The April fools: Caroline loves a good joke as much as the next person. So when her BF dumps her without warning, will she have the last laugh?

On the first of April, my BF Tim Nolan tells me he "only wants to be friends," and I am convinced it's just a joke. It is, after all, April Fools' Day, and we've been together for three months.

We're standing at my locker after last period, where Tim always waits for me at the end of the day. It's Friday, and the normal routine is for me to drop my bag at my house and make a brief dinner appearance with Mom. We usually microwave Lean Cuisines, and then I tell her I'm going to the movies with my BFF Dana. Except I don't go with Dana--I go with Tim. It's not that Mom has a hang-up about dating--it's just easier to skip the details for now. She has enough on her mind with the mortgage payment and taking on a job, now that Dad is effectively out of the equation.

After dinner, I catch the Metro and meet Tim five stops away at the top of the escalator. Most of the time, we do go to the movies. But we sit in the back where it s easier to discreetly make out in case the movie is boring--or even if it's not.

This is more or less what I expect for tonight so, of course, I laugh when Tim breaks the news, then I sift through the notebooks in my locker, trying to figure out what I'll need for the weekend. Once I've loaded everything into my backpack, I slam my locker shut, turn around and say, "OK, I'm all set."

Tim is still standing next to me, shifting his messenger bag from one shoulder to the other and running his hands through his blond, spiky hair. His expression is one I originally chalked up to trying to keep a straight face, but now looks more like when our dog has an "accident" on the carpet.

"Caroline, I think we should just be friends."

"Tim, stop it. I get it. Good one. April Fools'. Can we go?"

"No. We can't. I'm not kidding. Look, I'm sorry. It's not you...." His voice trails off. "I should go. See ya Monday."

As he walks away from me, it looks like the crowd moving past him is in fast-forward and Tim is in slo-mo. Even after he slips out the exit, I am frozen at my locker, wondering when Tim is going to come back and say, "Gotcha!"

911. Tim dumped me. *$'s in 15 min?

Dana responds to my text message with amazing speed, and is waiting for me at Starbucks with two hazelnut lattes. She's chosen a table at the back of the room and even brought a pair of sunglasses in case I need to hide bloodshot eyes. I'm still in shock so no need for the disguise, but this is one time I really appreciate Dana's hyper-organization.

"OK. Start from the beginning," she says. We empty sugar packets in our coffees while I give Dana a play-by-play.

"... And that's it. That's all he said. Then he just ... left." I realize my voice sounds robotic.

"That doesn't make sense. You were so into each other," Dana says, blowing on her coffee as steam swirls above the top of her cup. "Look, Caroline. Maybe this is some stupid April Fools' joke. You don't just dump someone on a Friday for no reason after three months of going together. You should call him."

I shrug, but stare at my cell, trying to will it to ring.

"Don't take this wrong, Caroline--but you're not nearly as upset as I thought you'd be," Dana says. "You're almost ... calm."

She's right. I haven't cried or panicked, and I'm not sure why. "I know. I guess it just hasn't hit me yet."

"Well, that's good because we could be making a big deal out of nothing. Why don't you come over to my house tonight?"

As nice as it sounds, I actually want to go home.

The last time my house felt like a home was pre-Tim, back in the fall. I had just come back from an overnight at Dana's and my parents were at opposite ends of the kitchen. Morn was leaning against the fridge, her eyes red but steely. Dad hovered near the door that leads to the garage, two suitcases at his feet. He looked like a runner in starting position for a sprint, waiting for Mom to yell, "Ready, set, go!"

Before either of them could speak, I said, "You're kidding, right?"

But this was no joke--April was months away. By the time my parents were throwing around phrases like, "We're going to take a break for a little while," I was already tuning them out. I went to my room and shoved my iPod earbuds into my ears so I could listen to anything but the sound of their voices.

Dana makes me promise to call her first thing in the morning. "We'll go to the mall," she says. "Spring clothes are on sale. It'll take your mind off of it." I nod and walk 10 blocks back to my house.

Mom is standing in front of the microwave, watching the numbers count down as low-cal chicken carbonara spins inside in its covered, plastic tray.

"Hi Caroline," she says. "You staying for dinner or heading to Dana's?" She sets the timer for another three minutes.

"Actually I'm not going there tonight," I tell her, setting my book bag down.

Mom looks up. "Is everything OK? You two didn't have a fight, did you?"

For a sec, I want to tell her the truth--about Tim, where I've been on the weekends, how he dumped me today. But then I notice she's still wearing her suit from work, a small run in her nylons.

"No, nothing's wrong. I'm just ... tired. You want me to set the table?"

Mom smiles--just a quick flash, more like a grin--but it's the first time I've seen her do so in weeks. "That would be great," she says, as if I had offered to do the dishes for the rest of the year. "That would be terrific, actually."

As soon as I wake up on Saturday morning, I check my cell, e-mail and regular voicemail--no messages from Tim. I double-check when I get out of the shower, then again after I dry my hair. Nothing. Clearly, I have moved from shock to panic mode, but more like I'd misplaced my keys than it's-the-end-of-the-world. Driver's ed class starts in 20 minutes, so I grab my notebook and text Dana that I'll meet her at Montgomery Mall as soon as I get out of class.

Learning to drive is not as easy as I thought it'd be. There are so many rules, and I'm trying to memorize them: Yield to pedestrians, obey the speed limit and, most important, never take your eyes off the road. Only two more weeks before I test for my learner's permit.

The class slot is mostly determined by the month of our birthdays and, lucky me, I'm stuck in the same one as Scott Stevenson, a guy I know who hasn't changed much since sixth grade. He sits directly behind me and flicks paperclips at the back of my head.

