“Life’s not worth it if you’re a dud.” He puts both elbows on the table and leans toward me. “So, where were we? Dicks.”

“Maybe we should rewind? I haven’t even responded to your confession yet.”

“If you tell me that you invited me here to break my heart, I’m storming out.”

“Actually, I invited you here to tell you that I like you back.”

A smile spreads across his face. “Of course you do,” he says. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Oh, Lord . . .”

He laughs, and I laugh with him.

“But I might be changing schools,” I say, sucking the joy from the moment.

He looks bummed. And then he nods, takes a breath, and smiles. I just watched him be sad and transform his sadness into okayness. Glee, even. I guess that’s his special ability.

“I’ll work around not being able to stare at the back of your head in psych,” he says. “But if we won’t be seeing each other, you can’t ghost my texts anymore.”

“Ghost . . . was that a pun?”

“Of course, thanks for noticing.”

“Of course. Anyways . . .” It’s my turn to take a deep breath, and with it, I take in the air of the place, an air of TV screens, car bumpers, beer, sports and blue jeans and life. “I won’t ghost your texts. I’m trying to be a better communicator or whatever.”

“Good. Talking to the dead is not enough.”

“I’m not even good at that, though, which is the real tragedy.”

Allister lilts his head in agreement. “Yeah, that’s not looking great for you. I mean, it’s kind of like oral and written communication skills—you really need one or the other to have a strong résumé.”

“Thanks for rubbing it in.”

“In this house, we only deal in facts. What, would you prefer I lied to you?”

“Never. The main reason I like you is because you’re real.”

I grab a salt packet from its little house of salt on the table, rip it open, and spill it across the wood surface.

“Are we making contact with Satan now?” Allister asks as I run my fingers through it.

“No, I just think it’s cool to draw with salt.”

Allister clicks his tongue and then rolls it around his mouth. I’m noticing his tongue is really very intriguing—redder than usual, like a tangy cherry.

He looks around the joint, at the girls in their dresses and jeans, all with some dramatic tattoos—snakes and spiders. His eyes land on me again as he picks up his water for a sip. “What do you think ol’ Kenny’s gonna bring me back from the kitchen?”

“Probably the fried chicken burger.”