Saturday at Pizza Vendetta, with no pizzas to make. Everybody’s got spring fever, so people are having bonfires and making s’mores. By ten thirty, we’re done.

Rory and David are painting stuff on my truck when I walk out the back door.

“What the hell are you doing?”

They jump. “Nothing.” David has the courtesy to look guilty. “It comes off, don’t worry.”

“Right.” I look at what the side says. Across the entire thing, in huge capital letters, it says SHEEP SHEPHERD.

This is uncool. “Maybe I need to rethink this, and writing on my truck wasn’t part of the deal. Mannequin parts or not.”

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.” Rory puts her hand on my shoulder and leans close, but not too close. Of course she smells amazing.

“My parents will flip if they find out I’m hauling sheep in my truck.”

Rory rolls her eyes. “First, how will your parents find out? Second, your parents will flip if they find out you’re doing anything like what we’re doing, so why should sheep make it worse? And technically speaking, all Epic can get is tickets for dumping unless we damage property, and we won’t do that. It’s not like we’re murdering someone. What we’re doing is barely illegal.”

David hops into the passenger side, followed by Rory. I just stand there. This isn’t wise. SHEEP SHEPHERD. Live animals that might pee and poop in my truck. The cops have already called my house. They know Epic’s back in town. Seeing my truck could make the cops pay attention, and they might make me tell them stuff, and then Epic’s career would be over and it would be my fault. But when the hell will I ever have the chance to do this again? Epic’s in books. In the papers. In a museum. Someday I want my art in those places, too. Theoretically, what I’m doing with Epic is my first apprenticeship. I can’t blow it now.

After fifteen seconds, Rory opens the door and pops her head out. “You coming? This is going to take a while.” She smiles that get-over-here-big-boy smile. “You know it’s going to be awesome, and you’ll be a part of it.” Another smile.

I get in. Of course I do.

We drive west of the Cities, not far out, to a huge farm. The place is dark except for a yard light, but there’s a person standing by the road at the beginning of a really long driveway.

“Stop here.” Rory rolls down her window and waves out of it.

The person opens the back door and gets in. I realize it’s Jess Wistrom, a guy from our Spanish class.

“Hey, Jess!” Rory is bubbly and charming.

“Hi, Rory.” He’s already under her spell, judging by the look on his face. “Who are these guys? Thought you said it was just you.” The disappointment in his voice is hard to miss.

“That’s David.” She points, and David waves. Tonight he’s got on his utilikilt. Maybe there are tools in a few of those pockets. “And you know Frankie. His parents will kill him if his truck’s full of sheep poop!” She laughs.

Jess brays like a donkey, which I think is laughing. “I can’t promise what the sheep will do. Drive down there.”

We follow the long, long lane to a pen at the back of the farm. In it there are probably thirty sheep. Sheep are big. There’s no way twenty of them will fit in my truck.

Jess is studying the size of my truck, clearly thinking the same thing I am. “We can probably load up four or five at a time, plus a couple of bales of hay to feed them.”

“But that’s four trips, at least!” I look at my watch. Eleven o’clock. “And then we have to make each piece. We’ll get caught because it will be daylight before it’s all done.”

David is calm. “Your job is to move sheep. Rory and I are going to set up the TVs, paint the sheep, and match the TVs to the sheep as soon as you bring them to us.”

“There’s matching involved?” Then I register the other idea. “Paint the sheep?”

“You know what I mean by matching. Get them tethered in front of a TV when they get there. That’s all.”

“How are you going to paint them?” I’m not going to be responsible for blue and purple sheep.

“Epic wants us to write TELL US WHAT TO DO on each sheep. With water-based paint, of course.” Rory looks like what she’s just said is totally, completely normal, and that the sheep will have zero issue with it. “So what are we waiting for?” She’s clapping her hands. “Time to make sheep sculpture.”

The sheep are super calm, which surprises me. I had expected them to be really obnoxious, but Jess puts down some boards to make a ramp and takes them, one at a time, into the back end of the truck. Then he throws in a couple bales of hay, and presto, I have five sheep and their food for the night? weekend? in the back of my formerly clean truck. Hopefully the hay will keep them from getting jostled around too much. But they’re pretty packed in.

