Our Crooked Hearts(26)

“Zip up, Myrtle,” he said.

I raised a brow and slipped it on, sticking my hands in the shallow pockets. “No room for my Kools.”

He held up a cheetah-print fanny pack. “Here. Now you can steal all the sugar packets from the IHOP.”

After clipping it around my waist I passed him a navy windbreaker with tacky nautical epaulets. “In case it gets breezy on the deck of your murder yacht.”

“Ah, yes. I’m a wealthy murderer who shops at Walmart.”

“You’re a gentleman and an enigma.”

“And now I’m cruising bingo halls for my next victim.” He held out a hand. “Myrtle?”

His fingers in mine were warm and dry and as soon as our palms touched it stopped feeling like a joke. I dropped his hand and shot toward a display of hideous caftans, as thin and rippable as craft paper. “Big prom possibilities, yeah?”

“Only if you want to be dressed like every other person there.”

By the time we reached the end of Apparel, we were layers deep in the worst clothes we could find. We shucked them off and wended our way to Grocery for a box of Lofthouse cookies. In Toys we took turns riding a kids’ dirt bike, then carried a hula hoop to the broader aisles of Lawn Care.

“Amateur hour,” he said after I let it fall for the third time. He took the hoop, flipped it over his head, and set it spinning around his waist in mesmerizing slow motion. He spun it up to his chest, then down to his knees. He took out his phone and pretended to make an important call. It was so compelling I started tossing pieces of cookie into his mouth to break his concentration. He leapt for one and the hoop clattered to the floor.

“But we both know I could’ve gone all night,” he said, then looked away, a flush crawling up his neck.

“Hey,” I said, too loud. “Did I tell you I have a fake ID?”

His face brightened. “Yeah? Lemme see.”

I dug out the ID Emily’s older brother helped me get. While Billy studied it I took the opportunity to stare at him. He was extra freckled over his nose and the tops of his cheeks, like the sun had swiped a paintbrush across his skin.

He exploded into laughter. “Oh, my god,” he said. “It’s too good. First off, you look about eleven. How did a fake ID make you look younger? Secondly, Mary Jenkins? That’s the fakest fake name of all time! Wait wait wait, 420 High Street? That can’t be an actual address.” He looked a little longer and cracked up again. “Your birthday! They made your birthday sixty-nine!”

I snatched it back. “They made it June ninth! There’s nothing wrong with June ninth!”

He put his hands on my shoulders, his face solemn. The crinkles by his eyes were paler than his skin, like he spent a lot of time squinting into the sun. “That is the worst fake ID of all time.”

“Then how come it works every time?”

“Bullshit. You couldn’t get served a beer out of a fridge with that thing.”

“I’ll prove it.”

I marched him over to the liquor aisle and considered what I could afford, settling on a bottle of strawberry Wild Vines.

“Whoa.” He put his hands up. “Party at 420 High Street.”

From Liquor we cruised through Baking Supplies, then over to Personal Care. By the end I’d added a box of tampons, a roll of toilet paper, and yellow cake mix to our haul.

“This is where my genius comes in,” I told him. “The ID is amazing, yes, but it’s not perfect. Maybe I do look slightly young and the name couldn’t possibly be real. So what you do is distract them with something wholesome”—I held up the cake mix—“and something personal.” I raised the tampons and the toilet paper.

“And this has worked for you?”

It had. Once. Despite Nate loudly talking about his nonexistent office job as I paid, like that would convince the cashier we were in our twenties. Emily and I had gotten the IDs a month ago, and we’d spent way more time since then planning the perfect distracting shopping list than actually buying alcohol.

“It’s worked every time,” I said firmly.

There was one cashier on duty, a matronly woman with high sprayed bangs that seemed like a bad omen. She rang up the empty cookie box, the cake mix, the tampons. I’d put the wine down fourth in line, like somebody trying to sneak into a club in the middle of a crowd.

“I’m baking a cake tonight,” I told her brightly as she scanned the bottle. “Yellow cake. And I’m on my period, so, you know. Chocolate frosting.”

“Need a bag?” she asked flatly.

“No, thanks!” I piled everything into Billy’s arms. “Have a nice night!”

I could feel him laughing silently beside me as we walked away slowly, then faster, finally bursting out into the heat.

“See?” I said. “It worked!”

“No, it didn’t! She didn’t even make you show it!”

“That’s because my tampon and cake mix plan was so good.”

“You know she’s coming to your house later for proof you made that cake. You’re gonna get arrested for baking lies.”

“So we’ll make the cake.” I lifted a shoulder. “You wanna?”

We smiled at each other. “I do,” he said.