？ That's boring. Surgical instruments？ More likely.
The surgical instruments of Operation Trow are： Smile. I'm good at smiling. Mother says I'm like Mom and I smile all the time， so that's good. Do not be high-pitched like a Sophie pack girl. Yup， I can handle that as well， since high-pitched is just so not me. Invite him to yoga. That's kind of the only thing I can think of to do. I feel like other girls go out for ice cream and stuff. They pop in and out of the sushi and crepe and pizza places on Wickenden Street， twirling hair and flirting and having dates. They go to WaterFire and sit hand in hand， watching the bonfires up and down the river that slices through Providence. It all seems super cute and romantic， and I've tried a million times to imagine myself in that situation and can't. I am Merrow Rodriguez-Chance， with two mothers and rainbow-colored hair and split-personality clothing and a hippie yoga studio. I don't think I'm allowed in normal-people places like everyone else. I just don't fit there.
Trow isn't in school the second day or the third. This is really throwing a wrench into the Operation Trow ingredients/surgical instruments/plans， such as they are. I wonder if he's ever coming back.
On the fourth day， I am sitting in homeroom doing three-part breaths and counting the number of red cars going by outside， just to have something to do—because homeroom is such a waste of sleeping time， let's face it—and then there's a little rippling breeze of squealing from behind me， sweeping through the Sophie pack girls， and then there's Trow. He settles into the seat in front of me with no warning， and I sit up straight， annoyed， because I didn't have time to implement my Operation Trow surgical instruments， damn it.
Sophie comes over， complete with pack， of course. They really are mostly a package deal.
"We missed you！" squeals Sophie. "Where were you？ Were you sick？"
"No，" replies Trow. He sounds abrupt. I am delighted. I refuse to consider that maybe he sounds abrupt because of my wishful thinking.
If he really does sound abrupt， Sophie doesn't notice. "Don't worry，" she continues. "I made sure I was taking really good notes for you."
"Thanks，" says Trow.
I stare at the back of his head and wish that I could see more. It's so frustrating that Rodriguez comes after Reading alphabetically. Why couldn't his name have been Roswell or something？
The bell rings， and Se?ora Trillo calls us to order. Sophie and the pack girls scatter to their seats， and we all go through the routine of attendance—Se?ora Trillo says， "Good to see you back，" when Trow says， "Here"—and announcements， and before I know it， homeroom is over and I haven't gotten a chance to implement any of Operation Trow.
He stands up and slings his backpack over his shoulder， and I know this is my last chance—until tomorrow， yes， but it feels more dramatic than that， last chance—so I blurt out， "Hi." Did that sound ridiculous？ I bet that sounded ridiculous. "Hello，" I correct myself. And now I've greeted him twice， which makes me sound like even more of an idiot， but I still hear myself saying， "Hi，" again， as if that's going to cancel out the last two stupid greetings I made. Operation Trow is turning out to be a disaster. I should abort Operation Trow， I think.
Then he looks up at me. And smiles. He looks tired， but he has such a lovely smile. He's smiling at me even though I'm an idiot. I bet he smiles at everyone like that. He's probably just that nice. He seems like he's just that nice. But still. I like the smile. It's a glorious smile. He should stop smiling like that—he's going to snarl up traffic with a smile that beautiful， because everyone will stop to stare at him.
"Hey，" he says.
I remember belatedly that Operation Trow is supposed to involve me smiling. Not just staring at his smile foolishly. So I smile. Sometimes we make ourselves smile during yoga. It's supposed to relax the body more， trick our brains into thinking we're happy， concentrating on the many muscles involved in a smile instead of the muscles being a bit uncomfortably forced into chair pose. When I smile now， it is not a smile of effort. It is not many muscles working together； it's just one muscle—it is just a pure smile. It is the easiest smile of my life. Trow is so easy to smile at.
"Hi，" I say again， and I'm so busy enjoying how much his smile makes me smile that I don't even realize that I've stupidly greeted him yet again.
He gives me a little half wave and goes out to start his school day， as if we did not just have a truly momentous moment together.
And then I admit that I may be in trouble.
· · ·
So I tell my mom that night. We are closing up the yoga studio， and Mom is saying that we're almost out of wheatgrass and we need to get some. I am standing on the narrow， tree-lined street， looking out at the Providence skyline. I love the yoga studio at this time of year， when the days are on the wane but not yet abysmally short. When we leave， we can stand here on the edge of a gently sloping hill and the sun is just tipping beyond downtown， red just escaping to splash over the sky.
Mom hits the unlock button and her car chirps at her where it's been parallel parked in front of the studio. This is two-hour parking here， but the cops look the other way for us. Mom says it's because Mother is such a hotshot lawyer； Mother says it's because Mom is a good flirt.
"I think I'm in trouble，" I hear myself say， and then I get in Mom's car.
After a moment where I think she must be frozen with shock， Mom gets hastily into the driver's seat. "What？" she exclaims. "In trouble how？ You can't just say something like that and then get into the car！ I thought your aura was off. It's been off for days. I knew it！ I told Marty， but she said I was reading it wrong. I know I've been making some mistakes lately， but I'd never mess up your aura. What is it？ What have you done？ Don't worry， don't panic about it. We'll fix it. Let's take a three-part breath."
I look across at Mom as she sucks in the beginning of a three-part breath， and I love her so painfully much. Her short， shaggy blond hair is an artless mess all over her head， and her yoga shirt has slid off of her shoulder and her pale blue eyes are full of concern. My mom has the most beautiful eyes. I've always been sad I didn't get them.
"I'm not really in trouble，" I say， and I realize I'm grinning， and I can't help it. I just thought Mom freaking out so immediately was cute—what can I say？ I have the best mom. "It's just that there's a boy."
"Oh." Mom relaxes and gives me a knowing smile， and this is kind of why I didn't want to tell her. Knowing smiles. Like everyone else in the world knows more about all this stuff than I do. Okay， maybe that's true， but I don't like to admit it. "A boy. I knew there had to be something." Mom turns the car on and maneuvers it out of the space.
"No， you didn't，" I say affectionately.
"I was reading your stars. And there was something. Something I couldn't quite see. Had to be this boy."
"Uh-huh，" I say， dubious but indulgent.
"So. Tell me about him. What's his name？"
"Trow."
"Trow." Mom draws her eyebrows together. "That's an unusual name."
"You named me Merrow."
"Yeah， but I'm me."
"Well， I think it's a nice name. It suits him. Trow Reading. Isn't it nice？"
Mom smiles， like his name is funny or something when it's just nice. But she says， "It is. So tell me what you two talk about."
And then I feel like an idiot.
Because…we don't talk， really. Almost not at all. And how can I like him so much when I almost never talk to him？ I don't want to be one of those Sophie pack girls who just likes a boy because he's cute， even though Trow is undeniably cute. But no： I should have a reason for liking him. Shouldn't I？
If he came to yoga， I think， frowning， I could get him to go for a smoothie afterward， and then we would find out how much we have to talk about.
"He's just nice，" I say， because I feel too stupid to say that we've never really talked.
"Nice is a good start，" Mom says， and looks at me and grins.
