Summer Days and Summer Nights by Stephanie Perkins Page B

want…”
    The door to the projection room swung open and Dave burst in, cradling three giant Cokes and several boxes of no doubt stolen candy. “Refreshments!”
    â€œAwesome.” Dani removed her glasses. She pocketed a box of Milk Duds, then took a sweating paper cup from Dave and punched a straw through its plastic top.
    â€œYeah. Thanks. Great timing,” I snarked, grabbing my Coke.
    Dave dropped onto the stool by the projector and slipped Dani’s abandoned glasses over his eyes. “Whoa. You guys are green. No, red! Green and red. Why, you’re three-dimensional !”
    Dani snorted. “At least some of us are.”
    â€œHarsh, García!” Dave pushed the big black frames up on the top of his head like a starlet. “You know what? Alastair Findlay-Cushing is kinda hot. I’d do him.”
    â€œYour list of men you’d do isn’t exactly discriminating. You have a crush on Coach Pelson,” I said.
    â€œCoach Pelson is a hottie. In a former-wrestler-going-to-seed kind of way. I’ll bet he talks dirty.”
    â€œA-a-ah, stop!” Dani laughed. “You are ruining my beautiful, sepia-toned memories of gym class.”
    That was the thing about Dave—everybody liked him. Even his obnoxiousness had a certain charm to it, like the time he’d scarfed down my red Jell-O in the cafeteria and pretended to “vomit Ebola” on a screaming Lyla Sparks, who was mean-girling Jennifer Trujillo for having a “starter mustache, just like a baby lesbo.” Junior year, when Dave had come out, he’d actually gotten a bump in popularity. He’d been my best friend since seventh-grade science class. In two months, he’d leave for Stanford, and I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with the loss of him.
    Downstairs, the movie continued, unconcerned with my fate: “It’s the cloven foot—the calling card of the one who must not be named. Lucifer himself.”
    â€œDude, he just said he should not be named, and then he’s all, ‘Oh, yeah, let me just say Lucifer right now.’ Hey. You know about old Alastair, don’t you?” His thick eyebrows drawbridged up and down. Dave was practically a walking Google search of salacious Hollywood gossip. “Total Team Dorothy. He tried to kill himself once.”
    I raised my soda in toast. “That’s a big party upper. Thanks, Dave.”
    â€œSlow your roll, holmes. He didn’t try to kill himself in some tired, tragic gay-hatred moment. No. Before his attempt, Alastair begged a priest to perform an exorcism and cleanse his soul. He claimed that he’d made a deal with the devil for fame, and he hadn’t had a moment’s peace since. He claimed that I Walk This Earth wasn’t a movie; it was a living thing that demanded souls and a willing sacrifice. Don’t you think it’s weird that the only two times they showed the movie, the theaters burned down?”
    â€œYeah. That’s pretty freaky, all right,” Dani said, dangling Cthulhu Shortcake by its string. “But this is not a night for the tragedies of the past. This is about avoiding the tragedies of the future.” She looked me right in the eyes. It made me want to be a better man. “The old gods demand an answer to last week’s burning question.”
    The week before, Dani had agreed to be Creepy Balloon Girl in Zombie Ennui, the fourth opus in my series of six-minute horror films. Honestly, it wasn’t much of a script, just something I’d come up with on the fly as an excuse to spend more time with her. Halfway through filming, we got chased out of the cemetery by some kind of tweaker squirrel, and then we couldn’t stop laughing long enough to get back on track. Punch-drunk and sweaty, we’d retreated with a couple of Big Gulps to the town park, taking refuge from the Texas heat under the measly shade of a drab brown live oak.
    Dani sucked up