Sunday mornings are really quiet around here, and I have been known to make muffins on Sundays because I’m bored and because they’re tasty. Today the house smells like apple pie, because the muffin mix was apple strudel. It’s ten a.m. and nobody’s up but me.

When the muffins are done, I put two warm ones on a plate, smother them in butter, and sit down to read the paper. Sunday papers are interesting, and this one doesn’t disappoint. Two full pages of the Opinion section are devoted to Uncle Epic. One page talks about how great Epic is and how we’re so lucky to have him as a Minnesota son. His pieces are socially relevant, sometimes funny, and always useful to provide a snapshot of the current cultural mood. On and on. There’s an editorial from the paper, plus letters to the editor, plus an old column from the New York Times back when he spent a month in New York making pieces about the Iraq and Afghanistan wars in 2009. It’s a whole page of Epic love. The opposite page is Epic hate, with more letters to the editor (Epic’s an idiot, a fool, and a worthless has-been), another editorial from the paper, this one negative (Epic’s pieces are a waste of space, they have nothing socially relevant to say, and he’s a vandal), from a different set of editors, and a letter from a police chief with a box around it. The letter talks about a fourth flash rob, this time at a Walgreens in downtown Minneapolis, and it asks Epic to stop being a felon. The police chief says Epic’s move into robbery is “unfortunate, and highly prosecutable.” The chief also says he’s spoken to the Walker’s director in the hopes of convincing them not to have Epic’s show. A criminal like Epic doesn’t deserve a show in one of the premier art museums in the country.

The anger races through my body, so I’m instantly hot and sweaty. I read both pages again, word by word, starting with the good page, but the hatefest page makes it hard to breathe, and I just get hotter and sweatier. They’re so wrong about him. It takes serious guts—and brains—to do what he does, and he’s just as relevant now as he was. I try and eat a muffin, to take my mind off it, but it’s hard to choke it down. Yeah, people are entitled to their opinions, but what a bunch of assholes. And the police are just idiots. Epic’s been a street artist for more than twenty years. Don’t they think the felony bug would have hit before now? And why would he come to town and talk people into robbing places when he’s getting ready for a big show? Especially dressed as mimes, like the ones in Walgreens. Did they have to carry signs so people knew it was a flash rob? Flash robbers are idiots, and so are the police. IDIOTS.

I move the Opinion section off the stack of newspaper pages. The City Living section is right underneath. And there they are, photos of yarn-covered ATMs complete with a couple paragraphs wondering why someone would do such a weird thing, and speculating on the presence of a Yarn Bombers Anonymous chapter here in the Twin Cities. The piece also tries to connect Epic to YBA, but the police say there’s no connection between them. They’ve investigated. Yarn bombing is just random nonsense, according to the police chief in Edina.

Despite the anger, my grin is wall to wall.

One of the ATMs is photographed so you can see the word “greedy” spelled out on the front of it. Then there’s a photo of a bank manager cutting the green blanket off one, and my stomach gives a funny lurch to think of all of Rory’s work being wrecked like that. Maybe she’s used to it being destroyed. Then there’s a photo of Betty Crocker, and she’s in color, so the entire newspaper-reading audience can see her superhero scarf and her bowl full of alien puff. The puff looks good, if I do say so myself. Betty looks like she’s going to take on the world, one ice blue– screaming orange cake mix at a time. But if any other teenager from Rory’s classes at Henderson High sees the paper, her anonymity’s blown.

Rory won’t care. It’s awesome coverage. Yarn Bombers Anonymous will probably promote her to Head Bomber or something. When you think about it, yarn bombing is really kind of cool, because it’s all contradictory—something is just itself, but then it becomes beautiful, too, or at least softer, when you cover it in pretty yarn. If you wrap a tank in knitting—which someone did, Rory told me about it, in pink blanket-ish things, with a pink fuzzball hanging down from the barrel of the gun—then the tank becomes a little bit gentle and pretty. Nice contradiction, I have to say. And simple, in a complex way.

Speaking of soft, pretty, gentle, lovely, contradictory little things, Rory’s kiss was also simple, but in a good way, and better than warm muffins, or even Pop-Tarts. It’s almost embarrassing it was so short, but for someone like me, it’s better to start small. I eat my other muffin and think about it. My mind flashes on Max Ledermann, and him crying in the cafeteria, but I blank him out.

