“Omigod, you know it?! That’s totally a sign, you guys!” Mikal is practically swooning with excitement.
“So, wait, you think I look like that sparkly dude?”
“No, no.” Sammi—I’m pretty sure it’s Sammi—wrinkles her nose. “Not Edward; James. You look just like him.” She points to me. “Especially when you squint your eyes like that.” She looks to the group for confirmation and Mikal and Tynesha nod emphatically, staring at me. I try to stop doing whatever I’m doing with my face.
“Y’all’re nuts,” a voice says from the back. It’s one of the kids who came for the first time last week. I think her name is Mischa. She stands out in this group because she looks like she should be playing soccer in an orange juice commercial or something. She doesn’t dress interestingly like Mikal or DeShawn; she doesn’t have dyed hair or piercings or tattoos, like Ricky and Dorothy. Hell, even Gap Model looks… um, gay. At least, he does now that I know he is.
Mischa has straight honey-blonde hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail, a slight tan, and light blue eyes. She isn’t pretty, exactly, just really healthy looking. She’s wearing a green tank top and jeans and looks completely, blandly normal.
She moves closer, assessing me.
“He’s not James; he’s totally Dean.”
“Dude, you just want it to be true because Castiel has your name,” says Gap Model—Edward, I correct myself.
“Dude,” Mischa shoots back, “you just want him to be Twilight because Edward has your name.”
I look to Rafe again and his shoulders are slumped a little, like we’ve gone to a place he would’ve liked to avoid.
“Wait,” I say, “James Dean? I can live with that.”
A few of them smile, but the rest look at me blankly.
“James Dean,” I repeat. “James Dean?” I look to Rafe who shakes his head, amused.
“You guys have to know James Dean. He was a total badass. But mostly because he had a totally epic car story. He bought this Porsche 550 Spyder: a really cool little car that looks kinda like a bullet. James Dean loved cars; he did some racing too. Anyway, the story is that he showed the car to Alec Guinness—” I look around at them and don’t see recognition on any face except Rafe’s. At least he looks interested.
“Alec Guinness.” Nothing. “You guys. Alec Guinness? Obi-Wan Kenobi?” Some of them nod. “Anyway, apparently he showed Alec Guinness the car and Guinness took one look at it and said he thought the car was evil and if James Dean drove it he’d be dead in a week. And he was. Exactly one week later, he crashed the Spyder into another car, out in California, and the car just crumpled.” Rafe has perked up and he’s giving me a warning look. Uh, yeah, I guess describing gruesome car accidents to kids isn’t totally on point.
“Um, anyway, people think the car is haunted because after he died, anyone who came in contact with it got in a car crash or had some tragedy.”
“Shut. Up.” It’s Mischa again, but she doesn’t sound upset; she sounds disbelieving. “Oh my god, y’all, it’s perfect!” She’s looking at the group. “I am so right I can’t even stand myself right now!”
“Oh shit,” says Dorothy. “I get it. It’s that one episode.”
“Uh, yeah!”
“Which episode?” Carlos asks.
“Dean and Dean!” Mischa says. “Ohmychrist, I didn’t know it was about a real person, though. Okay, so, it’s the one where Sam and Dean are tracking this, like, cursed car that kills everyone who owns it and Dean’s all excited because of James Dean—that makes so much more sense now—and they have to look at the engine to see if it’s the real car, and then later they’re at the wax museum—omigod, so good because—”
“The one with Paris Hilton in the wax museum!” Mikal chimes in.
“Yes, where it’s so funny because in real life Sam was in that House of Wax movie with Paris Hilton, right?”
“Oh shit, I didn’t even think of that,” Mikal says, grabbing Mischa’s hands and almost jumping up and down with her. “And Dean and James Dean and cars and—” He looks at me and back to Mischa. “And he is all about cars and he knew about James Dean and the haunted car!”
I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.
The rest of the kids have been following this exchange like a tennis volley, heads snapping back and forth between Mikal and Mischa.
Finally, Dorothy nods. “Damn, Mischa’s right.”
And it’s like her word is law because everything stops. Mikal pulls out an iPhone crusted with glitter and those plastic gemstone things.
“Final ruling,” he says, and after flipping around on the phone for a few seconds, he holds the screen up to the group. They all look at the screen, then at me, even Rafe.
“Damn,” says Carlos. “You are right.” He shakes his head at Mischa. “Look at what he’s wearing right now.”