We buckle up for the ride to the city, and Rory turns to me. “See? This is phenomenal!”

The sheep are reacting to the trip, pawing and baaing and making little round pebbles of poop. Then I hear liquid hitting the bottom of the truck bed, and I cringe.

“You two are going to help me clean this truck. You hear me?”

David is hanging on to a strap in the back, trying to stay out of the sheep piss and looking worried the sheep will eat him. “We hear you. Epic owes us.”

We get to Loring Park and there’s a white van waiting by the entrance. A shadow in a hoodie waves at us from the curb and points to how we should drive in on a service road that runs through the park. I nod at him, cool as a cucumber, since of course I pass famous street artists all the time. Really I’m sweating rivers.

I follow his finger, and we get the sheep all set up with dog leashes that Rory finds on a picnic table. Then Rory and David stay with Epic to help him paint sheep and lay out TVs. I go back to the farm and Jess is waiting for me. He’s a big burly-looking country boy in a gray T-shirt and Wranglers.

“This your farm?” I take the towel he hands me, and we swamp out the worst of things, preparing for another round.

“My grandparents own it. They’ll be OK, as long as the sheep come back soon.”

“Oh man.” It hasn’t even occurred to me. “How will we get them back here?”

Jess grins. “Rory figured that one out. She’s guessing the cops will call whoever owns them, so I taped my grandpa’s phone number on them. Grandpa has a big trailer, so he’ll come and get them.”

He shows me the underside of a sheep. In blue tape, on the sheep’s belly, is a phone number.

“Are you going to tell him you’re the one who let them go?”

“No.” He shrugs. “Why should I? They’ll come back in one piece. Stuff is there for the borrowing. That’s why stuff exists.”

“But this isn’t stuff, it’s living animals.”

“Same difference, isn’t it?” He slaps a sheep on its ass to get it moving.

More sheep shuffle up the ramp—this time there’s six of them, because one is a mother-baby pair. As soon as the baby gets in the truck, it starts crying, and it cries all the way to Loring Park. Rory and David have a hard time catching the baby once we get them out into the park, but soon it’s tied onto its mom’s leash, happily nursing and chewing on the grass by its TV.

I go back two more times to Jess’s farm, and soon we have twenty sheep in Loring Park. Fifteen of them are grazing on long dog leashes next to televisions of different sizes. On their sides, in red paint, they say TELL US WHAT TO DO. The fronts of all the TVs say THINK THIS WAY. The sheep do their sheep thing and ignore the TVs. Close to the entrance of Loring Park is a pyramid of televisions with five sheep staked around it. On those TVs, Epic painted LET US LIGHT YOUR WAY.

It’s pretty excellent, even if the floor of my truck is completely messed up. That’s what I like about art—it’s a chance to talk about what bugs you—and I think it’s bullshit we have to pay so much attention to screens. And nobody can shut Epic up, just because of how he works. You’ll never know what he’ll do or where he’ll do it, or whether it’ll be funny or really important or something in between. When I was in middle school, he wrapped a bunch of construction equipment in paper and bows and made them look like giant presents. Goofy and interesting, though not world-changing. Then a couple years ago, he collaborated with a street artist named Breeze to do road signs along the interstate that was close to an Indian reservation in South Dakota. You expected each sign to tell you what town was coming up—they looked like regular direction signs—but instead, they gave you horrible facts about poverty, suicide, and alcoholism, and pointed you toward the reservation. That piece mattered.

Whether the TVs and sheep are world-changing or not, it doesn’t matter. Everything’s done, and it’s four fifteen, so I’m later than late.

I go to the car wash by myself, so I don’t have to deliver David and Rory to the garage and make myself even later. Epic sends me two rolls of quarters through David so at least I don’t have to pay for it. Hosing out the back of the truck is so gross I can’t even tell you. Then I scrub off SHEEP SHEPHERD. When I get home, it’s five o’clock, and the entire house is blazing with light, though the ballroom is dark. I’m glad for that.