By eleven thirty, I’m still alone, which doesn’t make sense. Usually someone’s up by now. Then I get the bright idea to go look outside, and duh, the truck is gone. They’re not even here. Which is really weird, but OK.

I bang on Lou’s door, just for fun. No answer.

“Hey, crusty ass, I might give you a muffin.” Bang bang bang.

No answer. So I open the door. Her window is open, and the curtains are fluttering in the breeze.

Alien abduction? Snuck out and never came back in? Just an open window?

What if someone took her? No way.

My phone buzzes.

When are we making monsters? Today, right? What time? David. We’re making girl ghouls this time. It’s been almost a week since Monster Matt went to the Kwiky Pik. That’s too long.

Something sharp shoots through me. It’s almost pain and almost guilt, but not quite. If I make more ghoulies, Lou’s gonna feel it even harder, and that makes me evil for continuing to hurt her. Even though the ghoulies started out as years of rage for stupid shit, big and small, now they’re just my art, and art shouldn’t hurt people. But at the same time, I don’t want to quit making them, because making art is fun. Plus, Lou made her own decisions about being at the flash rob. I just found out about it. I’m not responsible for her stupidity.

My mind hops around: flash robs. Epic. The cops. The cops could know about the ghoulies, so maybe I should stop. Quit before I hurt Epic.

Hurting Epic plays tug-of-war with the idea that the cops aren’t going to notice some stupid-ass ghoulies at a place that’s already been robbed. Robbers wouldn’t go back to the first Kwiky Pik when there are flash robs happening all over the city.

Three more ghoulies. That’s a nice number. Three more and I’ll quit, I swear. I’ll be as stealthy as possible, and when I’m done, I’m done forever. And I’ll try not to be angry at Lou anymore.

I text David: Come over around two.

I need to start thinking about what to put on these ghouls’ clothes, because I don’t know Sarah Taylor or Brooklyn Smith enough to know what they’re into. Matt and Carter were obvious, because football and scholarships are public. Sarah and Brooklyn aren’t like that.

Then I realize I’m standing in front of a potential research gold mine—Lou’s room. Not that I should snoop, but it’s research.

And, of course, the answers are there: Girls are obsessed with documenting every single dopey thing they do. From Lou’s picture boards, it looks like Sarah is a polka-dot kind of girl who likes mop dogs and purse dogs as well as The Lion King, because there’s a picture of her and Lou at a Broadway touring production a few years ago when it was in St. Paul. She’s got lions on her shirt and her skirt, and she’s carrying a lion purse. Where the hell does a person get a lion purse? I can work with lions.

Brooklyn is a little more difficult—only one photo of her on Lou’s photo boards, so I resort to a yearbook Lou has on her shelf. Brooklyn was in Phantom of the Opera. Easy enough.

I put the yearbook back and take one more look around Lou’s room. On the floor by the window is a white piece of paper. It’s wrinkled and crinkly and it has letters from a magazine pasted on it. All it says is SHUT UP, MISS VIXEN. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.

It’s just someone bullshitting around. Right? Three more ghouls. That’s it.

I am not the world’s worst brother. I am not. I just want someone to see my work, and maybe even like it, for once in my dumbass life.

But I do something I never do: I text Lou. You all right? Where are you?

She’ll never answer me—she never does. But the guilt twinge in my gut settles down, just a little.

Then I spend the next two hours trying to design a gun, which is probably the most important member of the flash rob. Small thing, big destruction, even though nobody fired it. Marvin, the Kwiky Pik manager, did get out of the hospital, but he’s still in cardiac rehab every day. Mom and Dad said his son is running the store now.

Eventually I get my dad’s band saw running and I cut a really crude gun out of a piece of scrap lumber without slicing off a thumb. Then I go up to Donna Russell’s domain and find a can of gold spray paint from some long-ago stage project and paint my gun behind the garage. It looks like crap, but it gets the point across. And it’s glam enough that the girl ghoulies will look good with it.

I have a couple more muffins and a turkey sandwich for protein, and text my dad, just out of curiosity: Where is everyone? Then I hear the doorbell.

