I had spent the summer term fantasizing about a winter by De Lafontaine’s side, close as the silk lining sewn into her coat. But now that I had gotten what I wanted, it was nothing like what I imagined. De Lafontaine was moody and demanding, jealous in the extreme though she would never admit it, and either totally neglectful or so saccharinely attentive that it left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. And then, there were the lies.
