I do, not that he realizes. Of course he got into the class I’d most wanted to take, which was already full by the time I enrolled at Camden. Taking a minimum of two AP classes this year was part of the deal with my parents for coming here, and chem and APUSH were two of the only ones available to sophomores. Annoyingly, Salem is in the latter with me, too, and I don’t understand it, considering this is the first time I’ve ever seen him study. “So brilliant,” I mutter, pointedly turning my focus to the thick book in front of me. “What story are you doing for English?”

“‘Masque of the Red Death.’ Haven’t started writing yet, though. I figure that’ll be Thursday night’s problem.”

“Salem.” I shut the book as quickly as I’ve opened it and fix him with a serious Look. “My part of the deal will not allow me to let you put off a huge assignment until the last minute. Come on—we can outline together.”

“Hard pass, Skeevy. I’m just here for breakfast and a quick chapter review.”

“I thought you weren’t a breakfast person.”

“I’m a black-coffee-on-Sunday-mornings person,” he says, and then he goes and gets himself some, leaving me inexplicably tempted to go through the bag he left behind. I wrinkle my nose when he returns and the bitter scent hits me. “I guess coffee is not your thing.”

“Not even a little,” I confirm. “Aren’t you, like, thirty years too young to be drinking that?”

“I’m an old soul.” He purses his lips and blows at the cloud of steam that wafts from the cup. “Is your talent gonna be nagging people to death or what?”

“Talent?”

He nods toward the bulletin board. “Talent show. You haven’t seen the fifty thousand flyers already pasted up all over campus this morning?”

“I have not. Will you be showing us how to roll fifty joints in under a minute?”

“Ha ha. I am now…” He starts ticking off on his fingers, then loses count immediately. “Nearing forty-eight hours completely sober, thank you very much. But oh, right, we already got to see your talent last night. I assume you’ll be whooping some poker ass onstage for everyone’s viewing pleasure?”

“Lemme guess,” I say, putting my fingers to my temples like a psychic. “You’ll be doing some incredibly emo performance on an acoustic guitar whose name is … Jenny. No, Betty. Yes, your guitar’s name is definitely Betty.”

“Since when do I have a guitar?” His lips twitch as he brings the coffee back up to them for a sip.

“Oh, come on. You are the stereotype to end all stereotypes. Of course you have a guitar. And if I knew anything about the music you listen to, I’d tell you exactly what you’ll be playing.”