“I wonder why,” I said, knowing it was almost entirely because Bri had been doing this to Toby ever since she got contacts in sixth grade.

“Which guy did you mean?” Palmer asked as Toby pointed.

“You think he’s cute?” Bri asked, shaking her head. Bri and Toby never liked the same guys, ever. Tom had a theory about why their taste never overlapped, but it involved Venn diagrams and math, and we hadn’t let him get very far with it before we made him stop talking.

“Oh, that’s Jared,” Palmer said. “He’s in college. And he has a girlfriend.”

“Damn it,” Toby said, as she sat back again.

“It’s okay,” Bri said, patting her arm. “He isn’t that cute.”

“He is. I think.”

“I write down blocking, when it gets set,” Palmer said, leaning forward to answer my question. “But my real job comes when we go into tech and performance. Then I have to call all the light and sound cues.”

“Look at you,” Toby said proudly, nudging Palmer’s arm, “sounding like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay!” a bearded man who looked like he was in his forties stood up in the front row. “Good warm-up. We’re starting from the top of act two in fifteen.”

Palmer jumped up. “Fifteen minutes!” she yelled, as actors started to jump down from the stage and stream up the aisles. “Be back in fifteen, guys.”

“He just said that,” Toby said.

“I know. But for some reason, it’s my job to repeat times loudly.”

“Hey, guys.” I glanced over and saw Tom walking down the row to join us, looking slightly out of breath. “When did you all get here? Are you going to stay and watch the rehearsal?”

“No,” Bri, Toby, and I said in unison, and Tom took the water bottle Palmer handed him, looking hurt. It was nothing against Tom—but I really preferred to watch a play when it was rehearsed and costumed and lit and people weren’t wandering aimlessly around the stage clutching their scripts.

“But it’s really good,” Tom said enthusiastically, pulling his script out from his back pocket. I turned my head to read the title—Bug Juice. “It’s this total classic, been around forever. But the writers just won a Tony this year for their play about Tesla. . . .” We all looked at him blankly, including Palmer. “We went to see it together, P,” Tom said, sounding pained.

“Oh, right,” Palmer said quickly, after shooting us a quick look. “That one. It was really . . . great.”

“How’d the ham thing go?” I asked, only to see Tom’s face fall even further. We really weren’t making it a very good rehearsal for him. “Well, you probably didn’t want that anyway,” I said, talking fast. “To get locked into a role like that. You need to, um . . . show your range.”

“Totally,” Palmer said, reaching up and giving his cheek a quick kiss, then widening her eyes at me in thanks.

“What’s happening with cool-T-shirt guy?” Tom asked.

“You mean Dogboy,” Toby corrected, turning to me. “Any progress?”

“You guys know his name isn’t Dogboy,” I said as firmly as possible. Toby had made good on her promise to call the next guy I liked by a nickname, and despite my best efforts, it seemed to be sticking. I’d been talking about Clark a lot to my friends—the way you can when you have a crush on someone you know absolutely nothing about. “Like I’ve told you before, it’s Clark.”

Toby waved this away. “Who’s named Clark?”

“Well, who’s named Dogboy?” Bri pointed out, not unreasonably.

“Clark what?” Tom asked, taking a long drink of his water.

“You know multiple Clarks?” I asked, stalling.

“Maybe,” Tom said with a shrug.

“You don’t know a Clark,” I said, feeling like we were losing sight of logic entirely. “You certainly don’t know more than one.”

“Only one way to find out.” Palmer raised an eyebrow at me like she knew I was hiding something.

“Fine,” I said with a sigh as I examined my nails. “He’s Clark Goetz-Hoffman.”

There was slightly stunned silence from my friends, and then Toby let out a soft whistle. “Jeez. Did his parents really hate him or something?”

“Nope,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I told you,” I said.

“So what’s happening with you and Clark Goetz-Hoffman?” Bri asked, and I winced, thinking that I actually preferred “Dogboy.”

“Nothing,” I said with a sigh. It was unfortunately true. Clark had arranged with Dave and Maya for Bertie to be walked once a day, even on the weekends. Maya had offered to take those shifts for me, to give me some days off, but I’d told her I would do them. So I’d been back to his house six more times, but it wasn’t like I’d made any huge progress. I hadn’t even talked to him yesterday—he’d just waved from the window as I walked down the driveway with Bertie. He was usually there, either when I arrived or left—I’d decided that the Jeep with Colorado plates was his, since it was always the only car there. I’d never seen anyone other than him, though, so it seemed like both his parents must work all day, and that’s why they needed a dog walker. I still wasn’t clear on why Clark didn’t do it, since it seemed like he was home anyway.