Dad is in the living room, in his pink bathrobe, no bustier or fishnets, which is good. It’s hard to talk to him when he’s in costume, because he looks about as far from a dad as a dad can appear. Lou is sitting with him, too. They both seem very concerned.

“What?” I check my phone. Nothing but ten texts from David—pictures of the sheep in their various spots, plus some of the big pyramid. Nobody better ask to see my phone. “Someone die? Nobody texted me. I know I’m late.”

“Nobody died.” He’s not the kind of guy to blow his cool, but he’s getting close. I’ve only seen him blow up once, and that was when someone painted the words FAG HAG on the driveway. My mom laughed, but my dad was insanely angry.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Where’ve you been?” He’s fiddling with a pack of cigarettes, fighting the urge to light one. Lou must be right about the other night.

“Out with friends.”

My dad frowns. “You don’t have friends.”

“WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP SAYING THAT? I do too have friends.” Now I’m pissed.

“No, you don’t,” Lou chimes in, and she sounds very sure of herself. “You don’t like other people.”

“I like some people, and I was with Rory and David, my FRIENDS. We were by Loring Park.” Oh shit. Why did I say Loring Park? Shit. SHIT.

“Cruising?” There’s a new look on my dad’s face. Loring Park is a premier cruising spot for gay men in the Twin Cities. “You’re gay? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“What is this, Make Assumptions About Frankie Night? I’m not gay, and we were just hanging out.”

“If you were by Loring Park, why did a state patrol officer see you on Highway 212 about two this morning? He said you were speeding but he didn’t bother to catch you, because you were only three miles over the limit. When he punched in your license plate number, our phone number came up. As did the fact that they called us last week when they thought you might be involved in putting eyes around the state capitol.”

Crap. “We were just goofing off down there, driving around, then we got coffee at Whole Latte Shakin’, and then we decided to get out of the city.” What a dumbshit. I’m a sucky liar. “You know, and look at the stars.”

“Stay in town. Don’t speed.” My dad is serious and very pissed. “You and your friends can do regular stuff in the city. You can also come home before five in the morning. Do you get it, Frankie?” He turns to Lou. “How about you?” It’s crazy to watch him be all hostile in his pink bathrobe.

“Got it, Daddy. But you know I don’t stay out that late.” She smiles, and I see my dad relax.

“Just so you know.” He turns to me. “Frankie? Do you get what I’m saying?” He’s daring me to push it, I can tell.

“I get it. Where’s Mom?”

“In bed. Where you need to be. No more staying out.” He leaves, looking over his shoulder. “I mean it. Go to bed.”

Lou looks at me once he’s gone. “If you don’t have friends, why do you stay out so late?”

“I HAVE FRIENDS. Rory and David. And the rest of it is none of your biz, sister.”

“Yes it is. You’re getting me in trouble when I’m not even doing anything, just because they’re mad at you.”

“Like they’d ever do anything to you. They love you.”

She preens. “Of course they do. You, on the other hand, are a low-life dickweed of a guy who needs a clue.”

“You are a flipped-out asswipe of a girl who needs a hobby.” I go to the kitchen, grab some Pop-Tarts, and stomp up the stairs.

Now it’s noon on Sunday. Once I make it into the kitchen, Lou assaults me with questions.

“Did you see Epic’s new piece in Loring Park? Is that why you were down there?”

“He’s got new art?” I am innocent as can be. Must have been stuff on the morning news.

Lou gets her laptop. “Here.” Her hands are shaking when she gives it to me, and she won’t look at me. She disappears as soon as I take it.

Sure enough, there’s Epic’s piece, with shots from a helicopter and everything. The sheep look bored as hell, just grazing by their television sets, and Epic was nice enough to give each of them some water with their hay, so the farmer can’t say Epic was abusing them.

The news guy is laughing, standing next to a cop, and he makes some comment about how Epic always gets it right. The cop frowns. The news guy sees the frown and asks the cop for a statement. The cop doesn’t hesitate: “We just want the public to know that bringing livestock into the city is dangerous and a hazard to others, plain and simple.”