Today, within the first five minutes he leans forward to bug me. "Hey, sweet Caroline," he whispers. I roll my eyes--how corny that my parents named me after a song. "I heard Tim dumped you."

"What?" I say, a little too loudly.

Mrs. Eden, the instructor, stops her speech about the dangers of cell phone use while driving. "Caroline, pay attention." My face flushes with a color that matches the pink cardigan I'm wearing.

"Sorry," I squeak, sinking into my seat.

How does Scott Stevenson already know about me and Tim? Had Tim been planning this? Did he tell other people he was planning to break up with me? My mind races with questions that have nothing to do with driving. I need to focus because failing driver's ed is not an option. Since my parents announced their "break," they look for any excuse to pick on each other. If I flunk driver's ed, it'll just become the newest battleground for their bickering war.

My mother will be on her way out the door for work, fastening her pearl earrings, clutching her travel mug of black coffee and slipping one arm into her tan overcoat when she says, "Caroline Marie Baker, do you realize how much money we've just wasted? You'll have to ask your father for the cash to retake the class."

Then, when I see my father on our mandatory Tuesday night dinner at Outback, he'll say, "Look, Caroline. Tell your mother she should worry less about the money I already paid for driver's ed and more about the money she spends on your riding lessons." Then he'll order another beer, the kind that comes in a tall glass, and look over the top of my head while we eat, keeping an eye on the ESPN highlights from the bar TV.

I won't remind him that Mom and I already cancelled my riding lessons after they separated six months ago. Instead, I'll just cut my steak into pieces, move the bits around on my plate to make it look like I've eaten, and wonder what it's going to be like to have my parents drop me off and pick me up for the rest of my life.

For now, I flip the Tim switch in my brain to "off" and try to listen to Mrs. Eden as she draws chalkboard diagrams of possible traffic situations. Scott kicks my seat as he pretends to concentrate on the four-way stop, right-of-way scenario. When I don't react, a piece of crumpled paper sails over my shoulder.

I smooth out the page and read Scott's note: "Sorry. Tim's a jerk. His loss."

I re-read the note five or six times, then tuck it into page 27 of my driver's ed guide, right in the middle of the chapter about road signs and signals, because apparently there's more than one way to indicate yield, stop and go.

Dana is sipping an Orange Julius in the food court. "Any word?" she asks. I shake my head and drop into a chair.

She changes the subject. "How was class? I cannot wait until you get your license." Dana's birthday is four months after mine. I pass her Scott's note.

"Who's this from?"

"Scott Stevenson."

"Scott Stevenson?" Dana yelps, l make the turn-down-the-volume signal--we are at the mall after all, and you never know who might be walking out of the Gap with a bag of jeans, pair of open ears and one big mouth. Dana asks, "How'd he know about you and Tim?"

"My guess is that Tim was thinking about it for a while. Maybe he told some people. Guys talk, ya know?"

"Are you pissed?" Dana asks.

"No, not pissed exactly." A couple wedges past our table and sits behind us. They look like they're in college--she's wearing a Georgetown tee, and he has a cap with Greek letters. He splits a hot pretzel and gives her half, which she dips into warm cheese sauce. I think about how Tim and I would grab lunch off campus a couple days a week, usually at the burrito stand--his choice.

Other moments from our relationship replay in my head, like I'm rewinding nay TiVo. Our IMs were mostly about who he thought was a better slam dunker--Fred Jones or Jason Richardson--or how much smarter Tim thought he was than his teachers. He burned me some CDs but with music he liked--Simple Plan, Good Charlotte. And he hadn't asked me about my parents even once.

Maybe I was the April Fool, after all.

Dana tosses her cup, and we head toward some shops. "Scott says it's Tim's loss. What's that about?" Dana asks.

I shrug--figuring out what's inside boys' heads is not my area of expertise. We walk past display windows splashed with pastel colors of spring. Mannequins hold umbrellas under baby-blue crepe-paper rain. I eye a pair of purple cowboy boots. "Those are awesome," I tell Dana.

"They totally look like something you'd wear," she says.

"Yeah." I giggle.

"What?"

"I'm thinking about some of the things Tim gave me, like on Valentine's Day. A Patriots Superbowl mug?"

Dana tries to hold back a laugh and fails. "At least there was candy in it."

I smile. "I guess Tim's world was better than my own, at least for a while."

Dana nods. She knows the details of my parents' bickering war. "Did you tell your mom about Tim last night?"

"No. But it was kind of nice. We ate dinner at the table and actually had a conversation. She even watched a Buffy DVD with me." I reach into my purse to dig for a ponytail holder and pile my hair on top of my head. "Come on. I wanna try on those cowboy boots."

I wear the boots to school Monday morning with Dana's denim skirt and a purple poncho. When I get to my locker, I remove the pictures of Tim and replace them with a photo of me and Dana at Virginia Beach, my Chococat magnet, and a Snow Patrol picture I clipped from a magazine. Much better.

My cell buzzes with a text message--from Scott: U ok? Wingos for lunch?

I type back: They have the best fries!

"Caroline." I turn around and find Tim standing behind me which, oddly enough, is exactly where I last saw him.

I close my locker and head toward first-period history. He grabs my elbow. "I just wanted to make sure you're OK. I didn't get any of your texts this weekend. I guess they didn't come through."

I'm waiting for the punchline and realize Tim is serious. "I didn't send you any messages," I say.

"It's OK if you did--I understand."

"Well, thanks, but I really didn't."

Tim stammers as the last bell warns us we have one minute to get to class.

"I'll see you around, OK?" I tell him.

"Look ..." He trails off and breaks into a grin. "Wait a second. I get it. Belated April Fools. This is like a joke, right?"

"Not anymore." I turn and walk away.

Tim is left standing in the hallway, just like I was, completely baffled about what just happened. And I feel fine.