He uncrossed and recrossed his feet sometime during the first section and said, “So, Carson.” And it took me a second to realize he wasn’t reading anymore.

“Hmm?”

“Carson. I can’t believe you like him.”

I sat up, folded my legs, and picked at my fingernails. “I never said that.”

Decker dropped his feet to the floor. “So then what the hell were you doing with him on my couch?”

I examined my fingernails very, very closely. Decker and I were skilled avoiders of uncomfortable conversations. I was irritated that he was bringing this up, weeks later, a lifetime after the fact. But it was the truth, I didn’t like Carson. Or not in the way he thought. But nobody had ever looked at me like that before. Nobody had ever made me feel like I was something to be desired or someone worthy of pursuing. So when he smiled at me and cocked his head to the side and wrapped an arm around my lower back and pulled me close, I didn’t push him away.

Decker was my best friend, but he was also a guy. And there were some things impossible to explain to him. Which is why I said, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Decker slapped Les Misérables facedown on my desk, breaking the spine. “No, I understand perfectly.” He stood up, stretched his arms over his head, and turned for the door.

“You’re driving me tomorrow, right?”

“Driving you where?”

“To the party.”

“You’re going to the party? Because Carson asked you to go?”

“Because I want to go,” I said.

He didn’t answer, but I knew he wouldn’t leave without me. In fact, I was reasonably sure that after Falcon Lake, he would never leave me again.

Dad took me Christmas shopping that night. He drove the thirty minutes to the nearest mall, took several twenty dollar bills from his wallet, and settled onto a wooden bench outside a department store.

I wove through the congestion of people and vendors and Christmas decorations. Traffic slowed to a near standstill in the center atrium, where someone had seen fit to create an enormous snow-globe replica of the North Pole. Children and adults filed into the dome, awaiting visits with Santa, as wisps of cotton fell around them in makeshift snow.

What a waste. Maybe this would’ve been a good idea in a climate of perpetual summer. But here? We had the real thing. I ducked into the nearest store to recuperate from the push of the crowd. As luck would have it, I stumbled upon the perfect gift for Decker.

New purchase in tow, I took a deep breath and exited the store. I stuck close to the walls and was only bumped a few times before slipping into a gadget store for Dad. I got him some sort of calculator/clock/word-of-the-day display. Totally impractical, but it’d look cute on his desk.

Now armed with two bags, I jutted out my elbows and prepared to cross the center of the atrium. A line of kids clung to the outside of the dome, their faces pressed against the plastic in hopes of catching a glimpse of the Man in Red. I shuddered as I thought about all the germs spackling the dome and unconsciously took a step backward. I tripped over a stray foot and fell onto my butt. Nobody helped me up. Jerks.

I pulled myself upright and barrelled my way to the women’s clothing store, illiciting a few choice words from the people I knocked into.

I was still mumbling to myself in the rear of the store when I heard the unmistakable perkiness that was Tara. “Somebody’s not in the Christmas spirit,” she said. Tara stood flanked by two equally primped girlfriends. “Buying me a new sweater?” she asked. My face must’ve dropped, because Tara put her arm around my shoulders. “Just kidding! Man, Delaney, lighten up.”

“I’m sorry, I was going to. I am going to. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“No problem. Hey, are you and Decker, you know, together?”

“No.” I didn’t like where this was going. She was pressed so close and everything about her—her soap, her shampoo, her laundry detergent—smelled so good. Even to me, and I hated her. In theory at least. Guys must fall for her on scent alone.

“Then today’s your lucky day. We’ll call it even.” I got the distinct feeling that I had traded something away that I didn’t want to part with. I stiffened my back and stepped out of her semi-embrace. I looked through a stack of lime green sweaters on the display in front of us and purposely pulled out a sweater a size too big for Tara.

“Here,” I said, handing her the sweater and counting out the cash.

She laughed, threw the shirt down on the shelf, and handed back the money. Then she spun on her heel and left. I was so flustered that I bought the ridiculous green sweater for Mom and called it a day.