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“I don’t want you to be a serial killer. Torturing animals andwetting the bed. A decade from now, I’ll be interviewed for some news show, and I’ll cry on camera and everything when I have to say no one saw it coming. Why would you do that to me, Nicky? Do youwantto see my makeup ruined on national television from your maximum-security jail cell?”
Damn her. She knew exactly what to say to get through to him. He didn’t know why he was so surprised, but maybe that was part of it: Jasmine Kensington—perhaps more than any other person he knew—could cut through to the heart of the matter with the simplest of ease. He hadn’t known what to expect from her when Gibby first brought her over to their lunch table, announcing in no uncertain terms they were dating, and that was the way it was going to be. He’d fallen prey to his own misguided characterizations, initially believing Jazz was nothing more than a somewhat empty-headed yet totally hot cheerleader. He’d been wrong in that regard and kicked himself for being so quick to judge. It’d taken time, sure, but change often did. They were three, and then they’d become four, but it wasn’t until this past summer when Seth had been busy almost every day and Gibby was out of town doing hippie things that Nick got one-on-one time with her and saw the splendor that was his friend.
It’d been slightly awkward at first, texting her to see if she wanted to hang out. She’d immediately respondedyes thank you ur cool, and though Nick thought she was an excellent judge of character, he’d worried they wouldn’t have anything to talk about that didn’t revolve around Gibby or Seth. Or worse, Owen.
But she’d surprised him, as was her way. She wasn’t the smartest person in the world, yet she never claimed to be. She was happy just… being. Nick didn’t understand it, not really, but he thought maybe he didn’t have to. She didn’t expect him to be anything but who he was, and Nick could count on one hand the number of people who were like her.
And ithadbeen awkward, at least the first few days. He’d worried he’d say something stupid that would end up somehow ruining her relationship with Gibby, and then he’d have to faceherwrath, which terrified him down to his bones. It wasn’t until Jazz had called him on a Tuesday morning mid-June to tell him she’dbought them both tickets to the latest superhero movie with slow-motion explosions and men and women in skintight uniforms that he’d realized that maybe they weren’t so different after all. They’d spent the entire six-hour run time of the movie cackling at the ridiculousness of it in an empty theater, throwing popcorn at each other, and getting sticky with melted Junior Mints, shouting at the screen whenever something implausible happened for the sake of plot. Nick had gone into the movie with someone he considered a friend. He’d left with a bestie he would do anything for. If that made him easy, well. That was just fine with him.
(Which he proved to be true the next day, when she invited him to go along while she took her mother’s toy poodle—Maria Von Trapp, an awful name for a dog, in Nick’s estimation—to the groomers. The dog did not like Nick. This was made clear when it bit him on the hand and then pissed on his shoes. Jazz had made it up to him by buying him ice cream. Nick considered them even, especially when she didn’t look at him in horror when he poured chocolate syrup on top of a pile of sour gummy worms, as most people did.)
“No,” Nick mumbled to Jazz now, especially since he didn’t like seeing anyone he loved cry, even if it meant his plan was pretty much ruined. It hurt too much when he couldn’t find a way to fix it. “But what if I promise not to serial murder anyone? And besides, I’ve never had a head injury—”
“Concussion,” Gibby said as she came back in the room. The laughter was gone from her face, and Seth trailed in behind her looking troubled. “Seventh grade. You got hit in the head while playing dodgeball because you were like an awkward baby gazelle and didn’t understand how to dodge.”
Nick scowled at her. “That game is so archaic. It’s a middle school torture device meant for thinning out the herd. And it wasn’tthatbad of a concussion. I only had to have three follow-ups and my vision was blurry for a week and—crap.”
Seth nodded solemnly. “And a cricket in the microwave will complete the trifecta. Because no matter what you think, it’ll be torture for the bug, and it will die, Nicky. You can’t do that to the cricket. If anything, think of the backlash if you were ever found out. Say itworked. What happens when PETA hears about your origin story? They’ll come after you, even though they’re hypocritical monsters.”
“But,” Nick said weakly, “people eat crickets in some cultures. You can get them covered in chocolate and everything.”
“Yes, but they don’t get tortured. What if they do have a soul? Do you want that on your conscience? And what happens if it comes back and haunts you? Do you really want a ghost cricket around forever? It’ll probably chirp really loudly next to your ear and eventually drive you crazy. I don’t want my best friend to go insane because of ghost crickets.”
Nick looked forlornly at his idea board.Cosmohadn’t said anything about a rebuttal when one of your ideas could potentially make you a serial killer and/or cause you to be haunted by a ghost cricket. It should have come with a warning.
He knew he needed to be the bigger person here. He picked up the specimen jar and went to the window in his room. He pushed it open, the sounds of the street below pouring in. He didn’t know how people could live in the middle of nowhere. It’d be too quiet. Nova City was like his mind, always moving. It was comforting, in a way.
“Okay, little guy,” he said to the cricket, “today’s your lucky day. You got a stay of execution. Be free!” He unscrewed the lid to the jar and flicked his wrist toward the window.
Except the cricket landed on the windowsill, and then immediately turned and jumped straight at Nick. Given that it was the size of a small Buick, he screamed and took a stumbling step back. It landed on his arm. He waved it wildly, trying to get it off before it could maul him.
He succeeded in that regard, but at great cost. The cricket launched itself at Gibby, who made a noise as if she got punched in the stomach, trying to push herself back on the bed and hitting her head against the wall. “No,” she moaned. “Oh god, no.”
The cricket landed on Nick’s pillow. With a warrior’s cry, Nick picked up a textbook off his desk and threw it at the cricket, only to hit Seth in the arm when he tried to reach for the bug himself.
“Ow!” Seth cried. “Why did you throw a book at me?”
“I didn’t! You got in my way!”
“You’re all useless,” Jazz said, rolling her eyes. She stood, smoothing her skirt. She reached down and slid off one of her heels, flipped it over in a deft move, and then smashed it against Nick’s pillow.
It was quiet, after.
She lifted her shoe.
There was a black, wet smudge on Nick’s pillow.
“There,” Jazz said, lifting her leg and sliding her heel back on. “Now that that’s over with, I saw pizza downstairs, and I think I’ve earned a slice. If you’ll excuse me.”
Her hair streamed behind her as she exited the room.
“I’m sorry, Nick,” Gibby said, staring after her girlfriend.
Nick sighed. “It’s fine. It’s just a bug—”
“No. Not about that. I’m sorry that I’m now aroused on your bed.”
“Ack! Gross! Get off, get off,get off!”
