“Ah!” he interrupts. “My new recruit. Come in, come in!” I’m already in, but I guess he means to come farther into the store toward him. He claps his hands together, as if I’ve done something worthy of applause. He might be the jolliest person I’ve ever met. “Come get settled in. Today should be relatively easy. I just have some paperwork for you to fill out. Want me to hang your coat?” He reaches out a helpful hand, but I pull my coat tighter around me.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“Let me just see if Dean has your papers,” he says, turning toward the back of the store where there appears to be a break room. The name sends a burst of nervous energy through me. “Dean!” he calls, and then there he is.

He looks just as perfect as I remember him—better maybe—in a black T-shirt just like the other day, except this one says HERZOG. I guess directors are his Thing. His hair is combed back in a style perfectly mimicking that of the real James Dean.

“Hey,” he says casually, leaning against the door frame to the break room, arms folded. “We meet again.”

“Hey,” I say back, trying to be just as casual.

“All righty.” Mr. Roth claps his hands again. “I’ve got to go. Dean here has you covered. Tim should be in around five o’clock—he’s our other cashier—and then I’m sure the three of you can get everything sorted.” He bustles around the store, straightening and moving bits and pieces around. “I’ll see you all tomorrow!”

Then he’s out the door, and it’s just the two of us. Alone again.

“He’s . . . very jolly,” I say.

“Practically jovial,” Dean agrees. He’s still leaning against the door frame like he’s waiting for somebody to take his picture.

“Should I . . .” I begin, trailing off, not sure what I’m about to ask. It’s hot in the store and I want to take my coat off, but I hug it tightly to my chest. My hands feel clammy.

“Right,” he says, pushing off from the wall. “Paperwork.”

He walks over to the counter and riffles through some drawers, then pulls out a stack of forms. I take a seat again on one of the stools. The coat situation is getting bad—I’m starting to sweat in earnest now. I decide to cut my losses and take it off. Dean raises an eyebrow when he sees my sweater.

“What happened to you?”

I motion to the stains. “There was a . . . blue paint incident at school.”

“Clearly.”

His eyes flicker to my chest, to where the sweater is pulled tight, and his gaze lingers for a moment too long. My whole face burns.

“I’m not good at ceramics,” I say, which makes sense in my head, but I realize Dean might not see the connection.