David’s standing there, carrying two tote bags from Mood, the store where all the Project Runway people get their fabric. I only know this because Lou wants to go to New York just to go to Mood—after she’s seen at least three Broadway shows, of course. He’s wearing a long skirt, the crinkly kind, very airy and bohemian. There are curlicues and flowers all over it.

“Seriously, Mood tote bags? You’ve been to New York?”

David comes inside and kisses me on the cheek as he goes by. “Remember I told you we went to LA with Epic? There’s a Mood there, too.” He dumps each bag in the middle of the living room floor, and so much crazy stuff flies out—yarn, felt, scissors, googly eyes, glue.

I focus on the crafty crap instead of the kiss, which freaked me out a little, though I try not to show it, and use my best stern voice on him. “This is sculpture, goddamn it, not Sunday school Popsicle stick projects.”

He’s got to know this isn’t a romantic thing. Doesn’t he?

“I have Popsicle sticks, too!” He uncovers a few from the pile of supplies and tries to look serious, but I can tell he’s teasing. “Best art ingredient ever.”

I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “Pick that crap up. You should be ashamed.”

Once David’s got all his craftiness re-contained, I take him up to meet Donna Russell. Now he’s the one with googly eyes.

“Oh my god, those paintings are the best!” He’s moving from canvas to canvas, staring at all the monsters in their natural habitats of peaceful countrysides. “Where did you get the idea to do this?”

“Out of my head. Where else do people get ideas?”

He nods. “I bet you could sell these. You should open an online store.”

“Who’s got time to make an online store?”

David goes over to Donna Russell and looks her up and down, like he’s going to miss something crucial. “It didn’t take me long when I did it.”

“What do you sell?” This is news to me.

“Skirts for guys.” He’s still looking at Donna Russell. “Why do you think I offered to help you make your monster people? Your clothes need some serious assistance.”

“You make all your own skirts?”

He glares. “Yes. Even the saggy black one.”

I send him to the big pile of fabric to find something for each girl’s skirt and shirt, and I start drawing Phantom masks on a big piece of cream-colored canvas that looks like you could make a parachute out of it.

The lions for Sarah are a little more complicated. There’s some tawny brown fabric, so I cut out some circles that have kind of wavy edges. Then I draw lion faces on them, so the wavy edges end up looking like the lion’s mane, and I add more curls at the edge of the circle, for mane fluff. They end up looking like crazed kittens with misplaced fur, but they’ll do.

David has found a polka-dot print for Sarah’s top and he claimed a zebra print for Brooklyn’s top. Sarah’s skirt is kind of a green stripe, like the awning over a store, and Brooklyn’s skirt looks a lot like the upholstery in my parents’ truck—boring dark blue with stars on it. He’s already got the skirts and shirts put together, and you can tell it’s not some jackass like me who sewed them—it’s someone with sewing knowledge.

I bring him the cutouts of the Phantom masks and the lion heads. “The masks go with the zebra and blue stars, and the lion heads are for the polka dots and awning.”

“Easy enough.” He looks them over. “Do you care how I put them on?”

“Why would I care?”

“Good.” He pushes back from the sewing machine. “I’m going to sew them on by hand.”

“That’ll take forever!”

He laughs. “Shows what you know. Just give them here and be amazed. I’ll be done before you get their bodies and faces set up.”

“No you won’t.”

“Watch me.” He points at me. “Grab my sewing box for me.”

“Where is it?”

“Bottom of the Mood bag.” David points to which one, and I retrieve his sewing box, which is pink and multi-layered, kind of like a fishing tackle box.

While he sews, I get out my photocopies and pick out face parts for Sarah and Brooklyn, mixing various robbers’ features, though I leave Sarah her eyes and Brooklyn her mouth. Pretty soon they look like the other ghoulies’ faces—messed up but cool.

Their hair takes a bit of thinking, but it comes to me. I go down to the kitchen and dig under the sink, then bring back two round plastic dish scrubbers. When I unwind them—one blue scrubby, one green one—I have long wavy plastic curls. With some tape in strategic places, the plastic ends up being pretty decent girl hair.

David’s got all the Phantom masks on Brooklyn’s clothes by the time both faces have their hair attached and he’s working on Sarah’s lions.

“You really are fast.” I examine what he’s done. The stitches are tight and very neat. “You should do this for a living.”

“I just might someday.” He’s bent over a lion. “Almost finished here.”

