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“But thelighting,” he says in mock agony. You can take the nerd away from the camera but not the camera away from the nerd, or whatever the saying is. “Can we film more tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we’re almost done. Let’s attack this thing.” We texted the other night about what other footage we wanted to get for the VR part, and now that the list is complete, we just have to check off the items one by one. Hanging with friends? Check. High school dance? Semi-check.

He nods. “Balls to the wall.”

“Never say that again. The mental image is just—no.”

“I hated it as soon as it came out of my mouth.” He grabs a few different flavors of protein bars. “Where’s your date? Puking?”

“Stuffing her face, actually.”

“Ah, the drunken bingebeforethe puke.”

“I can’t wait to hold her hair back later as she tells me how sorry she is.” We mean everything we say with care or, in my case, love, so I don’t feel too badly about mocking Corrine’s former routine with Holden.

“And you thought it was all—what did you say?—make-outs?”

“I dealt with Corrine’s puke long before you ever did. Before she ever had a taste of booze, she was just a weak stomach on a roller coaster waiting to be hurled.” I walk with him to the checkout counter, my shoe slipping on a squished French fry on the ground.

“Yes, but she never tried to kiss you after.”

“Or did she?” But no, even drunk, Corrine’s strictly into guys.

He gestures around us. “Did you want anything?”

“No, thanks. Logan bought us all food as a peace offering for stepping on Corrine’s feet while dancing.” I cringe. “I’m sorry for bringing him up. And for Devon.”

He shrugs with a half smile on his face and hands the cashier a few dollars. He pockets the protein bars, and we walk to the small sitting area, passing Nita and Taj somewhere in the aisles. I can hear them over the music playing through the loudspeakers: Nita’s arguing for sour cream and onion chips while Taj is arguing for plain chips with French onion dip.

“You realize you still have your camera in my face.” He says it like a statement.

“I hadn’t, actually.” I set the camera down on the table between us, but let it record.

“Too used to viewing the world through your protective lens?” He pulls out a protein bar and rips it open. “Let’s see how you like it.”

He takes a bite and grabs my camera, chewing with a smile on his face as I reach out to steal it back.

“No—”

“Saine Sinclair,” he says in a deeper voice than normal, “tell me your deep, dark, dirty secrets.”

“You’re bad at this.” I try to grab the camera again, but he just leans back in his chair, out of my reach. Damn these short arms of mine.

“Okay, what am I supposed to do?” He watches me through the display screen even though I’m only a few feet in front of him. Is this how detached I look when I film people? I know I definitely don’t stare at the display with such a smarmy smile, that’s for sure.

“I’m not helping you torture me.”

“Tortureyou?” he laughs. “I’m doing no such thing; you’re being dramatic.”

I cross my arms. “You know I don’t like being in front of a camera.”

“Yeah.” He takes another bite. “Why is that?”

I shrug.

“I know why.” He points the camera back at himself. “Vuuuuuulneeeeeraaaaablllllllle.”

Again, I try to steal back the camera, but my fingers barelygraze the device. The thought of it falling between both our hands and crashing to pieces on the sticky floor is the only reason I retreat—footage that can be deleted isn’t worth the damage fee PSH has. I knew if I was filming tonight there would be terrible lighting conditions, so I definitely couldn’t use my own camera. It’s Post–Potato Era quality, but it wouldn’t have half a chance in hell of recording anything in the school gym.