A girl on the nearest bench appraises me with cooler-than-thou stoner eyes, and I force a laugh, turning my back on her. Act like you’re having the best time, brazen through it—my own good advice, hard to take. “Where’s yours?”

She inclines her head slightly to the left. “Black coat. Don’t look.”

Lots of boys and a few girls on boards out there, hitting the ramps, grinding over the rail, swirling together like leaves in an updraft; I track pairs of sneakers just to sort them out. Vans, DCs; my eyes finally land on a pair of black Converse high-tops with dirty skull laces coasting on a battle-scarred Polar board, somehow hardly having to push off to keep momentum. His jeans won’t survive another wash cycle—both knees are out—and his black wool topcoat falls at mid-thigh, a bottle of Jolt sticking out of the pocket. He slaps and scoops the tail of his board, catches a moment of air to pop shove-it, then slams down, rolling away like business as usual.

“Right?” Bree waits.

Heat rises from some magma chamber inside me, and I forget about wanting my coat, may never want for anything again, because I’ve just seen the most incredible face.

Not a perfect face. It looks like his nose might’ve been broken once, and he has some acne at his jawline, aggravated by shaving, and scattered at his temples, where I get it, too. His hair is long, the color of straw, with a few thin braids that snake around whenever he lifts off on his board. He wears a wallet chain. I can’t stop looking.

And I need to, because Bree is waiting for my answer, starting to take offense, one eyebrow raised. “Wow. Nice.” I sound vague and half-assed, too stunned to say the right thing, and I think I’ve pissed her off.

Now, Trace finally flips Sage and sets her on her feet. She whirls, pounding his bicep, swearing at him as he laughs, drawing all eyes their way except mine. I watch Kincaid, following his motion to the top of a plywood ramp, where he decides to sit on the edge, hanging his board off the side and drinking his Jolt, wearing a thousand-yard stare as the other skaters bomb past him. From here, his eyes look dark, but not brown; maybe a muddy green. Beneath his dangling feet, half buried by swirls of spray-painted initials and X-rated cartoons, are those words again: Fear Him.

“I’ve seen that.” I was mostly thinking out loud, but I’ve got Bree’s attention. “That message, ‘Fear Him.’ It’s under the overpass by school.”

“It’s everywhere. All over town.” She watches me, gaze intent. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. Like, God, maybe?”

She gives one of those laughs, 90 percent cacao, bitter and rich. “No. Not God.”