News guy: “How can livestock be a hazard? They’re just sheep.”

Cop: “We take Uncle Epic very seriously. We’ve alerted police forces around the Twin Cities to keep an eye out for any suspicious art activity. That includes flash robs. And sheep can be a hazard. Uncle Epic is a hazard.” And he stomps away while the reporter grins after him.

Epic’s probably laughing his ass off.

Lou comes back in the room, looking slightly less jumpy. I hand the laptop back to her. “I love it. Must’ve happened after we left to look at the stars.” I keep my voice light. The flash rob mention must be why she’s twitchy.

She rolls her eyes. “TVs and sheep? Epic is smarter than that, isn’t he? Or do you think Epic’s a she?”

“Good question.” I keep my face neutral. “I think Epic can be whoever Epic wants to be. You know why he’s epic?”

“No.” She studies the computer. The front screen of the video is a still of a sheep chomping grass. “And I don’t care. I wonder if Epic and Miss Vixen know each other.”

“Here’s why Epic is epic: he’s unpredictable, funny, and socially aware. You are none of these things.”

“Seriously. Do you think Epic and Miss Vixen know each other?” Lou’s not giving it up.

“An excellent question.” I try to sound serious, but I mostly sound goofy, because they do know each other. Kind of.

Lou hears the laugh in my voice and looks up fast. “You know something.” She’s digging into me with her eyes.

“Not a thing.”

“You said you were by Loring Park and Uncle Epic’s piece had to have taken a while to set up, so you had to see something. You swear to me on Ramona that you don’t know him?”

“Look, I didn’t want to tell Dad, but we were at the Pleasure Palace, buying donkey porn to leave on Principal Mackowski’s car.” The Pleasure Palace is a sex shop by Loring Park. Lou’s mouth drops open. “Speaking of Ramona, I’m glidin’. See you later, pain in the ass.”

I rescue Ramona from her place among all the shoes at the back door, and we jet off in the April sunshine. I will not swear falsely on her, but I didn’t really lie to Lou, because I actually don’t know Epic. All I know is he’s a human who lives and/or works in a big garage in Minneapolis, sort of near Lake Calhoun, and we had one conversation involving my voice and a light switch. That’s it.

My phone vibrates. I look at it without falling off of Ramona, which took me a while to perfect.

Did you see the piece on KALT? It’s David.

Amazing. Is E happy?

David sends about six emoji, which makes me laugh. The farmer came for his sheep around ten. Big-ass truck. Next time we need to move livestock, we hire him.

Good. My truck still smells like sheep. If anybody pokes their head in there, I’m big-time busted.

Freaky Guy at Kwiky Pik is your work, isn’t he?

Of course he knows it’s mine. Who wants to know?

Just checking. He’s really good. I’m going to say he’s mine.

And he would. Don’t you dare. This is how I get back at my soul-stealing harpy of a sister.

HA!

I glide to the Kwiky Pik, just to check on him. But Ghoulie Carter is gone.

I am dead. My mind zips back to the cop: police forces . . . Twin Cities . . . suspicious art activity. Why would cops ever give a shit about a mannequin at a convenience store? They might think it’s stupid, but not suspicious.

Whoever took him left his face and his shoes. The face is tacked up to the wall, not far from the bench. His shoes are under the face, where his feet would be, if he had feet, and inside one shoe is a mini-football. Inside his other wing tip is a tall candle in a glass, like the Virgin Mary ones you can get in the Mexican food section at the grocery store, but it’s just white with no pictures on it. Tied in the laces of one shoe is a tiny yarn pom-pom in Henderson High School’s colors—green and white.

I take a picture and tweet it with Miss Vixen’s account: Bring back the body! Mannequin parts are on loan. But thanks for leaving the face and shoes. Maybe someone will listen.

Frak. I have to get that body back, or Epic will find an anonymous way to kill me, as he should. I told him I wouldn’t hurt his stuff. Losing it is the same thing as hurting it, isn’t it? And mannequins can’t be cheap, which means I’ll be buying replacements if Ghoulie Carter doesn’t come back. FRAK.

