Oh.
Jesus.
“I hate that name.” I sigh.
Hated it ever since Boyan Debnar labeled me with it in kindergarten after he dared me to stuff my whole sandwich in my mouth at lunch. He thought it was so clever. PiggyBack.PiggyJack.One of those perfect damn insults I couldn’t shake until I grew big enough to intimidate people.
She looks instantly contrite. “Oh my God. I am so sorry. That’s a terrible name,” she says, her face growing pink. Oh, great. Nowshefeels bad. “I just remembered and blurted it out. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just…” She glances down as if wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
“No big deal. We were kids.” I shrug. The past has no control over me.Icontrol how I feel about my past. Push through it,Jack. This isn’t the first time your past has reared its fat head. Punch it in the face. I take a deep breath.
“But, I mean…” She gives me a slow once-over, starting at my feet and working her way up my body. “You’ve changedsomuch. I meansomuch.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I mean… wow.”
Please don’t say I’ve lost weight. Every time someone reminds me I was a chubby kid, it makes me think I’m walking around in a meat suit. That I’m an imposter. I mean, sure, I’ve long since banished those fat rolls with bland, tasteless lean chicken and vegetable meals for days, but I hate it when people act soshocked,like it’s a magic trick I should be perfecting for live television.
“I mean, your legs are so freakin’ long. You would totally win every single race to the swings at recess.”
“You remember our race to the swings?” I’m honestly surprised.
“Of course. It was always you and me, racing for the last one!”
“You always won,” I say. I know this because I always, without fail, let her.
“Yeah. I did.”
She laughs. I laugh. This feels warm and comfy and perfect. Like hot chocolate and flannel pajamas on a snow day.
“Oh my gosh. Remember Mrs. Perez’s fifth-grade class? All the holiday parties?”
“She’d always bring a tray of those holiday cookies from Jewel,” I say, remembering theoohs andaahs that rippled through the class when she set the giant tray of colorful,fun-shaped cookies on the reading table. “I loved Valentine’s Day the best. She always brought extra lollipops!”
“That woman was so brave. Loading up all us ten-year-olds with sugar! Can you imagine?”
I laugh. “She was brave to be in there with us to begin with!”
“Yeah.” Sora pauses. Stares at me in a dramatic way, long, dark lashes framing her big brown eyes, alight with… mischief, and something more. My heart lightens a bit. Is this when she remembers that I put a special card in her glitter-glue-decorated shoebox? I’d debated for an hour whichRugratsvalentine to give her:I like youorWill you be mine?A whole hour. “Remember the shoeboxes we decorated for Valentine’s?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
This is going really well. Like, better than I could’ve expected. Like, surprisingly good.
“Andyoustole the candy from my box!” she declares, and laughs.
Somewhere, I hear a record scratch—errrrrrrck—and then someone takes that vinyl, throws it on the ground, pours lighter fluid on it, and sets it on fire.
“That’s right.” She wags a finger at me. “You stole all of my valentines and my candy—even the lollipop from Mrs. Perez! The only thing in my box wasyourcard. Withyourname on it.” She cackles. “Now, I can totally give you shit for it!”
She slaps me playfully on the arm, but I’m still in shock. She’s smiling now, as if we can share an inside joke, but… I didn’tstealher candy! Never took her valentines. What kind of jerk kid would that make me?
“I didn’t do that.” I sound offended. I don’t mean to sound offended. I just absolutely, positively, did not steal her candy. Her smile instantly fades.
“You didn’t?” She frowns, looking temporarily confused. The conversation suddenly turns awkward. The easy banter hits a brick wall. Sora tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh. Maybe… I’m wrong? I just thought… someone said…” She freezes then. We both freeze, staring at each other, the same realization dawning. Someone probably told her Piggy Jack stole the candy. Because why not blame the chubby kid? I’d be the perfect scapegoat.
Okay, this isn’t going well. It’s going terribly. Horribly. It can’t get worse.
Then it does.
Because somewhere behind Sora, I see my worst nightmare—Mal, my ex-fiancée, approaching, looking like some kind of Nordic goddess. The kind that likes to disembowel men and send them to Valhalla, screaming.