I get the bodies assembled for both Sarah and Brooklyn, then get the clothes onto the bodies and the faces on the torsos. Then it hits me.

“You realize the skirts are all wrong.” I give him a look.

“Why?” He’s bent over the last lion to sew on Sarah’s shirt. Her ghoulie’s still topless.

“There’s no tulle anywhere. And the tulle is the point.” One of those almost-pains shoots through my chest when I say it, but I don’t take it back.

David ties his knot and bites the thread off. “Got you covered, Miss Vixen.” He slides his needle into the sleeve of his shirt, on the cuff so he doesn’t lose it. “I’ve got something better than that patch-ass stuff you were doing with the other two skirts.” He grins. “Your monsters are gonna be high-end instead of thrift. Take their skirts back off.”

“I like my monsters’ thrift store.”

“Yeah, but you’ll like them better high-end. I promise.” He points. “Skirts off.”

“Yes, sir.” I lay them down and yank off their skirts, which feels creepy, like I’m doing something improper.

David produces two very nice underskirts of tulle, looking one thousand percent better than the ones I made for Carter and Matt and looking very suspiciously like Lou’s skirts that she wears on a regular day—or used to wear. In the ten days since Ghoulie Carter went to the Kwiky Pik, Lou’s been wearing lots of leggings and long sweatshirts.

“Give me your phone.” He gestures. “Miss Vixen should tweet this.”

“A teaser for the next installation?” I like this idea. I hand him my phone.

“Exactly.” He snaps a couple shots, then tweets them out as Miss Vixen: New tulle skirts to go with new ghoulies? Wait and find out! He hands the phone back.

The tulle slips go on over the wheels, then the regular skirts, and then I stand the mannequins up and yank their skirts to their pretend hips. The Lou suggestion is even harder to miss, with the tulle, and it’s very clear that, along with kissing, I know nothing about sewing. Ghoulie Carter and Monster Matt’s clothes prove it without a doubt.

“That looks so freaking cool I can’t believe it. You are a serious virtuoso.”

David sniffs. “Thrift store to high-end. Even though the canvas does nothing for anybody. Why can’t you make the skirts out of something that will fluff out and be beautiful?”

“Did you seriously just say that? This is art, not fashion.”

He glares. “But you’re wasting the effect of the tulle.”

“Oh no we’re not. Trust me on that one.” I swallow the guilt, and it goes down like clumpy peanut butter.

“What are you going to do if someone steals the mannequins again?” He’s obviously noticed the faces and the accessories are all that’s left of the ghoulies at Kwiky Pik. “Epic’s not going to be happy if you don’t replace them.”

“I’m saving Pizza Vendetta money. Hopefully nobody will mess with them.” I cross my fingers and say a quick prayer that I’m right.

I make the signs that say HAVE YOU SEEN ME? and ORIGINAL FAKE BY MISS VIXEN. David watches while I draw the zip-up banana bus, very tiny in the corner, then pin the signs to the skirts. “You really hate your sister, don’t you, Pepperoniangelo?” I told him about that night.

“I wouldn’t say hate. I would say severely want to get back at her.”

It’s five forty-five, and I realize my dad never texted me back. Nobody’s texted me today, including Rory. I didn’t text her yesterday—I didn’t know if I should. Maybe the kiss was spur of the moment. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. I could be reading too much into it. Maybe it was just an instant between two people who’d spent so much time together. But maybe Rory wanted me to text and I didn’t do it, so now I’ve blown my chances for more.

How the hell does anyone know what to do? I’m going to have to retire from girlfriends before I’ve even started.

“So what now?”

David’s question snaps me back to reality. “Now we wait. You can stay for supper if you want.”

He blushes. “Here? With you and Frank-N-Furter?”

“Who else is going to be here? Santa Claus and Heidi Klum?”

“Fine, whatever, yes, I’ll stay.” He’s embarrassed, I can tell, and he starts gathering up scraps of materials. “Thanks for letting me help you.”

“Are you kidding? I owe you. They look insanely good. Did you bring your longboard?”

“How do you think I got here?” He throws all the scraps in the garbage. “I can’t drive yet, fool.”

“Where’s your board?” He wasn’t carrying it when he came in.

“Downstairs on your front porch.”

“We’ll come back up later. Right now we need to sneak out of here before my family starts looking for me.”

