“Good.”

  Her voice dropped: “It just doesn’t bode well for me. As a sustainable object of affection.”

  “Nothing that happened in the past applies to me,” Benji said. “I’m an entirely new variable.”

  “An entirely new variable,” Summer repeated, hanging on to his coat.

  Benji touched her hand.

  “I’m scared,” she whispered. “I feel so much better. Now. Than I did. I like feeling better.”

  “Do you like me, Summer?”

  Summer nodded. Once. Then again. She kept nodding. With her chin in the air.

  Benji pulled her a little closer. “You can trust yourself to fall in love.” He pulled her closer. “You can trust me to catch you.”

  Summer’s eyes were swimming with tears. (It felt okay. It felt terrifying. It felt like morning.) She stood on tiptoe, but it wasn’t enough. “I trust you,” she swore.

  Benji put his arms around Summer and swung her up onto a concrete ledge at the edge of the sidewalk. She barely had time to get her feet under her. They were eye to eye now, for the first time ever—Benji’s eyes were swimming, too. Summer carefully put her arms around his neck. It was like hugging an oak tree. She laughed a little. She was still crying. She was scared.

  He moved his face toward hers with more care than she thought he was capable of. Summer met him halfway. His lips were fuller than she was used to, his mouth was warmer. She hugged his big head. His hair was rough, it curled around her fingers. She liked him, she trusted him—even though she never knew what she was going to get with him. It was always pretty good. It was already better.

  Benji pulled away a little. They were both laughing. Sort of. Softly. Summer blinked away a few tears. She stroked his head with her thumbs.

  “Yeah?” Benji whispered.

  “Yeah.” Summer nodded.

  He grabbed her waist again and spun her around. “Yeah!” he shouted.

  There were problems.

  Summer had already ruined her room with Charlie. Ruined her bed with good and terrible memories. She didn’t want Benji in there.

  So she stayed in Benji’s room most nights after their ten o’clock curfew and had to sneak back to her own floor whenever she needed to use the girls’ restroom, and then sneak back to Benji again.

  She was bound to see Charlie someday, while she was sneaking around, and it was going to be awful. (Summer was over Charlie, but she didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want him imposing his gaze on her. On Benji.) (Benji didn’t care if Charlie saw them. “Fuck that guy.”)

  Benji’s room was a mess. He hardly owned any clothes, but every inch of space was filled with books and papers and computer components—and stacks and stacks of CDs. (He was only sort of big into Napster.)

  His bed was always full of hemp seeds—he munched them like popcorn—and broken mechanical-pencil leads. The mattress wasn’t big enough for the both of them together. It was just barely big enough for Benji alone.

  And they couldn’t both listen to music on his headphones, so they argued about how loud to turn the volume and whether the music would bother the girl who lived below him.

  They lay on Benji’s bed, Summer tucked between his chest and the wall, with his arm around her waist. Whatever terrible tank top he’d been wearing would get thrown onto the floor; Summer couldn’t abide them.

  They listened to music that reminded Summer of things that hadn’t happened yet.

  She was afraid to tell him that she loved him.

  How could she say to him the same words she’d said to Charlie? Knowing how much different this was, between them. How far superior.

  Summer hadn’t been magic with Charlie. She’d only gotten glimpses of how good she could feel.

  Benji was bigger than life. He was too loud. His face was too red. Benji told Summer that he loved her. In words. And music. And fierce looks on the elevator.

  “Benji . . .” Summer said. And what she meant was, A thousand mix CDs won’t be enough if you ever stop loving me.

  Summer met Benji in the cafeteria most nights. They both came straight from class. Sometimes Michelle sat with them. Not usually.

  He was late tonight, and Summer wondered if she should eat her mashed potatoes before they got cold.

  But then he was there, and he didn’t have a tray. He was holding two bowls.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  He set a bowl of ice cream in front of her. “An appetizer.”

  Summer giggled. “Don’t you need protein?”

  “I’ll have protein for dessert.” He sat down with his own bowl. “And don’t lecture me on nutrition. You eat like a seven-year-old.”

  “Benji . . .” Summer said. She hadn’t touched her ice cream.

  He took a bite, but he was listening.

  “I’m still a romantic,” she said.

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “I still believe in true love.”

  He nodded. “Your ice cream is already melting.”

  “Benji,” she whispered.

  He looked up at Summer and grinned like he had her number.

  He very definitely did.

  The Snow Ball

  IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE EVE, AND OWEN AND Libby weren’t going to watch Meet Me in St. Louis together.

  Even though it was Christmas Eve Eve, and they always watched Meet Me in St. Louis together on Christmas Eve Eve.

  Well . . . always for the last three years.

  Libby and Owen met freshman year when they were both trying out for the fall play. Neither of them got a part. They ended up as stagehands, wearing black T-shirts and black work gloves, and realizing that they always had something to say to each other. Being with Owen was easy—Libby could be herself. (She couldn’t even manage that when she was alone.)

  They had everything important in common—and the ways that they were different were interesting, not irritating.

