Holly Jacobson sprinted down the stairs two at a time and nearly collided with her twelve-year-old brother, Josh, who was deep into his Game Boy Advance.

“Hey, watch it, Nintendo-head,” Holly teased, skirting around him.

Josh looked up from the game and stuck his tongue out at Holly. Then he pointed to the small square of shiny turquoise material that was tucked under her arm, and his green eyes widened.

“Is that a bra?” Josh asked, curiosity and disgust mingling in his voice.

Holly rolled her eyes. “No, you dweeb. It’s a tankini.” Could her brother get any grosser?

“Whatev,” Josh replied, tromping up the stairs.

Growing up, Holly and Josh had been pretty tight – they could spend hours griping about how annoying their parents were – but ever since her brother hit puberty, Holly had felt totally distanced from him. Holly didn’t have many good guy friends, and sometimes she worried that maybe she just didn’t get boys. They all seemed to speak a different language from her. Which probably explained why her experience with boys was so utterly lacking.

Except for that one incredible summer, three years ago.

Holly headed down the hall into the kitchen. Her best friend, Meghan, sat at the table, munching on apple slices and idly flipping through her math textbook. Holly’s open binder and textbook were on the table, as well; the two girls were supposed to be doing their precalculus assignment together that afternoon. But all they’d done so far, much to Holly’s chagrin, was talk about Meghan’s spring break plans.