“Why?” David looks confused.

“They don’t even remember this room is up here, and I don’t want people messing with my stuff.” I put my finger to my lips. “Hush on the stairs.”

We sneak down to the hallway, and I check before we come out. Deserted. Then we slide into my room and close the door. Two seconds go by, literally, before I hear my mom.

“Frankie, where are you? We’re here.”

I holler back, “Yeah, Mom. Be right down.”

“You knew she’d yell for you?” David’s impressed.

“Supper’s always at six.” I shrug.

“You’re pretty lucky.” He looks sad. “My mom and I never get to eat together.”

“Sounds like heaven to me.” I give him a shove out of my room, but not before I can see that he’s looking around and taking everything in. “Nothing good to look at in here.”

“Nothing except those collages.” He points to a bunch of mash-ups I made from a GQ I stole from the library, a Cosmo Lou had lying around, and an National Geographic kids’ mag someone left at Pizza Vendetta. It’s all headlines like “Please Your Man” pasted over a picture of a man and woman throwing a Frisbee around with skirts on their heads while they’re riding llamas. Totally dumb.

“You can stare later. Right now it’s family time, hallelujah, kill me now.” I shut the door and we go downstairs.

Lou, my mom, and my dad are in the kitchen, sweaty and dirty and gross. They look like they’ve been crawling through sewer pipes. Everybody’s dressed in work clothes, and there are two Pizza Vendetta boxes on the counter.

“Where were you guys today? I texted you, Dad.”

He looks surprised, and he checks his phone. “Yup, you did. Sorry. We were in the basement of Global Heating and Cooling—nobody’s been down there since the seventies, I think. Pure grossness.”

My mom snorts. “More like the fifties. I haven’t seen dust bunnies that big since we cleaned the basement of the post office, which was last touched in 1957.”

“So gross.” Lou wipes her face with a towel. “But it’s camp money.”

“Why didn’t I get the chance to make camp money?”

My dad raises his eyebrows at me. “You want to go to that drama camp too?”

“No, but . . .”

“When you have final plans for the skateboard camp, then we can help you make some money.” Mom’s getting plates out of the cupboard. “Hello, David. Welcome.” You can see she’s happy to have proof I really do have a friend.

“Can I help you with that?” David is nothing but charming. He rushes over to her and takes the plates out of her hands.

“Thank you.” She gives him a big smile.

Lou’s giving him a bigger smile. “I have a skirt almost like that, and I met you at Pizza Vendetta one night, when you were there to talk to Frankie.”

I immediately derail that conversation by opening the boxes. “What kind of pizza did you bring? Did Geno make them for you?” If he did, then they’ll be good. If anybody else is working, they could be sketchy.

“Geno made them. Pepperoni and veggie.” My dad puts them on the table with a bunch of paper towels. “Dig in, people.”

David and I shovel down some pizza and drink Cokes with the fam, try a little small talk. Lou makes googly eyes at David, complete with flirty smiles and comments like, “Are we in any of the same classes?” since they’re both freshmen. My parents are lovey-dovey, like usual. When we say what we’re grateful for, David says he’s thankful for friends like me. It’s a good thing I went before he did, because I’d have no idea what to say after that.

It’s obvious he’s happy to get away when it’s over. “Your sister is relentless.” He pats his hair swoop to settle himself down. “But your dad’s super cool. So’s your mom.” David grins. “Who knew I’d get to have pizza with the best Frank-N-Furter in town?”

“Lou’s convinced you should fall under her charming spell, so she’s working extra hard to lure you into her web. That’s why she was such a freak.”

David’s examining the collages on the wall again. “So what do we do with your creatures upstairs?”

“We wait until everyone’s asleep and we put them in my truck and take them to the Kwiky Pik.” I check the clock. Seven fifteen. Still a bit of light. “Let’s go longboard.”

We don’t get home until after dark. The house is quiet, even though it’s only eight thirty. Lou’s in the living room, watching the movie version of the musical Chicago.

“Mom and Dad in bed already?” I stand in front of the TV so she can’t see. David stays out of the way behind the couch.

She moves her head. “Yes. And they told me to remind you that curfew’s at ten tonight, but that you can take David home with your truck. Get out of the way, jerkass.”

