He stands up taller, tries to walk like his brothers. They’re older than him by ten and eight years, Andrew clearly an accident, so much so that no one even bothered to pretend. Both were over six feet tall by the time they reached sixteen. One played basketball and the other rowed. Andrew spent his childhood being shuttled around to sporting events, waiting for the day he’d grow. He practiced handstands behind the bleachers, taught himself to do a backbend.

Change it again.

His whole life, Andrew’s been weak. As a kid, he was constantly sick. Always running fevers and suffering stomachaches. He and another kid could take the exact same fall off the monkey bars: The other kid would brush the wood chips off their pants, and Andrew would wind up in the hospital with seven staples in his head. He broke his arm trying to teach himself to do a front handspring. Missing school because of doctor’s appointments and trips to the allergist. Gluten’s the latest on the laundry list.

Move like you’ve had some good news.

Welp, there’s Celia Gilbert again, Celia Gilbert that he can’t seem to get over, even though it lasted two weeks—eleven days, really. Eleven days, two and a half years ago. It started the last week of school before winter break, when everyone is supposed to be doing the most and no one is doing anything, when flurries outside can make the whole class erupt into shrieks of “It’s snowing!” They were partners in computer literacy, designing a website for an imaginary company. They touched a lot. He made her laugh. She smelled like clementines. He went up to Ros and said, “I think I’m in love with Celia.” “No shit,” Ros said. They gave him the combination to Celia’s locker, and he planted a trail of peppermints all over the school, taped to flash cards with clues as to where she might find the next one. Ros helped him think of the riddles. It was the closest he’d ever felt to Ros: trying to win over Celia.

Now this news is even better, says the director.

Eleven days, but it was the start of winter break, so they saw each other all of four times. The first time, he misread the movie times, and so instead of seeing a movie as planned they wandered around a Target, reading each other sympathy cards from the greeting aisle. The second time they rode bikes around the college campus by Celia’s house. It was a production: putting air in the tires, blowing cobwebs from helmets. It was twenty degrees, the coldest day California had seen in decades. After fifteen minutes of riding, they were sweating beneath their jackets but their hands had frozen into claws. He blew on hers to warm them up, rubbed them between his own hands.