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?”