She hasn’t been out with her friends at all this weekend. Strange. And she’s not holding her phone, which has been her constant friend for as long as she’s had it. She looks truly alone, huddled on the couch in a blanket.

I may feel bad. I may not. I don’t know.

“You should go to bed, too. You need a lot of beauty sleep, you know. Otherwise nobody will be able to look at you tomorrow.” I groove around in front of the TV, to block as much view as possible.

“Take your asshole comments elsewhere.” She flips me the bird.

I smile the evilest grin I can manage. “Big day, Monday. Monday always is.” David gives me a thumbs-up and a wide grin. Lou can’t see him because he’s behind her.

She jumps up and stomps out. “You’re a jacked-up fartbox who likes to think he’s important.” David moves closer to the door, just to stay out of her way.

“You’re a frilly Medusa who thinks the world revolves around her.” I shout it down the hallway at her back.

“You’re just so BASIC, Frankie. You know NOTHING!” SLAM goes Lou’s door.

David’s watching with interest. “You do this all the time?”

I shut the TV off. “I like trying to knock the queen bee off her throne.”

We go up to visit the ghoulies and Donna Russell.

“You know Epic’s got some big plans going.” David stretches out on the floor, his long skirt flowing everywhere. “He’s aiming for Nicollet Mall.”

“Never happen.” It’s a pedestrian mall in downtown Minneapolis. Lots of upscale shops, plus some big department stores. Some restaurants and office buildings. A library. No cars, only pedestrians. Lots of security cameras, lots of people watching, even at three a.m. “With the police interest, he’ll never pull it off, whatever it is. The cops will grab him for sure. Did you read the paper today?”

“No.” He looks relaxed. “Why would anybody read the paper?”

“To find pictures of Rory’s yarn bomb, and a two-page editorial spread about Epic? Including something about cancelling his Walker show?”

“Show me.” He doesn’t look relaxed anymore.

I go out to the recycling, retrieve the paper, and bring it back. The whole house is dark and quiet. “See for yourself.”

He reads. “Nothing new here.” I’m quiet while he finishes and hands the paper back to me. “Too bad that police chief will never come close to finding Epic. And Marta will handle the Walker. She’s good at PR. Epic wants you to come over this week to talk transportation, by the way. Plus he needs more hands. This one takes a lot of work.”

“Do you know what it is?”

David grins. “I have an idea. It involves naughty bits.”

“Whose naughty bits?” I’m not sure I even want to know.

“Not yours or mine. And printing money.”

I’m confused. “On somebody’s naughty bits?”

David rolls his eyes. “On paper. He’s going to print hundred-dollar bills that have Andy Warhol on them.”

“Why Warhol?”

“Why not?” David looks around. “Let’s make something while we wait. What else do you have to do in here?”

I spin around, my arms wide. “Take your pick.” Then I look at my phone—9:55. “Just be quiet. I’ll be gone about fifteen minutes.”

My parents’ alarm is buzzing faintly—I can hear it—when I slide into my room and close the door. About three minutes later, there’s a knock. “Frankie?” It’s my mom.

“Come on in.”

She sticks her head in. “Just making sure you’re here for curfew.”

“Right here.” I’m casual, reading a book on my bed, looking like I’m not ready to break the brand-new rule she’s just laid down two days ago.

“Good night, honey. Love you.” She retreats.

I give it about ten more minutes, then scram back up to Donna Russell and David. He’s reading an old Rolling Stone my dad has up here—there must be about a thousand of them.

I get out my paints. “You want a painting to work on?” I point to the corner where all the couch paintings are. “Take your pick.” I choose one that has big sea cliffs and a long expanse of beach. This will be perfect for a sea monster, though I’m thinking something more like an octopus with fifty-foot-long tentacles rather than a Nessie. Though maybe Nessie could be offshore and the octopus could just be walking on the beach, scaring people.

“Could I?” David’s face lights up. “I want to do the one with the big open field. There’s gotta be something good that could land in the middle of it.”

“Knock yourself out.” I put the paints in between us on the floor, and we paint. And paint. And paint. For a long time, we’re just two people painting, sitting on the floor, making funky monsters that invade very calm spaces.

