Charlotte sat back and stretched her arms, feeling pleased with herself. (But she was a writer, so while she did get this moment of thinking herself somewhat brilliant, it would soon be offset by a crippling doubt that she had a gift of words at all. Such is the way with all writers. Trust us.) She liked what she’d written because it felt true. Better that a boy not be overtly handsome, she thought, if one was plain. Better that there were simply individual parts of said boy to admire. Like the shape of his hands. Or a smile. Or . . .
