It was a reasonable enough question—if you hadn’t lived your whole life in Carbondale, like Holden and me. If you had, then you knew Carbondale was the self-proclaimed “Solar Eclipse Crossroads of America.” You see, the last total solar eclipse to hit Carbondale was only seven years ago—which sounds like an eternity, until you realize that prior to that, the continental United States hadn’t seen a total solar eclipse since 1979. Which is older than Metallica. So basically, what we were experiencing was an impossible surplus of the rarest celestial event known to the planet Earth. Not to mention, the eclipse of seven years ago reached its “point of greatest duration” in Carbondale—a whopping two minutes and forty seconds. Which was allegedly a big deal. This eclipse business was Carbondale’s entire identity. They closed school for this shit.

But Holden already knew this, so I resolved to change the subject.

“Jesus Christ… on ice,” I mused. “Are you imagining our Lord and Savior as a chilled beverage or a theatrical figure-skating show?”

Holden laughed, rolled his eyes, and punched me in the arm. “Shut up, you atheist schmuck. God knows you need a fucking miracle.”

My obsession with Imogen ran deep. It all started in elementary school during our fourth-grade production of Romeo and Juliet.

Obviously, it was a kid-friendly version with a dumbed-down script. Also, our fourth-grade drama teacher, Ms. Lopez, resolved that the double suicide was too dark, so she went with an alternative, happily-ever-after ending.

Now don’t get me wrong. Even in fourth grade, I was antisocial as balls. But there was something about playing a role—being someone else—that opened something up inside me. It felt like I was free to say or do whatever I wanted. Which was weird, because I was reading and memorizing a script, so it was kind of the opposite.

Turns out, I was a fourth-grade prodigy at Shakespeare. Even if it was a dumbed-down, alternate-reality, happily-ever-after Shakespeare. It was like a right-brain tsunami, rising to meet the incredible wall of my left-side math brain. I nailed the auditions and was cast as Romeo.

And Juliet was none other than Imogen Klutz.

Imogen was a glutton for drama and theatrics. She was born for the role.

Over the course of that fourth-grade production, I sort of fell in love with Imogen. Even though the only time we talked was when we were reciting lines to each other. But somehow, nine-year-old me was convinced: If I just nailed this performance, Imogen and I would be together.

I know, right? Whatever that’s supposed to mean to a fourth grader. Jesus.

Naturally, I botched it all up.