Marisol leaned over to whisper to her, and when they looked across the room, a boy approached them. He wore jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, and the tear in the knee of the jeans looked like an accident. Up close the shirt might have had a mud smear across the shoulder, a brown smudge against the blue. The boy was looking at Marisol, and Amy knew the look, though the other boys tried to disguise it. Then he glanced at Amy and seemed to catch her understanding. He swerved toward her.

“You wanna dance?”

Amy couldn’t speak at first, for surprise. The boy was good-looking, what Marisol called a Yummy. A little scruffy, but the best boys were. Amy tapped her cast below the bare thigh at the hem of her skirt. “I’m not too good right now.”

“S’all right,” the boy said. “I’m not too good either.” A slow song was playing, and he took her in his arms, the way any boy would, with his hands around the small of her back. She turned easily on the rubber heel, accustomed to the movement by now, and she made a face at Marisol over his shoulder. Marisol raised her eyebrows.

He smelled like sweat, like the boys’ soccer team when they scrimmaged together, but he didn’t look like he played sports. She didn’t mind the smell; it was only a sharp, boyish smell. He kept his head down, concentrating, like he didn’t dance often. His hands were hot and damp at the small of her back: he was nervous, and Amy was moved. He had chosen her, not Marisol, and he seemed to have no friends at the dance to show off for, no need to prove he was a decent guy. She smiled at him when he looked up next, and he looked surprised. Then one of his hands slipped away from the small of her back. She didn’t look down to see where it went, but her heart sped up.

“You’re a good girl,” he said. His face was close to hers.

“If you say so,” Amy said, her voice light—it was something Marisol might say.

“I do,” he said.

She smiled at him again. His hand came back to her hip, and slipped down over the back of her skirt. She caught her breath, though he barely touched the cloth.

“Shh,” he said. His fingers brushed the back of her thigh. “You’re a good girl,” he said. “I mean it, you are.”