“Please!” said Imogen. It was at that moment that her face flushed red. Her lips were mashed awkwardly together, quivering. “If you don’t do it for you, do it for me.”

Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

Whoa, what the hell? That escalated quickly.

“Please be Viola,” she said. “I’ll never forgive myself if you don’t.”

“Fine.” I surrendered. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

What else could I say?

Today’s lunch was a cheesy potato casserole dish, listed on the lunch schedule as “funeral potatoes.” They actually weren’t terrible—per Piles Fork tradition—but they were clearly an omen.

A decision had been reached by the Powers That Be (meaning Holden and Imogen) that the four of us would dine together. We sat at the same table like four characters in the remote setting of an Agatha Christie novel—forcing smiles, pretending we wanted to be here, not really trusting anyone.

“So,” said Imogen, forcing the biggest smile of all. “This is nice.”

Holden, Wynezra, and I all nodded—although it probably looked more like we were bobbing our heads at an experimental-jazz bar, pretending we were cool enough to appreciate the diddley bow or the vibraphone.

Wynezra’s gaze strayed to the vending machine. She gave me a look that said, “Would it be suspicious if I bought a bag of pork rinds?”

I gave Wynezra a look that said, “Yes. Get Funyuns instead.” But apparently, it didn’t translate.

“I’m gonna get me some pork rinds,” said Wynezra, and then she was off before anyone could object.

Imogen and Holden were in a race to see whose jaw could hit the floor first. They slowly looked at me like I was somehow responsible.

“What did you do to him?” said Holden.

Keep it cool, Ezra. Be funny. Tell a joke.

“Apparently liking pork rinds is a sexually transmitted disease,” I said.

Imogen’s eyes became so wide, they threatened to engulf her entire face. Holden raised a hand to his mouth, discreetly suppressing his actual gag reflex.

Wynezra was back with her pork rinds—bag open, already popping them in her mouth, faster than you could say, “AHHHHHHHHH.”

“Whad I mish,” said Wynezra through a full mouth.

Imogen pulled herself together quickly. Interlocked her fingers and directed a meaningful look at Wynezra. “So, you’re too cool for Shakespeare these days?”

Wynezra swallowed. “Not too cool for Shakespeare. I just… really like trees.”

Because lunch was such a smashing success, the four of us decided to ride together to the Amityvale again. And once again, Ezra Slevin drove. Only this time, the role of Ezra Slevin was played by our budding young actress, Wynonna Jones. And she was gunning for the Oscar in the vein of Heath Ledger’s Joker.

“Speed limit,” said Imogen, gripping her armrest. “There is definitely a speed limit.”

“Speed limits are for speed dimwits,” said Wynezra.