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features the kind of ageless blur that Geoff’s mom paid good money to achieve at the plastic surgeon, after his dad cheated on her with both receptionists at the car dealership last October. Long story.
    â€œI’ll see you downstairs, Quinny,” Geoff whispers. “Don’t, like, read into the balloon thing. . . .” But his voice trails off. He dragged me here tonight. Geoff planned this out with Carly. He believes in signs and so I have to, too. Best friend law.
    â€œOkay, I’m coming,” I say, but then I don’t. I take my house keys out of my pocket and I step forward and I pop the pink balloon, BAM! , and watch it fall to my feet in a pathetic little zigzag.
    I whip around. The sun is almost set. The other guy is still here, though, and has turned from blurry edges to pencil-sharp lines—drawn to be my exact height and size, but with a confident smirk that says he’s never lost anything more than a round of cards.
    â€œNice haircut,” he goes, grabbing the door and holding it for me before it slams shut.
    And suddenly I know exactly what my type is.

CHAPTER SIX
    Y ou okay in there, Quinny?”
    I’ve spent so much time swishing with Listerine that when I finally exit Carly’s bathroom, my tongue is basically tingling to the point of numbness. In immediate hindsight: not recommended.
    â€œWe should hit the road,” Geoff says, crunching a red cup in his hand. I grab it from him and take a swig.
    â€œEw,” I say, “it’s warm.” I hate warm Coke.
    â€œAnd even worse . . . ,” he goes. Jesus Christ. It’s warm Pepsi. Geoff knows how I feel about non-Coke products. “But Carly ran out to get more beer.”
    My eyes must flicker back to the living room, because Geoff breaks into his conspiracy grin and goes, “I can’t believe I’m the one trying to leave and you’re the one trying to stay. The King of the Loners reinvents himself.”
    â€œNo, it’s just . . .”
    Say it, Quinn. Tell him you might have your first genuine crush. I am making up for all categories of lost time tonight. I was the last kid in my class to go through puberty. I want to see the roof guy naked. There, I said it.
    â€œ. . . like . . .”
    â€œYou haven’t been out of the house in six months,” Geoff says, for me, “and so you wanna go a little bananas tonight?”
    Relief. Close enough. “Exactly that.”
    â€œWell, then,” Geoff says, “let’s spike your 7UP with some vodka.”
    I don’t even know if 7UP and vodka go together, but we skip back to the living room like Girl Scouts on an important mission.
    â€œWe’re baaaaaack,” a voice rings out from behind us, in the epic front hallway that thinks it’s a tunnel. Carly and the rooftop guy reappear together.
    And the rooftop guy, if anyone missed that.
    I stand up straight and try to smile in a way that seems “casual but approachable” (literally I’m directing myself), but the rooftop guy totally doesn’t notice me at all. Maybe he actually hated my haircut. Maybe he’s majoring in Irony. Worse: Maybe he’s straight.
    â€œOkay, so Amir had this idea for a game we can play,” Carly goes, stepping past us and setting two six-packs of Iron City down on a coffee table that is fashioned, somewhat improbably, out of an old aquarium.
    But who has time for details. Rooftop guy has a name. Amir. Now, that’s a hell of a name. Strong, simple, super masculine. The very opposite of Quinn .
    The partygoers are scattering around me, hunting for scraps of paper. Geoff is waving his hands in my face. They smell like hummus. “Earth to Quinn,” he goes.
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œHave you ever played Celebrity?”
    â€œIf I haven’t played it with you, no. So: no.”
    â€œIt’s fun.”
    â€œOkay,” Carly says, “if