Sunday night at Pizza Vendetta. Geno is throwing down crust like you can’t believe, because we’re hopping. Nobody likes to cook on Sunday night. Tons of people are wandering in and out—mostly it’s families, but there are a few people on dates, and kids from about six different high schools. I’m just putting Vs on pizza, Vs on pizza, Vs on pizza, and wondering how much a mannequin costs. Gotta Google it. I am dead.

Lou comes in with Brittany Serger and another buddy, Lindy Hayworth. They’re laughing and giggling, doing their theater girl things. I see Carter Stone, who’s been here for a while with his family, give Lou a death stare. I wonder if he recognized his nose on Ghoulie Carter.

I make pizza and mind my biz.

Pretty soon, Lou comes up to the counter. “So I need a pizza.”

“Ask your server. I just make them.” The one I’m working on is going to a couple on a date over in the corner. They’re looking into each other’s eyes like they’ll die if they don’t locate the bottom of each other’s retinas in the next five minutes. They’ve ordered the Pepperoni Zamboni, which I invented after the Pepperoniangelo fiasco, just to make Geno feel like I hadn’t entirely wasted my sculpting experiment. A Zamboni cleans an ice rink, so a Pepperoni Zamboni pizza means the pepperoni goes all over the pizza, like it’s ice, and then I build a Zamboni-looking thing out of pepperoni and toothpicks. Usually I make a few for the freezer, but this time there aren’t any, so I’m busting my ass and making a Zamboni on the spot, and the stupid-ass thing mostly looks like a bulldozer.

Lou’s still standing there when I’m done with the Zamboni.

“I’m trying to work here.”

She points. “Brittany wants a pizza, too.”

“I said, talk to your waitstaff. Hey, Jen!” Jen’s the Sunday night server. She’s in college at the U of M and she takes zero flak.

She’s at a booth to the right of my counter, and she turns around and gives me the finger, very carefully covered by the side of her order pad so the customers don’t see. “Right away, Frankie.” Her voice is dripping poison.

Lou gives me a huge grin. “Lindy bet me I couldn’t get her to flip you off. I win.” And she flounces back to her table, where Brittany and Lindy are laughing.

I could be mad, but I don’t have time. Jen finishes at her table and walks close to the counter where I’m trying to position the Pepperoni Zamboni. “You yell at me again and I’ll do more than flip you off and win Lou another bet.”

“Yes, ma’am.” There’s nothing else I can say. Too many pizzas backed up and too much to risk if she’s mad at me. Waitstaff can make my life hell.

I hear Lou’s laugh. I am a peaceful guy, but I want to punch her in the mouth. Miss Vixen will strike again soon.

The pizzas get made, and Geno sighs. “I love this business, but sometimes, not so much.” He claps me on the back. “Pepperoniangelo, you’re a champ.”

“Thanks.”

“Now get your ass back to work.” Three more orders have shown up from Jen, plus two from Ellen and Sammie, the other two waitstaff tonight. Ellen and Sammie are from Henderson High, too. I heard them getting drinks for customers and talking about Miss Vixen and Ghoulie Carter. Good.

Carter Stone gets up to leave, but he deviates to Lou’s booth while his family goes outside. He leans low to her, and I can’t see his face, but I can see hers, and it’s both horrified and ashamed. He stomps out the door after he leaves their booth, and Lou bursts into tears. Brittany puts her arm around her, and Lindy reaches across the table to them. Lou covers her face in her hands.

My guess is Carter recognized more than just his nose on Ghoulie Carter’s face.

Evidently Miss Vixen’s first strike was more successful than I thought. I glance over at Lou again. Still crying. Which I should feel bad about, I suppose. Does everyone get more adorable when they cry? Lou’s nose gets red right along with her eyes, and she’s sobbing on Brittany’s shoulder. So sweet. Everyone probably wants to comfort her. Go away, sister. No weeping allowed in my presence.

Then Rory comes in. And she’s with a guy I don’t know.

