The Great Cool Ranch Dorito in the Sky: Chapters 1–5

Like all houses in the neighborhood, Evelyn’s modest three-bedroom sprouts unobtrusively from the Sonoran Desert.

She’s forever telling me to employ mature diction.

Something in that look on her face, though, something in her tone, makes me self-conscious.

He’s widely known as a harmless scamp, but this performance is pure sacrilege.

What ineffable fun.

We’re enjoying what little shade is provided by a gnarled mesquite whose roots have left this corner of the lot looking like an excavation site.

Reed lifts our bucket of suds and effortlessly transports it a parking space over, sets it beside the wheel of my nondescript Toyota sedan, which I only get to drive with Reed’s dad in the passenger seat (a total buzzkill, for sure, even if Marcus is a pretty chill dad-bot).

He just wants autonomy—and pizza.

“Dad, show some respect. According to our resident aficionado”—he gestures to me—“The Karate Kid is the greatest superhero movie of all time. Apologies to The Dark Knight.”

“Spare me the dissertation, son. I’ve heard it all before.”

While one might argue that the above is merely circumstantial evidence, no one can deny that just like all superheroes, Daniel never gives up, no matter how insurmountable the odds, no matter how injured he is, no matter how much pain he’s in.

She sits on the edge of the threadbare sofa usually reserved for students.

Kid Condor stares up at me, his masked expression determined, his bright-purple-and-yellow fly suit sleek, the lines of his body svelte, feet disappearing in a streak of jet flame, his form stretched to show the intense speed at which his propulsion pack sends him zooming through the cosmos.

They’re all girly and florid.

It’s not lost on me that Ms. Finch didn’t use the word binge when she described what I do.

He’s known for his incessant clowning, but he’s actually kind of a big deal around here, a voice to be laughed with in person but respected on paper.

Sometimes I appall me.

As the silence grows awkward, I hug my food journal to my chest to obscure the cover.

Thandie never carries herself with the icy sophistication of Robyn, and she’s known for kindness, not cruelty, but she’s still several rungs above me in the social hierarchy.

Thandie nearly gives me a heart attack by launching into a birthday dance, the curves of her body fluidly responding to the beat in her head, a hint of midriff showing with each grind of the hips.

Kids aren’t supposed to be in there alone, of course, but once, last semester, Ricamora left Reed to contemplate his myriad faults while dealing with some irate parent who threatened to get physical with his secretary if Ricamora didn’t get his “worthless ass out here right now.”

The general consensus seemed to mirror Robyn Fletcher’s response: the work was immature and lacking nuance.

He declared that one day my fans would look back on this early self-published artifact as a campy time capsule of “immeasurable promise.”

I chastise myself for even thinking the next logical question, which might be too self-pitying, even for me: Who, then, would want to be with a guy like me?

I avoid anything that explores the motivating factors behind the Cold War or women’s suffrage.