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Connor: Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Richard Ramirez.
Ava: I’ll take men I’d actually be caught *dead* with for two-hundred please, Alex.
Connor: Ah. So you’re not just a pretty face. You got jokes, too.
My stupid heart does a stupid pitter-patter, and I bite down on my lip so my grin doesn’t split my face in two.
Ava: You think I’m pretty?
Connor: Of course I do. But so would Ted Bundy so…
Ava: I think we change Richard Ramirez for Blanche Tyler Moore.
Connor: Who’s that?
Ava: She was a serial killer in the early 1900s who met her victims via newspaper (aka text messages). She promised them love (told them they were good-looking), then when they came to see her (psych class paper), she’d poison them, chop them up into pieces and bury them on her farm. Then she’d take whatever life insurance and money they had.
Connor: Ha! Joke’s on you! I have no money :(
I cover my mouth, stifle my laugh.
Ava: What are you doing on this fine day, Connor?
Connor: I have a multitude of dates.
Ava: Do you now?
Connor: Yep. First with my basketball, then with my laptop, and later, if I’m feeling frisky, with some leftover pizza. So, yeah. Not much. You?
Ava: About the same.
Connor: You play basketball?
Ava: Not even close. I can throw a mean spiral, though.
Connor: You’re into football?
Ava: It’s a family thing. I don’t have a choice.
Connor: Right.
“You got that list for me?” Trevor asks, hand out waiting.
Dropping my phone, I quickly fish the list from my pocket and hand it to him.
“What’s with your face?”
I touch my cheeks with the back of my hand. Fire.
Trevor smirks. “Are you texting some guy from school?”
“What guy from school?” Mom asks from her spot on the couch.
I look out the window. “It’s such a beautiful day outside…” I deflect, even though it’s true. The sun’s out, leaves are starting to turn orange. If only I could leave...
“This guy who—” Trevor starts.
But I interrupt, “Don’t skimp on my chocolate. I’ve got cramps.”
