“Oh.” Anabel let out a silvery laugh. “I was going to say, performing in Hedwig or something?”
“Yeah, no, she’s got me doing her dirty work.” I pulled on the lopsided smile I’d been practicing in the mirror, more of a smirk than a real smile. “Ha ha, typical B . . . Bertha.”
Mentally, I gave myself a hard smack. What the hell? Who was actually named Bertha, besides that seventy-two-year-old administrative assistant at my middle school?
“That’s considerate,” Anabel said. “Nice to know chivalry isn’t dead.”
I coughed. “No, yeah. Chivalry is just, uh, super alive.”
Then, like a moron, I looked directly at her. Mild confusion flickered across her expression, and she tilted her head, one curled blonde strand bouncing forward across her eye. “Wait, sorry, have we met?”
“Nope. No. I don’t think so.”
“You look really familiar.”
I shrugged, angling my face firmly down at the table. Ohshitohgodohshit, I thought. “Probably just the Kensington effect,” I mumbled. “I think I would, um, remember you.”
She laughed again. “That’s sweet. Again with the chivalry.”
There was a teasing edge to her voice that made my cheeks heat up. Was that—was she flirting with me? Why was I getting flustered? She couldn’t be pursuing me—I’d told her I was dating Bertha. I would never cheat on Bertha. We had a beautiful relationship.
Unsure what to do, I very loudly said, “Ha ha ha,” and then wanted to die.
Anabel shuffled the clothes back into the red canvas. “All right,” she said, sounding amused. “That’s twenty-three dollars.”
I handed her the crumpled bills, and she sorted them into the beige metal box that served as a register, humming a song from the musical. Anabel had gotten one of the three leads this year, her first lead part. She was going to be good—she’d always impressed me in smaller parts. It was always tough to begrudge other kids their victories. Most people at Kensington were nice enough, even with the bloodthirsty levels of competition. It would’ve been so much easier if they were divas and assholes and I could hate them comfortably from the sidelines.
“Aaand here you go,” she said, handing me my bag.
“Thanks.” I grabbed it, turned, and froze in place. Jon Cox and Mama stood behind me in line, a lamp arching its neck between the two of them. A smile spread across Jon Cox’s face, his tortoiseshell glasses glinting in the painful sun.
“What’s good, man?” he crowed, dragging the lamp forward.
“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound too flustered. “Um. Nice lamp. I’m gonna—” I took a few halting steps back, trying not to look like I was engineering an escape. They approached the table. The two halves of my life faced each other down.
Mama folded his arms, leaning back to talk to me. “I don’t see why we’re getting another lamp,” he huffed. “We have one in our room already.”
“You’re roommates?” I said, wondering if they ever left each other’s side for more than five minutes at a go. Mama nodded, his dark curls flapping in the wind.
We looked over at Jon Cox, who was leaning deep over the table, giving Anabel his confident grin. “Hey. How’s it going? You’re Anabel, right?”
A supremely bored look spread across Mama’s round face. “Oh, God, not this again,” he muttered.
I looked toward the road, and freedom. “Sorry, bro, I really have to go, but I’ll see you at reh—”
“He always does this,” Mama said tiredly. “Don’t abandon me. I spend 90 percent of my life third-wheeling.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and stayed put, giving the table a cautious glance.
“Sucks that you have to work this thing,” Jon Cox was saying, giving his glasses a nudge up his nose with a knuckle. “How long are your shifts?”
“Not too bad,” Anabel said. “An hour each.” Her attention flickered over his face, from his blue eyes to his even smile.
Watching Jon Cox’s performance was kind of fascinating. With his balanced, patrician features and the way his golden hair caught the sun, he was hard to look away from. He also had it, whatever it was—the charm some guys have that radiates out like a gravitational field. Michael had had it, too.
“Jon,” Mama said loudly, “you’re holding up the line.”
Anabel came back to herself. “Right,” she said, glancing down at the box and back up at him. “That’ll be a dollar.”
“Yeah.” Jon Cox pulled his wallet from his pastel-yellow shorts and paid. “Thanks. I’ll see you around.”
As he backed away from the table, I drew the guys toward the exit. The line flooded up, hiding Anabel from sight, and the tension unknotted from my shoulders.
“What the fuck,” Jon Cox said, battering Mama around the torso with the lamp. “She was like an eight.”
Mama swatted the lamp away. It swung toward a tiny freshman girl with a messenger bag who dodged it with a squeak. “My bad,” Mama called after her and turned back to Jon. “I’m doing you a favor. Remember Laura?”
They pulled identical grimaces.
“So, yeah,” Mama said. “Leave theater girls alone.”
“Not everybody is gonna be Laura.”
“All I’m saying is,” Mama rumbled, “maybe something would go well if you spent less time picking up random girls, and more time, I don’t know, making friends with girls, so you can find someone who actually makes sense with your terrible personality.”
Jon Cox grinned. He didn’t even seem to hear the insult. “The Internet disagrees,” he said. “Pickups work. They make you look like an alpha. Women love alphas. It’s a real thing.”
I couldn’t contain myself. “Oh my God it completely is not a thing,” I mumbled.
Jon Cox elbowed me. “Back me up here.” I rubbed my bicep, scowling at him. We reached the entrance of the enclosure and slowed, waiting for the crowd to clear.
“Well,” Mama said, “not to sound like a sixty-year-old, but—”
“You always sound like a sixty-year-old.”
“—but maybe you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet.”
Jon Cox flicked the lamp over his shoulder. “I officially like this lamp more than I like you.”
“I’m just trying to help,” Mama said. “It’s sort of sad watching you bounce around from girl to girl like a hormone pinball, just so you can pretend you’re not pining afte—”
“I’m not pining,” Jon Cox said as we passed the teachers who manned the entrance. “I don’t pine.”
Mama looked skeptical but stayed quiet. As we reached August Drive, Jon Cox nudged me. “Julian, what’re you up to? We’re gonna go for a drive. I texted the group—we’re picking up Isaac in a second.”
“A drive?” I said. “You have your license?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you a sophomore?”
Red tinged his cheeks. “Yeah, but I, um.”
“He’s old for his grade,” Mama cut in, sounding strangely protective. “So, you coming?”