She looks like she’s above it all, like a cat who’s gotten plenty of cream, but the guy seems oblivious to the fact that she’s not into him or into being at Pizza Vendetta. He’s practically drooling on her. They sit with Rory’s friend Nina, who’s an artiste. That’s what she calls herself: an artiste. She’s taken every art class Henderson High has, and she’s planning to go to the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, which is a great school, but she’ll be outclassed in two seconds. All this information was in her bio in the end of the year exhibit at school—and her work is sexy male alien life-forms sneaking through cities and big-eyed manga girls with machine guns. Whatever.

The guy looks like all his earthly ambitions have been fulfilled, now that he’s sitting with Nina and Rory. Like a dumbass, he puts his arm on the top of the booth, which then looks like he’s putting it around Rory, and I see her cuddle up to him the tiniest bit, all the while pretending not to look at me, while I pretend not to look at her. We’re our own little comedy of errors, because she knocks over her water about ten minutes later, though not on purpose, and Jen has to clean it up, swearing under her breath, and I forget to put mushrooms on a pizza, so the customers curse out Sammie, then she comes over and swears at me, not under her breath but not loud enough for Geno to hear. What a lovely way to spend a Sunday night. Shouldn’t all these people be home getting ready for Monday?

I keep making Vs, and start checking each order very carefully so I don’t forget stuff. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Rory looking at me again. I smile, almost involuntarily, and she smiles back.

What the hell does she want from me? Why are girls like that? Do you ever really know if a girl likes you? Rory’s one of those thousand-piece puzzles, and I’m the dumbest puzzle putter-together ever.

Lou and Lindy leave with Brittany once they’ve eaten their pizza. Lou’s tear-stained face is long past cute, and is now just ugly and stressed, plus her makeup is a mess, all of which is perfectly OK with me. Rory and her guy leave not too long after that. She blows me a kiss over his shoulder, and Jen sees. She’s bringing me trays of dirty dishes and handing them over the partition. I hate it when she does that.

Jen drops a fork on my hand, on purpose. “She’s a bitch. Don’t fall for that crap.” Her hair, which was up on her head when her shift started, has halfway fallen out of its knot and is now in her face. It’s been a long night.

“You don’t know if she’s a bitch or not.”

Jen’s threatening to spill her tray of dishes on me. “When I went to clean up her table, she said ‘Thanks, service wench,’ and she laughed.”

That’s pretty bitchy, but I’m not going to tell Jen that. “Maybe she was just in a bad mood.” I grab the tray before the dishes fly everywhere.

“If she sits at my table again, I’m sending her to someone else’s section.” Jen blows me a kiss, just like Rory did, then glares at me and walks off to clear more tables.

Bitchy or not, I tingled a little when Rory did it. Jen’s doesn’t count.

We clean up, make a few more pizzas, and get out of there by nine forty-five. When I make it to my truck, David is standing there with a longboard in his hand. He’s got on an ankle-length black skirt.

“If you’re gonna represent for the skirt-wearing dudes of the world, why not be stylish? That’s saggy.”

He glares. “Everything else was in the wash. What do you care?”

My mind flashes back to him being tripped in the cafeteria. “Where were you earlier? I saw Rory.”

“Yeah, she was torturing Ethan. He lives by her, goes to Plymouth Christian.” David sighs. “He’s stupid to even try.”

“She likes them that way, doesn’t she? Dumb and easy to manipulate?”

“Exactly. And she’ll do the same to you if you’re not careful.”

“I’m dumb and easy to manipulate?” He didn’t really say that, did he?

“I guess that’s for you to decide. Rory might like you for more than just your truck, but she might also just want to mess with you.” He holds the longboard out to me, like an offering. “Will you teach me?”

I’m pissed. “Right now? It’s Sunday. I’ve got homework.” Why should I teach anyone who says things like that? And he’s just a kid. A freshman. But in the back of my head, I also know he’s wise about Rory—just like he said, she might want to mess with me. But I also might not care.

The skirt-wearing eighties owl sighs. “Do you really want to do homework?”

