don’t understand! I apologized for the fight last night. I acted normal—”
“Wait, wait,” Owen stops me. “Since when is you apologizing the equivalent of acting normal?”
I pick up Hippo and throw it at his head. He catches it deftly and brings it up to his ear, as though the stuffed animal is whispering to him. “Hippo says you’re better off without him.”
I grunt. “Hippo doesn’t know anything.”
“What’s that?” Owen returns the plush toy to his ear. “Oh, right. Hippo also says he wants a real name. He deserves a real name after all the stuff he’s been through with you.”
“He has a real name,” I defend.
“Calling something by its literal genus is not a real name.”
“I named him when I was six. What did I know?”
Owen places Hippo in his lap. “Well, you’re older now. So give him a new name.”
“That’d be like you giving yourself a new name after sixteen years.”
“Watson,” he says without hesitation.
“What?”
“My new name would be Watson.”
I crack a smile. “So you could solve crimes alongside Sherlock?”
“What would you pick?”
I sigh. “How about Piggy?”
He scrunches his face in disgust. “You would name yourself Piggy?”
I slug him in the arm. “For Hippo! Not me!”
“You can’t call him Piggy.”
“But he looks like a piggy!”
“Well, now you’re just going to give him an identity crisis. Not to mention an eating disorder.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Fine. How about Rick?”
“Why are you asking me? It’s your hippo!”
I groan. “You’re impossible.”
“I disagree. I am completely possible. Like one hundred and ten percent possible.” He stops. “What about you? What would you rename yourself if you could?”
I sigh. “Right now, anything but Ellison.”
“What’s wrong with Ellison?”
“Ellison is the girl who gets dumped by Tristan Wheeler at the town carnival.”
“You think he dumped you because of your name?”
“No. I think he dumped me because I’m me.”
And just like that, the misery washes back over me and I collapse onto my pillows, staring at the ceiling. The tears well up and run down the sides of my cheeks. I don’t even attempt to brush them away. Owen has seen me cry a thousand times. What’s one more?
He’s fallen silent beside me. I know he’s trying to find a way to cheer me up. Like he always does. But it’s not that simple this time. I’m beyond cheering up. Beyond fixing.
“I have a secret to tell you,” he says after a long while. His voice isn’t light and playful like it usually is when he’s on one of his “Cheer Up Ellison” missions. It’s quiet and serious. Almost hesitant. The shift snags my attention and I sit up.
“What?” There are traces of concern in my voice. Owen and I don’t keep secrets from each other. We never have. So what has he been hiding from me?
He sighs and stares down at my comforter. “I wasn’t going to tell you because, well, it’s kind of humiliating.”
I swallow. “Now you have to tell me.”
“Blimey, okay. You have to swear you won’t laugh.”
I laugh at this. He shoots me a look. I settle down.
“Seriously,” I tell him. “Why would I laugh?”
“Like I said, it’s embarrassing.”
“I won’t laugh,” I swear, keeping my voice steady and sincere.
He exhales loudly and hugs Hippo tighter, like he’s trying to pull strength from the inanimate object. “Okay, here it goes.”
I’m not sure why, but suddenly I feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. My stomach clenches in anticipation. Am I actually nervous? Why would I be nervous? Maybe because I’ve never heard Owen’s voice quite so grave before. What if it’s bad? I’m not sure I can handle any more bad news today.
“Last night I dreamed I went skinny-dipping in the school pool with Principal Yates.”
I stare at him openmouthed for a long time and then burst into uncontrollable giggles.
Owen huffs indignantly. “You said you wouldn’t laugh.”
I laugh harder. “How can I not? Are you kidding?”
He flinches. “No. See? This is why I didn’t want to tell you!”
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to regain control. “But why did you tell me if you knew I would laugh?”
As soon as the question is out of my mouth, the answer is obvious to me.
He knew I would laugh. That’s why he told me. Another mission accomplished. Owen managed to momentarily make me forget about the worst night (correction, day) of my life.
“I swear though,” Owen warns, “if you tell a living soul, I will murder you in your sleep and make it look like a mafia hit.”
“So…” I say,