  (Well. Libby never got irritated with Owen. He got irritated with her sometimes. But . . . everybody got irritated with Libby. Her mom said she was abrasive. The nice thing about Owen was that he didn’t seem to mind being irritated with her. Like being irritated with her ultimately wasn’t that irritating for him.)

  They both loved acting. They loved theater. And old movies. They loved quoting their favorite things at each other. They loved having theme nights. Theme weeks. They loved rituals. They both loved Christmas.

  It was Libby’s idea to spend their first Christmas as best friends watching all their favorite Christmas movies together.

  And then the next year, when they did it again, Owen had said, “I guess this is our tradition now.”

  Libby had loved that. That he’d said that. She loved having traditions with Owen. She loved that their whole friendship was a secret handshake.

  This was their fourth Christmas as best friends. They’d watched Elf last night. And tomorrow they were going to watch It’s a Wonderful Life.

  And tonight was supposed to be Meet Me in St. Louis. They both loved Judy Garland. (Libby’s mom said that probably meant that Owen was gay.) (Libby told her mom that was a very retro assumption.) (Libby kind of wished that Owen was gay. Then he’d probably stay home with her tonight.)

  They were supposed to spend the night on the leather couch in Owen’s family room. Owen was supposed to make popcorn, and Libby was supposed to eat it all.

  And then, at the end of the movie, Owen would sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” And Libby would tell him to stop being so maudlin, for Pete’s sake.

  It was tradition. Their tradition.

  And what was Owen doing instead?

  “So you’re going to the Snow Ball . . .” Libby said. “The Snow Ball.”

  Owen ignored her. He was trying to tie his bow tie in the mirror.

  Libby could see herself in the mirror, too—sitting behind Owen on his bed. She was making a face like one of those cats who looks disgusted with everything because they have really mean eyebrows.

  “It’s like a snowball,” she said, “but also like a snow ball, get it?”

  “God,” Owen said, dropping his arms. “It’s still crooked.”

  Libby looked at his pink bow tie. And his mermaid-green jacket. And his skinny black pants. He looked very . . . dapper.

  Owen always looked nice, at least to Libby. He was careful with his clothes and his hair, and he projected confidence, even though he was smaller than most boys.

  He always looked good. But tonight he looked shined up and special. Like a boy in a movie. (They were usually shorter than you expected, too.)

  “You look fine,” she said, falling back on his bed.

  “You didn’t even look.”

  “I looked.”

  He turned away from the mirror and bumped his knee against hers. “Look.”

  Libby sat up and pushed her glasses up higher on her nose. Owen’s wavy brown hair was slicked back. He’d shaved. (Owen shaved now.) His chin was sharp, and his brown eyes were bright. “Okay,” she said. “I’m looking. What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “This tie,” he said. “Is it ridiculous?”

  “All ties are ridiculous.”

  “Libby.”

  She looked closely at his tie—then reached up and pulled it undone. “Yes.”

  His face fell. “Jesus Christ, Libby! That took me fifteen minutes to tie!”

  “I’ll bet it won’t take that long next time.”

  He turned back to his reflection, gritting his teeth. “You’re such a . . .”

  “A what?” she asked the mirror.

  He puffed his breath, avoiding her eyes while he reknotted his tie. “You don’t have to be here, you know. If you don’t want to be.”

  “You told me to come over! You told me to come help you get ready.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not helping, Libby.”

  “Did you actually think I would?”

  “Yes.” He glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. “I hoped that you might rise to the occasion and psych me up. Be my corner man.”

  “What’s a corner man?”

  He ran his fingers along the tie, straightening it behind his collar. “That guy in a boxing match who, like, slaps you on the face, and throws water on you, and says ‘You can do it!’ ”

  “You should have told me that you wanted me to slap you,” Libby said. “I would have done it, like, twelve times already.”

  Owen turned away from the mirror again and stood at the end of the bed, his bed, looming over her—as much as you can loom when you’re only five foot six. (Libby was three inches taller than Owen. That never seemed to bother him.)

  “You’re supposed to be telling me I can do this,” he said.

  Libby frowned and scooted back on the bed, leaning against the headboard. She pulled one of his blue-striped pillows over her stomach. “Do what, tie a tie? You can; I just watched you. It was slow and pathetic and crooked in the end—but you got the job done. Go, you.”

  “Not the tie,” Owen said, licking his bottom lip. Resting his tongue there. It was a tic—the gratuitous lip-licking. It called attention to how thin his lips were. His bottom lip was a smudge, and his top lip wasn’t there at all. Really. It was just an edge, a rim, a thin pink bracket.

  “Not the tie,” he said again. “The whole thing. You know this is the first time I’ve ever gone to a dance. I’m a senior. I’m seventeen years old. And this is the first time I’ve gone to a dance—”

  He was getting riled up now. Theatrical. Waving his arms around. (He’d done a Mark Twain monologue last year in forensics, and he’d never abandoned the gestures.)

  “—because it’s the first time that someone who I liked has actually said yes. You know I’m nervous, Libby, and you’re my best friend. Can’t you just try to be encouraging?”

  Libby narrowed her eyes at him. There was hair in her eyes, so she pushed it behind her ear. “You. Can. Do. It,” she said.

  Owen closed his eyes and shook his head again. “Thanks a lot,” he said bitterly.