I’ve never had a real friend to paint with before, which makes me consider whether or not I’ve ever had a friend before. In third grade, there was a kid who lived down the block, Marcus, and we used to ride our bikes together. But when he moved in fifth grade, that was pretty much that. In middle school, I was just too awkward to have a friend. Plus I was pissed all the time, most specifically at Lou. Now I don’t fit into anyone’s cliques, and people just think I’m a weirdo loner, which I am, so nobody makes the effort and I don’t either. David and Rory wouldn’t be around if they hadn’t needed transportation. I’m sure things will fade when Epic leaves town. Though maybe not, if David was thankful for me at supper. But why wouldn’t they forget about me? They won’t need me anymore, once Epic’s gone.

It’s pretty sad and ugly, to say it like that. But truth is best. Lies just make the truth hurt worse.

“Doesn’t your mom care where you are?” I say it just to break the silence.

“No. She usually figures I’m with Epic. All she does is work, eat, and sleep.”

“But today is Sunday. Won’t she be home today?”

“I saw her this morning. And she’ll be asleep by the time I get home. I left her a note. We’re not all that close, like your family.” He squints at the canvas, checking something out.

“If my family was close, would I be getting back at my sister?”

David stands up and stretches. “OK, dude, I can’t do this anymore. This is hard. And I can’t sit on the floor anymore. Ouch.” In the middle of his canvas is a robot-ish thing that looks suspiciously like Donna Russell.

“Excellent work.” I lean his painting up against the wall next to Sid the Sasquatch, and I put my sea monsters next to Donna Russell in the field. It’s a good collection. Too bad nobody wants to see it but us.

“It’s eleven thirty.” David checks his phone. “Too early to put out the ghouls?”

“Maybe not for a Sunday. Let me go scope out the house.” Then I remember what’s behind the garage. “I almost forgot the best part, too.”

I prowl down the stairs. No sounds from Lou’s room. I skulk down the next set of stairs. No sounds from my parents’ room. The back door squeaks, but I make it through and retrieve the gun from behind the garage. When I get back to the ballroom, David’s rearranging the paintings along the wall. He turns around when I come in.

“How are you going to get the ghoulies to hold that?”

“Tape, I guess. Ghoulie Carter had a coffee cup at one point. Maybe I can get it jammed in one of their hands.”

“Tape is ugly.” He frowns.

“You gotta do what you gotta do for art. Ready for transport?” I get behind Ghoulie Sarah and motion him to get behind Ghoulie Brooklyn. “You kind of have to scoot them and carry them at the same time.”

“Gotcha.” He figures it out as we’re going down the stairs, and there’s only one loud clunk. But Lou’s door stays closed. Then we both manage to make it down the second flight and out the door without any crashes or any movement from my parents’ room. We tuck them into my truck, and I pray nobody hears it start.

I drive around the block a couple times when we get there, looking for suspicious vehicles, stakeout cars, anything like that. Doesn’t look like anybody’s paying attention. I send up a silent request: Please, Universe, please don’t let the cops arrest me and please don’t let anybody steal the mannequins. I don’t make a lot of money.

Amazingly, Monster Matt and Ghoulie Carter’s faces are still there, along with all their offerings. Ghoulie Carter’s purse has been stuffed full of flyers for an all-ages rave. In the shadows, they look like phantoms. In record time, we place the female ghoulies in a conversational group with the faces, then I tape the gun into Ghoulie Sarah’s hand so it looks like she’s just casually holding it there. I point it down, of course. No reason to be too confrontational.

Someone’s put makeup on both Monster Matt’s and Ghoulie Carter’s faces, so now they kind of look like Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe screen prints. The boys’ eye shadow is so blue you can see it in the dimness.

Miss Vixen tweets a photo: A ghoulie crowd of pure awesome. Come see us sometime.

David jogs across the street to survey the ghoulies. “Come on!”

“Dude, we have to get out of here. We don’t know who’s going to come by.” I’ve been doing 360 sweeps of the environment every minute or so, and I do another one. Pretty much deserted.

“You have to see this!”

I’m dying to know, so I sprint over, and I’m amazed when I turn to look. Maybe even astounded, because they look good. Really good. Like actual, professional art, though very weird art. The girls look about a thousand times better than the guys did, back when they had bodies, because their clothes are David’s clothes. But that’s OK.

“What do you think?” David’s grin is huge.

“Holy shit.” I can’t get over them. They’re cooler than anything I’ve ever made. Ever.

