“You’re girls. You’re resourceful. If you don’t have it, you’ll find it.” He gestures to Kincaid and Moon. “We’re men. We don’t know shit.”

We girls look at one another. I say, “He’s totally been practicing that in front of a mirror.”

Bree eats her last bite of rice. “Sounds like a kiss-ass way to get us to do all the work.”

“Nope. We have our own list. Way more challenging.”

She flicks the note. “Jell-O. Really? Stick the girls in the kitchen, right, while you guys get to go out and do all the cool stuff?”

Trace glances at Moon, then back at Bree. “You want to come? Because we kinda figured—”

“If I’m making the artillery, I sure as hell want a chance to throw it.” Bree looks at us, and I nod, still not sure what I’m agreeing to. “What’s it gonna be? Are we in on your little siege or not?”

Trace’s grin grows by degrees. Drains his glass, bangs it down. “Okay, Pumpkin Stealer. Ground floor. But no wussing out. Anybody who chokes has to buy Song’s for the rest of the year, and I’ll never tell them anything again.”

Kincaid holds his hand out to Bree for the list. “What’s on there?”

Bree gives it over without a word. Trace watches with a smug, knowing look, and suddenly it’s way too hot in here, wedged into this booth side by side. Kincaid hands it back, laughing his rusty laugh. “Sounds messed up. I’m there.” When Bree folds the paper small and closes it in her palm, I know what she’s doing—transferring the warmth from his fingers to her skin.

“You’d better be,” Trace says. “We’re counting on you to bring the mud.”

Outside into the crisp, blinding day, puffy clouds surfing a sky so clear it looks chlorinated. Kincaid holds the door for us, arm hooked through the handle, hanging off it like a tire swing as he watches traffic. I think again of my closed closet door, the definite knowledge that it wasn’t right, what I was seeing; how that spooked feeling trailed me clear through my morning classes. Ma must’ve come in before my alarm went off for some reason and pushed it shut on her way out, I know that, but it’s a clear picture of where my head’s at these days, thanks to Kincaid: seeing closet monsters, boogeymen who punish bad kids for sneaking demon liquor and trying to cover it up with Trident.

I’m the last one out of Song’s. I don’t look at Kincaid as I pass him, but he brushes close by me as he releases the door handle, his lips near my ear—“Nice coat”—before reuniting his board with the sidewalk.