But after the Red Week, North had found himself in an uneasy truce with the other boys. And one day, he had been playing Mario Kart 64 on Dennis Neel’s N64. The N64 wasn’t exactly new, but it was new to Dennis Neel, and it was new to the kids in Lindenwood Park, and North had pleaded and threatened until Dennis invited him over to take a turn.

And it was awesome. North still remembered the feel of it, the out-of-body rush of turning hard into a curve, watching Toad’s—he always played Toad—cart hop and skid and grab for traction. It was partially a sugar high, everything jittery except his hands, with the oversweet taste of tropical-punch Kool-Aid gritty between his teeth. He remembered the black-and-white finish line coming up, he remembered launching a red shell, he remembered pressing so hard that he thought the controller might break—Dennis would hate him forever, but it would be worth it for this first win on such an awesome game. And he remembered hearing Mrs. Neal talking to someone else in the kitchen. On the phone, maybe? Or perhaps North hadn’t noticed the other person in his haste to get to the N64. She had been saying something, her voice muted at the edge of North’s awareness, and then for some reason his ears had tuned in and he’d heard the next words like crystal: We couldn’t very well invite him to the birthday party, and I told Dennis, I told him, that it’s one thing to be polite but that he really shouldn’t make friends with the boy. It’s just not right, is it?

Toad skated across the finish line. A red shell zipped after him, blasting him into the air, but it didn’t matter because he’d already won. North rubbed his thumbs along the sweat-slick plastic of the controller, and all of the sudden the jitters had gotten into his hands, and the tropical-punch taste in his mouth made his stomach clench and flop and roll over. It was the first time in his life that something had been so sweet that it had made him sick.

Now, staring at Shaw, North ran his tongue along his teeth, practically tasting that same grit of sugar and powdered drink mix. Shaw was still staring back at him, his face set in that blend of challenge and defensiveness.

You can either scream, a very cold, very practical voice said inside North. You can either scream and punch and throw a hissy fit and make yourself fucking sick with it, or you can play along.

So North smiled. “You are a fucking dog.”

Shaw didn’t say anything.

North slid out of the chair, bent over Shaw, and peeled back his eyelids. Shaw grunted and slapped at North’s arm, but he didn’t really struggle. North made a show of examining first one dilated pupil, then the next, as though he were conducting some kind of medical exam. Then, still peeling back Shaw’s lids, he nodded. “You fucked. You went ahead and threw your skinny Protestant sausage link to that kid, didn’t you?” North was grinning. They were buddies. This was exactly what buddies were supposed to do. He let go of Shaw’s eyes and dropped back into the chair, kicked up his legs. “You are fucking incorrigible.”