“Again,” she said, turning to look down on him. “That’s all on you. You chose me. You saw me on the shelf and thought, That one—that one there. That’s my best friend.”

“I didn’t choose you,” Owen muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I picked you up because you looked interesting, and didn’t realize I was still holding you until I’d already left the store.”

“You’re like E. E. Cummings or something,” she said. “You should write these things down.”

She fell back on the bed, too. Owen folded his arms. They were both staring at the ceiling now.

“I know that Jeremy Wheeler asked you to the Snow Ball . . .” Owen said.

“It’s not a secret,” she said.

“Jeremy’s cute.”

Jeremy was fine. “He looks like a guy in a Target ad.”

“Everybody likes Jeremy Wheeler.”

“Every time I see him,” Libby said, “I think, On sale this week at your neighborhood Target.”

“You like Jeremy Wheeler,” Owen said.

“So what?” She raised up her hands. “Everybody likes him.”

“Yeah, but he likes you.”

“I’m likable,” she said.

“No,” Owen said, “you’re not.”

“You like me . . .”

“No.” Owen sounded tired. “I just don’t know what to do with you.”

“You haven’t found a place to set me down yet . . .”

“Exactly,” Owen said.

Here will do, she thought.

Owen sat up and started over with his tie. He was being very brisk. And dapper. And on his way to a dance.

“You can do it,” Libby said to the ceiling.

“Thanks.”

“Whatever ‘it’ is.”

“Thanks.”

“Is ‘it’ Carolyn?”

“Kamrin.”

“Whatever. Is she ‘it’?”

Owen shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Libby repeated.

“I just don’t want to mess this up,” he said. “I think she really likes me—that never happens.”

“That happens.”

“Shut up, Libby.”

“People like you.” Libby lifted herself up on her elbows to look at him. “Who doesn’t like you?”

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“Who doesn’t like you? Seriously, who is this person who doesn’t like you? I want to dissect them and document it for science.”

“Libby . . .”

“Everyone likes you, Owen.”

Everyone did like Owen—even more than they liked Jeremy Wheeler. Libby had thought she and Owen were meant to be best friends because they were both misfits. They were both weirdos. But then Owen went and showed everyone that you could be weird and popular. Libby had thought those things were mutually exclusive. She’d wanted them to be. She’d wanted to keep Owen for herself.

“You know what I mean,” he said, like he couldn’t hear her internal monologue. He was staring at his neck in the mirror. “I mean girls. A girl like Kamrin has never liked me.”

“What kind of girl is that?”

“Pretty,” he said. “Decent. She’s really cool, you know? She could go to this dance with anybody, but she said yes to me.”