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.”