“Is that the technical name for the shade, then? Is that what they put on the color wheel?”

“Well, I guess you could also say it’s vintage fifties car blue, but Alice is easier. I can handle cornflower blue in a pinch.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot.”

“I like to have answers ready when people ask me about myself. I mean, if I don’t know who I am, how is anyone else ever supposed to?”

I racked my brain, trying to pull something out of the black void it seemed to become when Grace Town was within a ten-foot radius. “Green. Green is my favorite color.”

“That’s utterly boring.”

“Fine. The kind of faded, acid green color of my sister’s eyes when she’s in sunlight. My nephew has exactly the same shade. That would have to be my favorite.”

“Better.”

A beat. “Are you going to ask me anything else?”

“No. I don’t think I will.”

“That was the strangest game of twenty questions I’ve ever played.”

“It wasn’t a game of twenty questions. I only wanted to ask you one thing.”

When we got to Grace’s house, we performed the same routine as yesterday. I waited outside on the lawn while she slipped inside and collected her keys. I drove her car to my house, said good-bye, then watched her walk away in the wrong direction, down a road that would lead her to nowhere. As soon as I walked in the door, I hated myself for not inviting her inside. As soon as I walked down the steps into the basement, I remembered why that would be a bad idea.

“Well, dig a ditch and bury me in it,” Murray said, clapping me on the back at the foot of the stairs. “If you haven’t gone and got yourself a frother.”

“She just drove me home,” I said.

“Oh my actual God,” Lola said as I dropped my backpack and slumped onto the couch. “There’s definitely something brewing there, Page.”

Murray bounded into my lap, his obscene muscle mass crushing my legs as he threaded his arms around my neck and pressed his forehead to mine. “Are you sure there’s nothing going on? Because we may have spied on you from the grimy basement window and seen you staring deeply into each other’s eyes.”

“Guys, you both need to chill out,” I said as I tried to detach Murray, without much success. “She’s a total weirdo. I think she’s lonely and she hasn’t made any friends yet, so she’s latched on to me because I was nice to her.”

“You weren’t nice to her, though,” La said, frowning. “You chased her across a field while screaming obscenities at her.”

“That’s quite an embellishment.”

“It’s his fiery passion that she’s fallen for,” Muz said, his hair bouncing as he pressed his fists to my heart. “His vehement hunger for life.”

“She hasn’t fallen for me. I don’t think she even really likes me. She glares at me a lot. It’s really confusing.”

“Ask her to come hang out Monday afternoon after school,” Lola said, stroking her chin. “Bring her to the lions’ den. Let us be the judges of that.”

“As long as Murray promises not to pull this shit.” Muz was now rubbing his hair all over my face and chest and arms. “Can you . . . Ugh, Murray. C’mon, get off!”

“I’m scenting my territory!” he insisted. “I can’t lose you!”

I looked at Lola. “This is why I’m single.”

La shook her head. “I promise you, it’s not.”

So I went limp and let Murray anoint me with his greasy mane, certain that if Grace ever witnessed the weirdness that went on in this room, she’d run the other way.

Which seemed like a good enough excuse to never, ever, ever invite her over.

• • •

Later that night, when the rabble had left, I pulled up Grace Town’s Facebook profile on the iMac and let the mouse pointer hover over the “Add Friend” button for about ten minutes before I finally shut my eyes and clicked. My heart beat wildly at the sight of the “Friend Request Sent” notification, but I only had to wait a handful of seconds before I got a response. Grace Town has accepted your friend request. Write on Grace’s timeline.

Naturally I stalked her page, but everything, barring those few publicly available profile pictures, had been bleached from her timeline. No status updates. No check-ins. No life events. No tagged photos. Apart from her 2879 friends (how does anyone even know that many people?!), Grace Town was a virtual ghost.

After Grace had left the office that morning, I’d started emailing PR companies around town, seeing if any of them would let any of the shitty junior writers from the Westland Post, as the paper had been dubbed when it started back in the eighties, interview some of the shitty bands they represented. It seemed like a good enough reason to start a conversation with her.

HENRY PAGE:

Just thought I’d let you know I’ve locked in the Plastic Stapler’s Revenge for an interview next week.

GRACE TOWN:

How exciting. I’ve always been anxious to hear the pressing thoughts of avenging stationery. When?

Not sure yet. Some of our junior volunteers should start crawling out of the woodwork soon. I predict that exactly two illiterate people and the feral cat that lives in the ceiling above Principal Valentine’s office will actually offer to help out. I’ll see if any of them are up to the task.

Excellent. Gather some minions. Order them to do our bidding.

(My money is on the cat.)

I love that we get minions.

Do you think this is what Kim Jong-un feels like?