Good point.

“And I brought you something.” I can’t tell if he’s blushing, since he’s standing in a shadow, but it’s possible. He hands me a manila envelope with something bumpy inside. I open the flap and slide out the bumpy thing to find a flat canvas covered in little bits that look like beans.

“Seed art. Rory knits, I do this.” He sounds a little embarrassed.

It’s a sheep, tethered to a TV. The TV says FRANKIE IS EPIC.

My mouth starts running, because I’m so surprised. “Pretty sure this is the goofiest gift anyone’s ever given me. Thank you. I’m definitely not as epic as Epic, but maybe someday. I’m going to hang this up in my workroom.” Honestly, it’s pretty cool. There might be ten different types of seeds on it, and it’s got to be hard to get all the colors and textures in the right places.

“Yeah. Sure.” He’s moved out of the shadow, and under the parking lot light, I catch a glimpse of the red in his cheeks.

“Thanks again.” Do guys flirt in the same way girls do? I am clueless to the ways of human mating behavior. And I’ve never had a guy flirt with me before. It feels . . . nice, I guess, though I don’t know what it’s like to flirt with dudes. It might be less complicated than flirting with Rory. Maybe.

We go to my house to get Ramona and drop off the truck. Then we hit the street. David sucks for a long time, then gets the hang, and we glide the neighborhood for another hour, floating in and out of the streetlights, observing the world. I try not to think about Ghoulie Carter’s missing body. The neighbors two houses north of me just had a kid, and the husband is up rocking the baby and reading his Kindle. The neighbor across the street and three houses south is having sex with her boyfriend on their deck under a blanket. We see a raccoon in the next-door neighbor’s yard, chowing on an apple core. He barely spares us a glance, because his apple is way more interesting than boys floating by.

It’s surprisingly OK to have a friend to longboard with, even if that friend might want to be more than friends.

When we get home, my mom and dad are just getting back from Dad’s regular Sunday-night rehearsal. They’re in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea at the table. My dad’s still got on his bustier and fishnets. My mom is wearing her fedora.

“Mom, Dad, this is David Carlson.”

My mom stands up to shake his hand. “Good to meet you.” She’s not in costume, just the hat, so she looks a little more like a mom when she smiles, a little less like Sinatra in the club.

“Same.” He’s polite, but his eyes aren’t too wide until he really looks at my dad.

“Nice to meet you, David.” In his heels, my dad is probably six foot six, and he towers over us. His deep voice doesn’t necessarily go with the bustier.

“You too. Um. Sir.” He looks at the floor, because he’s blushing again.

“I have to take David home. See you in a bit.” I grab my keys off the table.

As soon as we’re in the truck, David starts talking a mile a minute. “Those are your parents? I’ve seen both of their shows, and they’re amazing! Your dad is the best Frank-N-Furter that place has, way better than the regular guy.”

“Um, thanks, I guess. You should tell him. Where do you live?”

“Right down the street from Pizza Vendetta.”

“This is a really random time to ask, but do you get beat up a lot?” I’m not sure I want to know. “I saw a guy trip you in the cafeteria the other day.”

“You never know what’s going to happen.” He looks out the side window. “Sometimes I get punched, sometimes it’s just a trip. Sometimes it’s soup on the head. But Rory always finds them and messes with them.”

“How?” This is worth knowing.

“If they’re not too young, she’ll spread a rumor that she slept with them and that she gave them an STD, or that they have a little dick. That kind of stuff. It’s not exactly the same as beating someone up, but mental damage is still something.”

“She doesn’t care about her own rep, saying that stuff about STDs?”

David rolls his eyes. “Rory’s all about going for broke. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Remind me never to beat you up.”

“I live right there.” He points. It’s an apartment building I’ve driven by approximately a million times on my way to work. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Seriously, wear a better skirt next time. Represent.”

He laughs.

By the time I get home, my parents are in bed and Lou’s door is shut, though there’s light spilling from the threshold. I hear a sobby sniff, but I just keep walking. Someone else can comfort her. Miss Vixen isn’t interested.