The news that Sam had quit the basketball team spread faster than the flu. I sat across the lunch table from Webb, staring down at a plateful of pinto beans. I hadn’t gotten used to pintos or collard greens. I wished I’d packed my lunch.

“Is it true about Sam quitting the basketball team?” he demanded.

“Yeah, it’s true.”

Webb’s eyes widened, and he sucked in his cheeks. It reminded me of the way he looked when he played the tuba. “You’ve got to write that story!” he said. “The whole school is wondering what happened.”

“No.”

“No! Why not? This is big news. All the kids would read that article!”

“And that’s why I won’t write it.” I told him the story Sam and I had agreed on. “It’s embarrassing, but she has to get her grades up.”

“Oh.” Webb munched on a carrot stick. “That makes sense. Sam’s never done well in English, or history either.”

I looked over Webb’s shoulder, scanning the lunch tables to see which kid was lucky enough to be with Sam. She was sitting with Big D. I watched her hands move, shooting a pretend basketball. Sam and Dwayne were always doing that. They were probably talking college sports again.

Webb snapped his fingers to get my attention. “Did you hear me?”

“Ummm, yeah. Pioneer Days. You said something about Pioneer Days.”

“We should get together and practice square dancing,” Webb repeated.

At the mention of square dancing, my hands and waist tingled. I remembered that day in Sam’s room. Pick up your partner, and whirl her around. I could almost feel Sam lifting me off my feet. I wished I could dance with her again.

“So do you want to come over to my house?” Webb asked.

I took a sip of chocolate milk and tried to think of a good excuse to say no. There wasn’t one. “Why don’t you come to my house instead?” Not that I wanted to spend more time with Webb, but it would make Mom happy.

One of the things I missed most about New Jersey was good Italian food. Mom knew that, and all week she’d made Italian—eggplant parmesan, meatball subs—and for my square dancing date, she’d saved her specialty, spaghetti Bolognese.

On Friday, Webb walked me home from school. “You’ve been different this week,” he said. “Sort of quiet and sad.”

I kicked at fall leaves with my sneaker. “I feel bad about Sam quitting the basketball team. That’s all.”

“I feel bad too,” Webb said. “But you’re acting as if it happened to you.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. I couldn’t tell him I was unhappy because Sam was unhappy, and she was unhappy because of me.

I unlocked the front door, and a meat sauce aroma wafted over us.

Webb closed his eyes and inhaled. “Garlic and fresh basil. Two of the most stupendous smells on earth!”

Mom peeked around the kitchen corner. She smiled, which meant she was glad to see me with Webb. I could read her like a favorite book. “You have a good nose for herbs,” she said.

Webb launched into a description of his garden. I hoped he’d talk a long time so we could skip the dancing.

“I moved the coffee table so you can practice in the den,” Mom said, “and I brought a couple of square dancing albums home from the library.”

She had put a lot more effort into this date than I had. I led Webb to the den and put on some music.

Webb held out his hand and I took it. “Just follow my lead, Allie. I love to dance.”

Sam was right. Webb was an excellent dancer. He picked me up and whirled me around, but there was no tingle when he touched me. No spark. No racing heart. He wasn’t Sam.

“You’re doing great!” Webb said. “Nobody would ever guess you’re new at this.”

I was doing great because I wasn’t nervous about dancing with him. It made a difference.

Webb smiled at me. He was smart, and kind, and funny. It would be easier for me, and better for Mom, if I liked him instead of Sam. I needed to think a lot more about that.