Not sure if that’s an endorsement or not. I grab two bags of sharks and go to the counter, glad Ma gave me money for supper before I left for school this morning; Dad must’ve told her I probably wouldn’t be home in time to eat with him. Ma’s gotten stuck with this eleven-to-closing shift lately, probably because she’s the only one willing to work it.

The cashier’s gaze is acidic, like my purchase is too small to justify the basic motor functions required to make change for a five-dollar bill. “So.” Beside me, Kincaid coughs, still congested. “You were going to tell me what I am.”

“That’s why you’re following me?”

“One of the reasons.” His gaze flickers over me, physical as a touch.

My body floods with heat, adrenaline, and I can’t look away from the peeling decals on the countertop. He’s returning fire. Oh my God. I have no idea what to do.

The cashier slides the cash register drawer shut with a ching. “Okay, kiddies. Take the pubescent mating rituals outside.” He and Kincaid do a fist bump; the cashier nods at me, telling Kincaid, “Remember to wrap it up, buddy. Last thing I need is your skate-rat progeny coming down here, trying to steal the Bic lighters.”

Kincaid laughs. I leave, face flaming.

Back on the sidewalk, I set the pace to hyper speed. Kincaid rolls up alongside, skating backward, hands in his coat pockets, zigzagging. “So?” he says to me. “What am I?”

“Other than a big show-off?” He laughs again. “How did you not kill that guy just now?”

“Owen? He’s Trace’s cousin.”

“So it’s okay for him to trash you?” And me, I think, but my pride won’t let me say it.

“He’s the reason I can drink.” Looks back at me. “If he didn’t buy for Trace, then Trace couldn’t sell to us.”

“Supply and demand, huh.”

“I guess. Anyway, he didn’t mean anything by it. That’s just how he is.” Considers me. “I’ve never seen you pissed before.”

“Yeah. Well. It happens.” What I’d almost said to him at the lunch table was probably too personal, too harsh, but I’m feeling thorny now, so I say, “You really want to know what you are?” He raises his brows. “Snake-oil salesman. Flimflam man. You think you can sell people on anything. And usually, you can.”

“Really.” Intense interest.

“Hey, you came all this way. The least I can do is insult you.” I rip open one of the bags and hold it out. “Shark?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “But not you. You’re not buying.”

“Nope. Told you.” I pick out a gummy, wincing at the occasional stray raindrop striking my face, hard as a pellet of buckshot.