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I couldn’t have done this on purpose if I tried—the idea would never have come to me, no matter how long I stayed.

Glancing over my shoulder, the rabbit mask cringes against the window. After a second, he holds up both hands in double peace signs—they’re shaking again. He doesn’t move a muscle after that.

What the hell is that term for people like him?

It doesn’t matter.

I pull my camera from the deepest pocket of my cargo pants and snap a picture of the white bunny mask juxtaposed by the dark wood of the window frame. The Polaroid prints in its usual slow, chirping bits. Something hits my sneaker.

Once it’s fully developed, I dig out the black Sharpie and write two words on the white space at the bottom.

Then hold it out to him.

Chapter 7

Ira

I can’t bring myself to post the Polaroid on the bulletin board. I also can’t let go of it for longer than two minutes at a time. The damn thing is tucked into the waistband of my undies, the edge digging into my thigh when I move my right foot too far.

My pen pal—

my best friend—

wrote: “Thank you.”

That’s it.

That’s all the Polaroid says, but I physically can’t think about it without wanting to start screaming like a middle school girl with a crush. Part of me wants it to be February so I can keep a package of conversation hearts in my pocket. That way, when we meet the next time, I can give him a piece of my heart.

The professor taps the edge of my laptop, and my head snaps up.

“Are you sleeping?”

“No,” I whisper.

She nods. “Finish your test. It’s the last one we have to get through today.”

I wiggle my mouse until my screen comes back to life, biting my lip to hold back the smile.

I’m going to fail this thing, but I don’t care.

Last night was the best night of my life.

Hell, maybe he thinks I’m hot and is looking forward to our next meeting, too.

Beckett

My eyes are stuck on a picture of a raccoon with its grubby paws pressed together on the bulletin board.

Where’s the Polaroid?

I assumed he would…

That’s probably my first problem—assuming the Easter Disaster will do anything logical. Even if he’s the one who posted it here in the first place. Even if it was his idea that landed us in an online frenzy.

I run my hands through my hair, pushing it away from my face. My sides are overgrown, and I need to go to a barber to get them shaved again. I also need to eat something that isn’t covered in grease or mayonnaise.

But, like a magnet, my gaze drops to the people’s arms around me. Searching for the bright tattoos. I couldn’t see each one clearly last night, but I remember the shapes: flowers, frogs, and fairies. There was something connecting everything—twisted and fraying like rope—but it was too hard to see.