“Well, let’s hope you’re better at working a cash register.”

“I am,” I say. “Promise.”

“Promises are dangerous,” he says. “You should never make a promise unless you mean it.”

“I mean it.”

“Good,” he says. “Me too.”

“Good,” I say, though I’m not really sure what he means or what he’s promising, if he’s promising anything at all.

We spend the next hour going over everything in the store—how the movies are organized in the computer, how to fill up the coffeepots and open the cash register (this last one involves lots of elbows because it always jams). Apparently the cookies and pastries are just from Le Soleil bakery down the street—Dean picks up a bag of them each morning and drops them off with Mr. Roth on the way to his 8:00 a.m. lecture.

“So why do people come here instead of just getting them right from the source?” I ask, examining the various flavors lined up neatly in the glass display case. There are little action figures surrounding the cookies—a tiny Iron Man and Black Panther, a slightly less tiny Hulk.

“Because I work here,” Dean says, breaking into a grin. “I’m charming.” I look up at him and immediately blush and look back down at the counter. Do girls actually come here to talk to Dean? Is that why he thinks I’m here?

He must see my confusion or panic, because he shrugs. “I’m totally kidding.” At this, I flush even redder, but he continues on, thankfully ignoring the state of my face. “We’re like four blocks closer to campus, so that’s probably the main reason. But people come here for the vibe too. Where else can you get a little plastic Avenger with your cookie?”

Dean has a point. I do love the vibe in here. I don’t know why I ever stopped coming. This store is part of the reason I fell in love with movies in the first place.

“I feel kinda sad for Mr. Roth,” I say. “I mean, there’s that new Dunkin’ Donuts—”

“See that poster behind you?” Dean interrupts. “The Blues Brothers one?” I turn and see the classic poster, Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi in sunglasses, slightly faded from the sun. “That’s been taped to the wall since the eighties. Roth could probably sell it on eBay or something if he wanted, but he never will. Same with Raiders of the Lost Ark,” he says, nodding his head to another wall, “and Shawshank. If you like movies? This place is magic.”

“I love them,” I say, the words like a sigh. I love him. All I want is for him to think I’m as cool as he is, because he is so cool, and beautiful, and terrifying. James Dean is magic.