As I flipped through my European phrase guide, I started to panic. I glanced over at the curly-haired boy next to me on the plane, looking for a means to ease the nervous fluttering of the butterfly garden that had unexpectedly bloomed in my stomach—or was it the altitude? Either way, he had fallen into a deep sleep somewhere in the middle of Confessions of a Shopaholic, and was now drooping his head dangerously close to my shoulder. I turned to the window and found nothing but dark sky staring back at me.
