He didn’t say anything for a minute, and I wondered if he was going to pass. Too competitive, I thought, and I was right. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not something I notice, if it’s even happening.”

“The name of the game,” I told him, “is Truth.”

He turned and looked at me, annoyed. “Fine. It’s weird. I mean, it’s not like it counts or anything. They don’t know me by looking, nobody does. It’s totally surface. It’s not real.”

“Tell that to her,” I said, nodding at the girl in the far corner, who was still ogling him.

“Funny,” he muttered, making it a point to look away. “Is it my turn yet?”

“No, I have a follow-up question.”

“Is that legal?”

“Yes,” I said, with authority. Now I was Caroline, making up my own rules. “Okay, so if that’s not real, what is? What counts, to you?”

He thought for a second, then said, “I don’t know. Just because someone’s pretty doesn’t mean she’s decent. Or vice versa. I’m not into appearances. I like flaws, I think they make things interesting.”

I wasn’t sure what answer I’d expected. But this wasn’t it. For a second, I just sat there, letting it sink in.

“You know,” I said finally, “saying stuff like that would make girls even crazier for you. Now you’re cute and somewhat more attainable. If you were appealing before, now you’re off the charts.”

“I don’t want to be off the charts,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I do, however, want to be off this subject.”

“Fine,” I said. “Go ahead, it’s your turn.”

Inside, I could see Kristy chatting up some guy with dread-locks, while Monica sat beside her, looking bored. Bert, for his part, was eyeballing the girl with the quarter, who, by my count, had now missed the cup six times in a row.

“Why is being perfect so important to you?”

I felt myself blink. “It’s not,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s this game called again?”

“That’s the truth,” I said. “I don’t care that much about being perfect.”

“Seems like you do.”

“How do you figure?”

He shrugged. “Every time you’ve mentioned your boyfriend, you’ve said he was.”

“Well, he is,” I said. “But I’m not. That was part of the problem.”

“Macy, come on.” He looked at me. “I mean, what’s perfect, anyway?”

I shook my head, lifting my beer to my lips. It was empty, but I needed something to do. “It’s not about being perfect, really. It’s about . . . I don’t know. Being in control.”

“Explain,” he said, and I sighed.

“I don’t know if I can,” I told him. I glanced back at the dining room, looking for Kristy, a distraction, but she and Monica and Bert were gone, the table now deserted. “When my dad died, it was like everything felt really shaky, you know? And trying to be the best I could be, it gave me something to focus on. If I could just do everything right, then I was safe.”

I couldn’t believe I was saying this, not here, at a party packed with classmates and strangers. In fact, I couldn’t imagine saying it anywhere, really, except in my own head, where it somehow made sense.

“That sucks, though,” Wes said finally, his voice low. “You’re just setting yourself up to fail, because you’ll never get everything perfect.”

“Says who?”

He just looked at me. “The world,” he said, gesturing all around us, as if this party, this deck encompassed it all. “The universe. There’s just no way. And why would you want everything to be perfect, anyway?”

“I don’t want everything to be perfect,” I said. Just me, I thought. Somehow. “I just want—”

“Curfew,” I heard from beside me, and I looked up to see Monica standing there, blowing her bangs out of her face. She gestured to her watch, then to the kitchen, where I could see Bert and Kristy waiting for us.

“Saved by the bell,” Wes said, hopping down off the rail. I slid down too, taking my time, my last three words still hovering in my mind. Here was a boy who liked flaws, who saw them not as failings but as strengths. Who knew such a person could even exist, or what would have happened if we’d found each other under different circumstances? Maybe in a perfect world. But not in this one.

Oh, how I hated the info desk.

Before, it had been bad. Boring. Stifling. So quiet I was sure, if I listened hard enough, I could hear the blood moving through my veins, the plates of the earth shifting, time literally passing. Even if my day was going well, all it took was pushing open the doors of the library for everything to just stop. Sink. And stay that way for the full six hours I was stuck there.

One day, I was crossing to the periodical room, carrying a stack of moldy old Nature magazines. I’d just passed one of the stacks when I heard it.

“Gotcha!”

I jumped, startled. Not scared, since it had been more of a whisper, a low-key gotcha, which made sense once I stopped and leaned back, craning my neck, and saw Kristy. She was dressed in a white pleather skirt, a pink short-sleeved fuzzy sweater, and her white go-go boots, her hair pulled up high on her head. She was also wearing sunglasses, huge white ones, and carrying a fringed purse. She looked like she should be at the rodeo. Or maybe dancing in a cage. But not in fiction A-P, which is where she was.