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Margo puts her perfect pencil back into her pencil pouch and stacks it on top of her school books. “She’s a romantic. She wants to fall in love the same way she sees it in movies,” she whispers, “so pretend like you aren’t being forced into this.”

So that’s why she hasn’t told me. I haven’t exactly been the romantic type. I’ve been rude and yelled at her. Of course she wouldn’t say anything. I don’t blame her. She probably wants us to start over in a way. She wants to make up a scenario where I walk in and sweep her off her feet.

I never know what to expect with Margo, but this makes sense.

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” I say. Margo might not believe it, but she isn’t forcing me to do anything anymore.

“She works at the used bookstore downtown.”

“The one across from Riverfront Park?”

She nods. “That’s the one, and she works tonight.”

My chest tightens. “Are you telling me you want me to go there tonight?”

“Yeah,” she says. “But I want you to be on your best behavior.”

“I thought you told me to be myself.”

Margo looks down. “I want you to show her your good side. You act tough all the time, but let her see the real you.”

“I have a good side?”

She rolls her beautiful brown eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

I turn so she doesn’t see my smile. I’m not going to lie, I don’t want to go through all this. I’m impatient. I want her totell me how she feels right now, but if she wants to live in a fantasy, I’ll play the part.

“What are you doing?” Olive asks as she walks past the bathroom.

My hair is dripping wet. I’m trying to style it, but it’s a lost cause. I don’t know how to make it do what I want. “Nothing,” I say.

Her eyes twinkle. “Do you have a date?”

“I’m just trying to do my hair.”

“Since when do youdo your hair?” she teases.

“Since now,” I say, trying to close the door.

“Wait, do you want some help?” She holds her hands out, stopping the door from budging. Her jaw drops as she takes a deep breath. “Is that cologne? It’s totally a date.”

“Shut up,” I say, forcing the door closed.

She laughs as the door slams in her face. “Hey, I’m not judging.”

I stare at my messy hair in the mirror. It’s sticking out in every direction. I crack the door open. “Hey, Olive.”

She’s halfway down the hallway, but she turns back to me. “Yes?”

“Could you . . . maybe . . .”

Her face scrunches up in a smile, and she runs back. “Yes!”

She finds a stool and sets it behind me in the bathroom so she can reach the top of my head. First, she blow dries it and then she uses some of her dad’s gel to hold the hair in place. She pats my shoulder when she finishes. “There. So much better.”

“You think?”

“Margo won’t know what hit her,” she says.