In a minute, this old Jeep-looking thing comes rolling up. The driver’s window rolls down and Jack Masselin says, “Need a ride?”

“No.”

“Do you want to at least wait in here?”

“That’s okay.”

But then the sky cracks in two and water comes flooding down. I run for the car, and he throws open my door, and I climb in as gracefully as possible, which unfortunately means I’m slipping and sliding all over the place, shoes squeaking against the floor mat, hair sticking to my face. I slam the door closed and here I am, panting and enormous and soaked to the skin, in the front seat of Jack Masselin’s Land Rover. I’m conscious of everything dripping. My hair, my hands, my jeans. This is one of those times when I can feel myself taking up too much space.

I say, “Nice car.” The interior is a kind of burnt orange-red, but it’s all pretty basic and rugged. One thing is clear, though: I am in the vehicle of a cool guy. “It looks like something you’d take on safari.”

“Thanks.”

“Truck? Car? What do you call it exactly?”

“How about the baddest mo-fo in Amos?”

“Let’s not go crazy.”

I’m getting the heater going and now the windows are fogging.

She says, “I thought everyone was gone.”

“I was driving away and saw you come out. I thought you might need a ride or at least some shelter.”

“My dad’s usually on time.” She pulls out her phone and checks it, and I can see the worry in her, even though she’s trying to blink it away.

“He’ll be here.”

We sit watching the rain pour down. The music is playing low and the windows are steaming. If this was Caroline, we’d be making out.

And then I’m thinking about making out with Libby Strout.

What the hell?

I tell myself, This is the girl you saw LIFTED OUT OF HER HOUSE BY A CRANE.

But then I’m thinking about making out with her a little more.

Stop thinking about making out with Libby Strout.

I go, “Let me ask you something. If there was a test you could take to find out if you have what your mom had, would you take it?”

She tilts her head to one side and studies the dash. “After she died, my dad took me to see a neurologist. He said, ‘I can run a battery of tests on you to see if you have any aneurysms in your brain. If you have them, there’s a chance we can pin them off so they don’t become problems down the line. But there’s no guarantee that they’ll be fixable.’ My dad and I went home and talked about it. I was too young to understand it all, so he was the one who made the decision.”

“Did you do it?”

“No.”

“What about now? Would you do it now?”

“I don’t know.”

And even though we’re talking about aneurysms, I’m still thinking about making out with her. So I say, “Jesus, woman, you can dance.”

She smiles.

I smile.

She says, “I just handed in my Damsels application.”

“Really?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Sorry, is that shocking to you?”

“Only because I can’t picture you dancing in formation. I’m not getting the whole wielding-flags-and-wearing-the-same-costume-as-thirty-other-girls vibe. I see you as a do-your-own-thing girl. If you ask me, you’re better than the Damsels.”

“Thanks.”

She unzips her backpack and pulls something out, and at first it looks innocent—just a crumpled-up sheet of white paper. But then I read what’s written there: You aren’t wanted.

“Where did you get this?”

“My locker.”

“Do you know who put it in there?”

“No. But does it matter?”

And I know what she means. No, it doesn’t. Not really. The point is that it was sent at all, that anyone would think that or say that to her.

“People can be great, but they can also be lousy. I am often lousy. But not completely lousy. You, Libby Strout, are great.”

“I don’t know about that, but this right here is one reason I’m auditioning.” She takes the paper from me and waves it. “They can tell me this all they want, but I’m not listening.” She crumples it up and shoves it back in her bag.

I say, “I’ve got something to show you too.”

And then I go into my phone and pull something up and hold it out to her.

She reads the email out loud. “ ‘Dear Jack.’ ” And I like the way she says my name. I mean, I really like it. “ ‘Thank you for reaching out. We would be very interested in testing you. If you aren’t able to make it to Hanover, we suggest being in touch with Dr. Amber Klein, Department of Brain Sciences, Cognitive Neurology, Indiana University, Bloomington. Best, Brad Duchaine.’ ”

She looks up. “Is this about the prosopagnosia?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have written to him if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know.” Yes.

“Wouldn’t you need your parents’ permission?”

“I’ll be eighteen soon.”

“When?”

“October first.”

She hands the phone back to me, studies the dash again, then looks at me with wide amber eyes.

“So let’s go.”

“What?”

“As soon as you turn eighteen. Let’s go to Bloomington.”

“Really?”

“Why not?”

Before I know what’s happening, my eyes are reaching for her and hers are reaching for mine. Across the seat, our eyes are holding hands. We sit like this until the sound of a horn makes us jump.