Happy Valentine?s Day, loverboy,? Zeke Freedman greeted Dan as fourth-period U.S. history was about to begin. He handed Dan a pink paper shopping bag. ?Aggie asked me to give this to you. A messenger just brought it to the front desk.? The handles of the bag were tied with red satin ribbon. Dan tugged on the bow and emptied the contents of the bag out onto his desk: a small white box and a slim red leather book. Inside the white box was a stubby silver pen on a silver chain. A card inside the box described it as an antigravity pen, the kind used by astronauts in space. Dan put the chain around his neck and opened the leather book up to the first page where someone had scrawled a note:Kick gravity?s ass, you charmer. Dig? Dan reread the note, completely dumbfounded. It was too bizarre for Vanessa, which meant it was definitely from Mystery. The final bell rang and Mr. Dube strode into the room and started erasing the blackboard. Dan tucked the bag of presents under his seat and opened his notebook, pretending to listen to what Mr. Dube was saying about Vietnam and apathy. School seemed so lame and inconsequential when a big-time agent like Rusty Klein wanted to represent him, and an obviously brilliant, intriguingly sexy poet had sent him those exquisitely astute Valentine?s Day gifts. Then Dan remembered Vanessa and his hands began to tremble. He hadn?t sent her anything for Valentine?s Day? not that Vanessa was at all into such a ?commercial bullshit holiday,? as she called it, but he hadn?t even called her. Actually, his biggest problem was . . . he?d cheated on her. And not just kissing cheating either.Cheating cheating.  Whoops. It was all Mystery?s fault. With her see-through slip and crooked yellow teeth she?d made him feel like he was living inside of one of his poems, kissing a beguilingly odd girl he?d created at a raucous, screwball party he?d invented. He hadn?t been able to help but let his imagination run amok, sending him stumbling across the snowy landscape to her ramshackle Chinatown studio apartment and making love to her in all sorts of odd yogalike positions on her uncomfortable futon bed as the sun was rising over the bleak, snow-covered city. It was almost as if none of it had actuallyhappened . It wasfiction . Except it wasn?t fiction. He?d cheated. Dan had been dreadfully hungover for the remainder of the weekend and too deeply mired in existential guilt and self-loathing to answer Vanessa?s countless messages on his cell phone. He flipped to the back of his history notebook. What if he wrote Vane............