Usually my heart’s not in it, only my body, and my mind cooperates by going blank. But tonight my mind is in charge. Like Mr. Levine, it wants to know why. Why are you doing this? Why are you even sitting here with this girl? Why do you keep ending up with this person? Why don’t you just stop, Jack? Why don’t you just live your life and be yourself?

Which is why I go, “What’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”

She blinks at me. “I’m supposed to say ‘Jack Masselin,’ right?”

“Only if it’s true, baby. Come on, I want to know. In the whole history of your life, what’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”

“I don’t know, maybe when Chloe was born.” Chloe is her little sister.

“What’s the worst thing that ever happened?”

“When my cat Damon got hit by a car.”

The worst thing that ever happened to me was fucking up my relationship with Libby Strout, but I say, “There’s got to be something else.”

“Why?”

“Because you used to be different. Shy. Quiet. Dorky.”

“God, don’t remind me.”

“Okay, so what’s one thing people don’t know about you?”

She frowns down at the bed. “I hate the color brown. I don’t like turtles. And I got my wisdom teeth out when I was fourteen.”

Boring, boring, and boring. I almost say I have a neurological glitch in my brain that keeps me from recognizing faces. Boom! Muahahahahahahaha.

But instead I ask another question and another, and the whole time she answers in this flat, dull voice and picks at the comforter. As she talks, I’m barely listening to her answers. Instead I’m thinking, All this time, I thought she was a security blanket, but there’s no security here. How can there be when she doesn’t see me any more than I see her? I might as well be alone. And, of course, I am alone.

And then suddenly she lifts her shirt over her hair and drops it onto the floor. She readjusts her bra strap and leans back seductively. She bites her bottom lip, which is also part of the routine. A couple of years ago, the bottom lip thing slayed me.

I’m about to say something along the lines of Please put your shirt back on when this shift happens, before my eyes, and Caroline grows paler and fuller until she’s no longer sitting there. It’s Libby Strout, leaning back on one arm, plucking at the strap of her electric-purple bikini. But she’s talking and telling me things and laughing and asking me questions, and I’m talking, and then she’s sitting up and leaning in, and we’re both just talking until she says, “Um. Hello!” And snaps her fingers in my face.

And it’s Caroline again.

I stare at her, hoping she’ll morph back into Libby, and she goes, “What is your problem? Why are you being so weird?” And she’s got this sexy bra and this sexy body, and there isn’t a single guy at MVB High, even the ones who are afraid of her, who wouldn’t want to be me right now. I lay my hand on her leg and it’s smooth and feels like satin, and all I can think is:

I don’t love Caroline. I don’t even like Caroline.

I force myself to think of things I like about this Caroline right now, the only one who’s here.

She smells good. Her teeth are very … um … even. Her eyes are okay. Her mouth is nice.

I mean, I guess. But the shit she says? Not so nice. Libby has interesting things to say that aren’t cruel or selfish.

I say to my brain, Why are you doing this? Why can’t you stop thinking about Libby? Why are you fucking with me?

And as I’m sitting here having this in-depth conversation with my brain, Caroline goes, “I’m think I’m ready.”

“For what?”

“It.”

I’m trying to look into her eyes, but the room is dark except for the light that slips in under the door and her phone, which goes bright every other minute from all the texts coming in.

“It. Sex, Jack. I’m ready to have sex. With you.” And then here comes the attitude: “Unless you don’t want to.”

I’ve only been wanting to since birth, but inexplicably I hear myself say, “Why now?”

“What?”

“Why are you suddenly ready now? After all this time? What changed?”

Apparently my mouth has a mind of its own because it won’t stop talking. My manlier parts are going, STOP TALKING, YOU IDIOT! SHUT THE FUCK UP! But my mouth isn’t listening. Why isn’t it listening?

“Are you gonna argue with me about this?”

“Is this really where you want to do it for the first time? I mean, look around you.” I point to the walls of posters. I dislodge a stuffed animal from under my back and wave it in her face. “You wouldn’t really want to do it in front of this little guy, would you?”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” And she shoves me so hard I go flying off the bed.

Mick from Copenhagen and I are dancing, his hair flashing blue-black, blue-black, and his smile flashing white, white, white. We are making up dances as we go—actually, I’m making them up and he’s trying to follow along. “I call this the Wind Machine!” And then I act like I’m pushing through a windstorm. “I call this Shoes on Fire!” And then I’m jumping around like my shoes are on fire and I don’t want to touch the ground.

When a slow song comes on, he holds out his hand and I take it. Dancing with him is different from dancing with Jack. For one thing, Mick is about fifteen feet tall, so my face is pressed into his chest. For another, he kind of just sways back and forth and shuffles his feet.