Babe in Boyland
Chapter One
M y name is Natalie Rowan. Everyone knows that. Only a select few, however, know I'm the evil genius behind my nom de plume, Dr. Aphrodite. That might seem like a pretty hefty title for a seventeen-year-old junior who's not even sure she's official y made it to what my mom refers to as "heavy petting." (Ew. I know. But my other option's "third base," which is suspiciously '80s, right? Come on, inventors-of-sexual-euphemisms, get on the job!)
To be honest, I dig having a secret identity, even if it is kind of a misnomer. I think everyone should have at least a part of them that's self-invented; in fact, the world would be much more interesting if we al created our own identities afresh whenever we felt like it. Otherwise you're just walking around regurgitating what's expected, which is like,
why bother? I actual y plan to mess up my life and start over every seven years. That way, I'l never get in a rut. I read somewhere that most of your cel s only live about seven years anyway, so in theory you literal y are a new person; I figure that's the best time to start over.
I created Dr. Aphrodite when I started writ- ing our school paper's relationship column last year. It's mostly a Dear Abby type deal, where people write in with questions about love or sex or whatever and I answer them. Occasional y I sound off blog-style on some current obsession of mine-as long as I can get it past our semi-fascist censors and it's relationship-oriented, you'l see it in my column. I've covered topics like Promnesia (when perfectly sane people forget about everything except spray tans, strapless dresses, and dyed-to-match pumps), Brazil- aphobia (fear of overly zealous hair
removal), and Face Relations (getting it on with people via Facebook).
Just so you know, being Dr. Aphrodite isn't always easy. I have to guard my clandestine writing life so careful y, I sometimes feel like a secret agent. I sort of hoped writing about romance might help me scare up a little of my own, but so far that plan hasn't worked in the slightest. While I dispense sage advice to the masses about how to make their love lives thrive, my own is virtual y nonexistent. That's one of the reasons nobody can know my alias; who's going to seek advice from a love expert who's never been in love? Even though my column's super-popular, it doesn't exactly earn me friends and ad- mirers. Only my two best friends and my ed- itors know it's me behind the smoke and mirrors. You'd think at least they would re- spect me for my massive fol owing, but I sometimes suspect they don't take Dr. Aph- rodite very seriously.
Which is sad, real y. Because what's more serious than love?
As I walk into the Journalism room, I can hear my editors, Rachel Webb and Chas Marshal, snickering.
They're hunched over the computer screen, avidly reading something on the Mountain View News website. At the sound of my foot- steps Rachel turns. For a second she looks caught, but the guilty impulse passes almost instantly from her face. Her eyes sparkle as she peers at me over her glasses, pink rabbit nose twitching with delight.
"Look at this one," Chas says, al excited. "Some guy actual y cal ed her a-"
Without taking her eyes off mine, Rachel lets out a polite little cough.
Chas spins around and, seeing me, plasters on a fake smile. "Hi, Natalie."
Rachel says, "How's Dr. Aphrodite?"
"Fine." My voice comes out high-pitched and nervous; my gaze flits from Rachel to Chas and back again. "What's up?"
"Your latest column's getting lots of atten- tion." Chas leans back in his chair. "Have you seen the message board?"
