As far as I can tell, the entirety of the top floor of this building belongs to Marvyn’s family. All three units. One is his grandparents’, one is his parents’, and the other, a recently refurbished one, belongs to his older sister and her husband. Marvyn gave us a tour at the last party of his that I attended.

Although the temperature is dipping fast, it’s still sunny enough that the prospect of shedding hoodies for an indoor pool bash has appeal for a lot of FATE kids. The place is surprisingly packed. In addition to the usual suspects, there are also the water polo team members, some of their Dwight School counterparts, and some Spence girls. All seniors. It makes sense; we’re all dealing with the looming trauma of graduation. Any weekend is a good excuse for a party, and any party is a good opportunity to create a memory. There’s something new ahead, of course, but life as we all know it is in countdown mode.

Ming and I leave our stuff in a circular room with high walls and crowded built-in bookshelves that go up to the ceiling, at the center of which is a single circular couch. One of the handful of living rooms Marvyn’s place has and that is already filled with piles of coats and bags because, again, winter. Corinne texted that she was squeezing in an extra-credit problem set and would meet us here.

“Haltiwan-ker!” I hear as soon as we step out of the elevator, and we follow the wet footprints to the rooftop area. “Welcome to my abode, man!” Marvyn shouts with an arm wave, holding court by the lounging area with a ridiculous two-beer hat and an open Hawaiian shirt.

“Hey, Marvyn!” I grin back. He instantly leans into one of his friends’ ears and whispers something, eyes right on me, and they giggle in unison. All right, then, asshole.

I take off my shirt in one swift motion and give Marvyn an earnest smile. All right, fine; it’s a downright smirk. Sue me. Did I do an extra set of pull-ups on the scaffolding right before we got here? Yes. Was that silly? Yes. Was it also worth it? Yes. Yes, it was.

He looks away, and I swear I can spot him sucking in his stomach.

Ming snorts behind me, materializing two beers out of nowhere and handing me one. “Does that feel good, Halti? Body-shaming your classmate like that?”

“You know what? It does,” I say, knocking my bottle against his. “To pettiness.”

Any weirdness from that day at the flea market seems to have dissipated, or maybe even only been in my head. It’s been a crowded field lately.