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It’s Ian.

“I’ve noticed,” says Trixie with a very unsubtle eyebrow-lift meant for me.

Trixie is freaky perceptive. But maybe my cheeks are warm. Maybe my heart is loud enough for the entire café to hear. Maybe I’m staring.

“I…” Words die tragically on my tongue. This whole outing was a bad idea. I need to be at home, focusing on the essay that decides my future.

Ian hasn’t noticed us yet, so we could slip back out the door…

“We should get our drinks to go,” I suggest. Panic grips my larynx. It’s almost unreal how high my voice gets when I say, “I have an essay to work on! And you probably have class-president-nerds-of-anime-skater stuff to do.”

“I don’t.” Lucy’s tone is defiant and gleeful. “Also, hell no, we’re staying. I need a break.Youneed a break.”

“Lucia Reyes.” My voice is borderline teenage-camper-running-from-a-chainsaw-killer shriek now.

Ian lifts his head, and his eyes go immediately to me. Is it possible for a six-foot, skinny black guy to hide behind a six-year-old dancing queen? It doesn’t matter because Trixie, the menace, says, “You have some friends here, newbie!” while waving Ian over.

This is Armageddon. This is where the wannabe-hero chokes on his own heart and dies from an epic rush of blood surging to his lower half. My boner is warp-speed fast—damn you Jayden and your corny addiction to sci-fi movies—at the sight of Ian pushing his glasses up his nose. They slip back down. His mouth, a soft-looking rose, tilts up on one side. He waves as if his hand is uncertain whether to be enthusiastic or chill. It’s kind of manic.

“Take a break, newbie,” Trixie yells. “Sit with your friends. I’ll hold down the fort.” She shifts to us. “The usual?”

“Yep,” Lucy says for both of us. Obviously, I’m under some sort of Harry Potter spell.Ianistoocuteous.

“Usual for you too, newbie?”

Ian’s head bobs, a jerky motion that unsettles his glasses again. He quickly adjusts them.

I am spellbound. I’m still in that thick fog of “what the hell is happening” when Lucy hooks her arm in mine and leads us to Ian’s little corner of the café. She collapses into an armchair while I begin to map out all my potential exits—diving through Zombie’s giant front window looks like something I could survive, if I was Chadwick Boseman. Lucy raises a sharp eyebrow at me. She expects me to sit, between her and Ian.

“Remy.”

“Lucy.” My voice cracks, because clearly puberty is a lifelong process.

She clears her throat.

I sit with a heavy exhale and flopping limbs.

Ian watches me. Sunlight kisses tiny specks of dust, a steady stream of glitter around us. Gold beams sweep over loose strands of hair that fall into Ian’s glasses. I want to brush them back for a clearer view of his eyes. My fingers twitch on my knees.

“What’re you drawing?” Lucy asks Ian.

“Just some promotional art for the café.”

I angle for a better view. Ian’s art is amazing but also familiar—not in a bad way, but as if I’ve seen it before and been awed at the skill level. He’s sketched a funky manga-style owl in liquid chalk. Above its head is a speech bubble like in old-school comics: “UP OWL NIGHT!”

I can’t keep from snorting into my hand. Seriously? It’s ridiculous.

“Lame, right?” Ian’s lowered head doesn’t hide his mortified grin.

“Are you kidding?” Lucy smacks his shoulder. “You’ve got mad skills, bro.”

A smear of pink blotches Ian’s skin from cheeks to nose. “Cool.” He sighs. “I didn’t come up with the slogan. It’s for some new nitrogen-gas-infused cold coffee.”

“Hasn’t Starbucks been doing that for, like, ever?”

Ian flaps a hand in front of Lucy’s face. “Ours is different!”

Lucy raises a doubtful eyebrow. “How?”