My mind flashes on the kiss he gave me when he came to my house. A car goes by us, on its way out of the lot, and they honk and yell, “Get a room!”

David’s hands are smooth, soft, and gentle. Rory’s hands are rough and strong.

He pulls his hand back and looks me square in the face. “Do you think . . .”

“You have nice hands.” I almost say, Nicer than Rory’s, but I stop myself.

“Thanks, but do you think we could go out?” He’s holding my gaze.

“Probably not.” I don’t look away. He deserves the honesty. And I don’t want to lose him as a friend. That fact is suddenly very clear to me.

“You know Rory’s just going to hurt you. Even if she likes you, which I think she does.”

My stomach jumps a little, hearing him say that about Rory. “She might. I can’t quite tell.”

“She’s just not very nice.” He turns to look at the ghoulies. “People say every guy is just a six-pack away.”

“From holding hands with another guy?” I laugh and pick up his hand one more time, squeeze it, let it go.

“You know what I mean . . . It doesn’t matter who’s working on your dick, just that someone’s working on it.” He smiles, but he doesn’t look at me.

“Oh. I’d never heard that.”

“Remember it.” He starts walking back to the ghoulies, and I follow.

Maybe he really is the better option. I can’t say I’ve ever wished to be gay before tonight, but there it is. He’d be the best boyfriend in the world.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” A deep voice behind me.

I whirl around. “Who are you?”

A man is standing there in a sweatshirt and jeans. He’s maybe a bit older than my dad, but not much, with wavy hair to his shoulders. He’s got a notebook in his hand. “Do you know anything about those creatures in the parking lot? Is that what you were looking at?”

David grabs my hand again. “Nope. We were just admiring the moon. Romantic, you know.” He points overhead, and there’s a full moon, hanging low. “It’s easier to see away from the lights.” We’re in a shadowy spot.

“Who are you?” I’m guessing I already know the answer.

The guy reaches in his pocket and pulls out a badge. “Officer Nelson. Those monsters have us a bit curious. Do either of you drive that white delivery truck? The one that looks like an old FedEx truck?” He points at my truck.

“Nope.” David is an excellent liar. “Our car is over there.” He points to one by the ghoulie end of the building. “We walked outside the store, and I noticed the moon.”

“Right.” I can’t really tell if the guy believes us or not. “If you find out anything, would you please tell the Kwiky Pik clerks? They know we’re looking for the artist. They told us it was someone named Mixt UP, but we’re wondering if he’s connected to Uncle Epic, if you know who that is.” He hands David a card. “Or you can call us here.” His card says OFFICER ROGER NELSON, HENDERSON POLICE DEPARTMENT, with a number.

“Sure thing, Officer. Never heard of Uncle Epic, but if we find out anything, we’ll let you know.” It’s all I can to do keep my voice steady.

“You bet, Officer Nelson.” David squeezes my hand again. “We’re just going to look at the moon a little more.”

“Enjoy, gentlemen.” Officer Nelson fades back into the shadows, and I see him get into a car that’s next to the building we’re standing in front of.

“Just breathe. Breathe. Hold my hand. Breathe.” David is saying these things without moving his mouth while staring up at the moon.

“You’re the world’s best liar.” I try not to move my lips.

“Lots of practice.” He grins and squeezes my hand one last time, then lets it go.

Officer Nelson pulls out of the building’s parking lot and merges into traffic. I let out my breath, which I didn’t even realize I was holding. “Fuck. He didn’t believe a word we said.”

“Sure he did.” David is confident. “They don’t give you a card if they don’t believe you. They take you to the station. You’re still safe.”

“But is Epic safe?”

“Listen.” David puts his hands on my shoulders. “Epic will be fine. Trust me on that.”

“I can’t be the one to wreck Epic’s reputation! Or his anonymity, or anything else!”

David laughs. “Trust me. He’s not worried.” He kisses me once on each cheek. “That’s for luck. And for you being honest with me.”

We cross to my truck. Ghoulie Sarah and Ghoulie Brooklyn are still looking fly, still talking to Ghoulie Carter and Monster Matt. All is well. But my heart’s hammering so loud I can’t hear anything.

2:51 a.m. My phone vibrates.

Why didn’t you text me this weekend? Rory.

I didn’t know if you wanted me to.

I did. Frowny face.

Oh.

Great.