Spits makes faces at me. You failed, he mouths, smiling of course, and pointing to the girl, who’s kind of pretending to ignore me by leaning forward and staring at the grass. I wad up the note and try to throw it at Spits, but it bounces off the head of someone who doesn’t even react.

“My friend over there told me to invite you to my party. He thinks I failed,” I say to the girl.

“How? You already invited me.”

“Failing would be you not showing up.”

“How does he know that I won’t go?”

“Exactly. Orange house. Basketball hoop. Ten o’clock.”

“We’ll see.”

“Who are you?”

“The name next to yours in the yearbook,” she says.

I try to get a good look at her, but the sun’s so bright she becomes her own kind of light. Her eyes are all I can make out. They’re brown, but a shiny kind, like maple syrup glistening on a pancake.

Man, I’m hungry.

“Guess I need to pay better attention to the yearbook,” I say.

“Same,” she whispers.

* * *

When I open my mouth to speak, my voice crackles with Martin’s style of speech, one so easy to fall into, I do it without even realizing. My dress may as well be made of concrete. It blocks my exasperated air from releasing, shoving it into space around my rib cage.

“We’ve got a whole list of things to do,” he says. “Number one, watch Back to the Future. I can’t sleep until you’ve met the real Marty McFly.”

“You know I can stream it, right?”

“You can?” His tone isn’t mocking, just playful. “My copy is special though. It’s the Marty ‘Fly’ McGee platinum edition. Extremely rare. Actually, one of a kind.”

“Wow. What an honor.”

“Please, please. It’s not a big deal. I don’t like to make a fuss. At the end of the day, I’m just a regular guy.”

We share a laugh. As it tapers out, there’s a pause, like in the space between words, something has shifted. It’s almost awkward.

Martin swoops back in to save the moment. “All right, back to my list. Number two, look at our yearbook. If I’ve missed you, my alphabetical neighbor I’ve never been put next to at any other school thing, who knows what else might be in there?” He pauses to smile at me. Mouth open, molars visible, so lacking in self-­consciousness that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from smiling too big in return. “Number three, I’m gonna need you to show me what there is to love about this place.” He takes out his phone. “So, Graduation Girl, how about a phone number for your new friend Marty McGee?”