  “Whatever ‘it’ is,” Libby went on. “What is ‘it’ anyway? Is it the dancing? Are you worried about the dancing?”

  Owen huffed and went back to his bow tie, frowning down at the tails and squishing his chin into his neck so he could see what he was doing. “I’m not worried about the dancing.”

  “Because you’re a good dancer,” she said.

  He glanced up at her. Suspiciously. “Thank you.”

  “You do that thing . . .” She wrinkled her nose and popped her neck back and forth.

  He sighed and crossed one piece of the tie over the other, shaking his head.

  “No, it’s good,” she said. “I like it. I like it when you snap your fingers, too.” She snapped.

  “I’m a perfectly good dancer, Libby.”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Owen. You’re a perfectly good dancer. So that must not be the ‘it.’ The thing you’re worried about.”

  He looked back at the mirror.

  “Where are you taking her to dinner?” Libby asked.

  “Mother India.”

  “Nice,” she said. “Intimate. Did you make reservations?”

  “They don’t take reservations.” He undid the knot he was working on and took another deep breath.

  “Does Carmen like Indian food?”

  “Kamrin,” he said. “I know you know her name. She’s in your creative writing class.”

  “Right,” Libby said. “Karen.”

  “You’re not funny, Libby.”

  Libby pushed the pillow off her lap. “That doesn’t reflect poorly on me, you know. I can’t help how unfunny I am. But you chose me as your best friend. It’s your bad taste that’s in question here.”

  “I didn’t choose you,” he muttered, watching his own neck in the mirror. His chin was lifted. His Adam’s apple was suspended. “I picked you up like a weird rock or a feather, and forgot that I stuck you in my pocket until two years later.”

  “That’s very poetic,” Libby said. “You should be in my creative writing class. I’m pretty sure I’d remember your name, if you were.”

  “Kamrin likes Indian food,” Owen said. “I asked her.” His bow tie was tied again. And skewing badly to one side. Listing. Like a doomed cruise liner.

  He grimaced and pulled it undone.

  Owen’s hands were very small. If he’d been born during the Industrial Revolution, he’d probably have a horrible job that called for a small stature and nimble fingers. He played marimba in the school band, and he was always tapping out some rhythm on his leg or his desk or the back of Libby’s head.

  “So you’re not worried about the dancing,” she said. “You’ve got dinner in order, you’ve got your pink tie . . . You finally got a girl you like to say yes . . .

  Is this the part where I slap you?”

  Owen looked genuinely miserable for a second. He let go of the tie and slumped back onto his bed, his hands falling between his knees. “Never mind,” he said.

  Libby frowned. She wasn’t used to Owen looking miserable. She wasn’t used to him acting insecure.

  She crawled forward on the bed and sat next to him. “Don’t look like that.”

  “Like what,” he said to the floor.

  “I don’t know. That.”

  “Leave me alone, Libby.”

  “Like, really alone? Or shut up for a minute?”

  “Shut up for a minute.”

  She shut up. She watched herself in the mirror. She was wearing faded jeans and an Old Navy sweater with a penguin on it. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, but half a dozen dark curls had worked their way free.

  Owen looked dapper.

  Libby looked . . . not. Libby looked like Libby. Tall and sloppy and careless. She looked like the kind of girl who’d never needed help zipping up a fancy dress.

  She pushed a curl behind her ear and leaned toward him.

  “You’re a good dancer,” she said again, more clearly.

  “Thanks.”

  “And it’s a dance. So you’ll be fine.”

  “Right,” he said, staring at the floor.

  He had a sprig of something green attached to his lapel. “That’s nice,” she said. “What’s that?”

  “What?”

  “On your jacket.”

  He glanced at his collar. “Mistletoe.”

  “Nice touch,” she said.

  “It’s a Christmas dance.”

  “I know.” Libby nodded. “The Snow Ball.”

  He stared at the ground.

  “Much Christmas,” she said. “Very dance.”

  “You could come,” he said, still looking at his knees, “if you want.”

  “What?” Libby sat back.

  “You could come to the dance.”

  “With you and Camden?”

  “Well, not to dinner—but you could meet us at the dance. A bunch of our friends will be there.”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t dance.”

  “I’ve seen you dance, Libby.”

  “You have,” she said. “But no one else needs to.”

  “It might be fun.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve Eve, Owen. There are traditions to uphold. Somebody has to watch Meet Me in St. Louis—it isn’t going to watch itself. Somebody has to eat chocolate oranges and light a candle for Judy Garland.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I said I’d watch it with you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve, we watch It’s a Wonderful Life. Don’t upset the natural order of things.”

  “You might like it,” he said. “The dance.”

  “I won’t like it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it’s a dance, Owen. It’s everyone I already don’t like from school—but all dressed up and dancing. If I don’t like them sitting in desks, why would I like them dancing?”

  “It’s not about them.”

  “It’s about Kaitlin?”

  “No. It’s about you,” he said. “Trying something new.”

  “Something new . . .”

  “You only get so many high school dances in life.” He waved his hand around. “You may as well go to one. So that you don’t look back and feel like you missed out on something.”