My mother has just finished writing her 14th book--one for each year of my life. They've all been about me in one horrible way or another, and I hated them all. Each time, she promised the main character would not resemble me, and each time my friends seemed to recognize me. This time, she thought she had played it safe by writing a teenage romance. Nothing in my life had even come close to romance! But that was before Jason Furst moved into the apartment next door.