“Inspire you?” Piper scoffs. “They’re total junk. Everyone’s on the front steps with balloons at first, but where are they when you’re sitting on the toilet having your mom wipe you because your shoulders won’t stretch?”

I toss the box back on my desk.

“Wait—they don’t make a Hallmark card for a successful tooshie wipe?” I say. “That seems like a serious oversight in the product line.”

Piper laughs. “Like ‘Congratulations on your first bowel movement after surgery! Hope everything comes out okay!’ ”

“Or ‘That graft looks way less pus-filled! Here’s to an infection-free New Year.’ ”

“Or how about this?” Piper leans back in her chair, her arms folded with a serious, deadpan face. “A card with Zac Efron smoldering off the page, saying, ‘Girl, those compression garments hug you in all the right places. Keep it tight.’ ”

I laugh. “I would definitely buy that one. At least it’s funny.”

“Right?” Piper says. “Like today, when Layne was trying to be all serious and you bust out your Freddy Krueger comment. I almost died. Who said it, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Some girl in the theater. Keira or Kenzie or something.”

Piper’s face scrunches up tight.

“Kenzie King?”

“I don’t know.”

“Long black hair? Face looks like the wind changed right when she was on the verge of a massive snart? Like she’s always right on the cusp of sneezing and farting simultaneously?”

I try to remember the girl’s face. I was so worried about her seeing me that I didn’t get a good look at her or the degree of snartiness on her face.

“Maybe?”

“Well, that’s not a surprise. Kenzie is the worst. The. Worst. Whatever you do, stay so far away from her that when she does finally snart, you’re nowhere near the splash zone.”

I laugh. “Gross.”

“Yes, she is. In fact, now that I know she was the one who said it, I no longer think it was hilarious.”

I send the dream catcher spinning with my claw-hand.

“One time, a girl at the checkout line scream-whispered to her mom that my face looked like melted crayons. I was only like a foot away from her. I’m burned, people, not brain-dead.”

Piper laughs. “I’ve heard that this one senior boy calls me ‘Meals on Wheels’ because I’m lightly toasted,” she says. “Gotta give him credit. That one’s got some nuance to it. You wouldn’t believe some of the dumb things people call me.”

“I guarantee I’ve heard worse,” I say, mildly insulted that Piper thinks she could compete with me, the face that launched a thousand quips.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know if you can handle it, Wheelie,” I say.

Piper leans back in her chair, a sly grin on her face. “All right, then I’ll start with an oldie but a goodie: roadkill.”