What plan, you ask? The plan to finally—finally, finally—meet violin boy, and sweep him off his feet. Me, sweep him off his feet? I know. The laws of the jungle and romance novels would have it the other way around, but I’m not going to wait one more second for that. Milquetoast girls raised on princess stories might sit tight and bat their eyelashes in desperate Morse code—notice me, like me, please—but I am not that girl. Well, to be honest, I’ve been that girl for three months now, and I’ve had enough.
