I hurry through the entrance to the food court, shuddering so much at the thought of that horrible smile in the tree that I plow right into a gigantic potted plant next to Sweetie Pi’s. I’ve gone this route across the mall a hundred times, and the plant is so big it probably can be seen from outer space, and yet I manage to jam my shin into it. When I pull my leg away and crouch over it, wishing I’d worn pants instead of shorts, I see another hideous smile there, this one red. It’s already oozing blood, and on my pale gooseflesh it looks like the mouth of a vampire. Pretty.

Before I can wonder if anyone saw my latest act of stupidity, somebody is standing over me with a messy pile of little paper napkins. I take them and press them against my shin, then look up. It’s Mr. I-Have-a-Message-for-You-That’s-Not-Really-a-Message. From the party. “Hello,” he says, handing me more napkins.

“Oh. Hi,” I say. Great, he’s stalking me. Maybe I shouldn’t have been such a moron and told him to find work at the mall. My mall.

I blot the wound a little more and stand up. He has lost the tuxedo—well, kind of. He’s still wearing the white shirt, with sleeves rolled up, and the dark pants with spats. The shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, which suits him. Oh, hell, he’d look hot in a chicken suit. But then I notice he’s wearing a white apron with blue printing on the front, just like mine. A Sweetie Pi’s apron.

I swallow, trying to remember if I ever told him where I work. No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. There are four hundred stores in this mall, and yet he manages to get a job at my place of employment? This is all too creepy. But my heart begins to flutter. Those dark eyes. That stubble-dotted movie-star jawline. He’s so different from Griffin, who had an all-American wide-eyed baby face, and whose best attempt at a beard was a few downy platinum whiskers. This guy could be a serial killer, yet my ticker is still screaming, “Bring it on!”

I’m not sure how long I stare at him, openmouthed, but the next thing I know, he reaches down and begins to pat my shin with a napkin. I have no idea how I miss the ceiling, because I jump like I’m on a trampoline. I look over the tie of my apron; the blood is trickling down to my pink Crocs. I snatch the napkin from him and back away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You should get that looked at.”

I ignore him; it’s nothing a good Band-Aid won’t fix. “How did you know I worked here?”

He shrugs. “Oh. I didn’t. The owner told me that one of his employees would be spending the summer away, so he needed the help. Is that you?”

“Um …” I am about to say yes, but I’m afraid if I do, this guy will show up in New York, too. “Maybe?”

He nods, as if I make any sense, and puts his hand under my elbow. “You should sit.” At first I want to say, Get away, but then I feel the blood seeping under my heel. With his help, I limp to a bench and collapse onto it. He inspects the gash. “You might need medical attention.”

“I’m fine.” I crane my neck toward Gyro Hut. I haven’t spoken to Bret since last night, and I don’t want to. Ever.

“He’s not there,” the guy says gently, still dabbing at my wound. With every dab, a new goose pimple appears. I realize that they’re multiplying like rabbits. And that my leg has all these blue veins in it. Great, a hot guy is playing nurse to me, even if he is a stalker, and I have skin better suited to poultry.

“Who?”

“Bret. Your friend.”

Okay. Back up now. “Wait. How did you know that he …”

He pauses for a moment, looking flustered. “I’m sorry. I’m frightening you. That’s not my intention. Bret … overslept, so he will not be in today.”

I squint at him. “And you know that because …”

“He, uh, nine-one-oned the shop a moment ago.”

Is he speaking English? Or is that new Canadian slang? “Huh?”

The guy’s hands twitch and his olive cheeks take on a rosy sheen. It has the effect that puppies in a pet store window have on me; I fight the urge to scoop him up and say, “Aw!” Finally, he stutters, “Um, t-telephoned? The shop. He asked me to l-let you know, in case you were looking for him.”

“Oh,” I say, relaxing. Like I would be looking for him now. And why did he bother calling the ice cream shop when he could have just called my cell? I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone, but there are no messages, no missed calls. Something sounds fishy, but I can’t bother thinking about it, because a couple of preteen girls wearing way too much makeup are in the Sweetie Pi’s queue. “Customers.”

I struggle to my feet but he holds out his finger, then hurries behind the counter, saying, “How may I help you?” to the giggling schoolgirls like he’s done this all his life. My bleeding has slowed, so I stand up and make my way toward the storefront. I hear the soft-serve machine purring; then the cash register dings, and the girls stroll away, licking their cones. When I arrive behind the counter, he’s fishing an errant Swedish Fish out of the rainbow-sprinkle tray with a plastic spoon. “So … been an ice cream scooper before, have you?”

He shakes his head. “I have visited a soda fountain, though, many a time. I’m quite fond of sweet treats.”

Soda fountain? Maybe that’s what they still call these places where he’s from. Someplace in … Canada, or so he said. Is it possible for there to be a place up north where they’re that closed off from the world? Maybe they’re like the Amish. I wonder if they still ride in horse-drawn carriages and use outhouses. “Listen,” I say. “I do want to thank you for your help last night. But you may have gotten the wrong idea. Bret wouldn’t have hurt me. He’s been a—”

“Friend for a long time,” he finishes, nodding. “I understand that’s how you feel. But people you know, even very well, can surprise you.”

“Maybe. How did you know where to find me, anyway?”

He shrugs, then reaches over and grabs a cup. “Do you think the management would object much if I …”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Would you like anything?”

An hour ago, my mom made me her famous graduation pancakes, complete with a whipped cream smiley face and strawberry sauce, which she does the morning after every school year ends. My stomach is already pressing against the waistband of my shorts. “No thanks.”

He gets to work, busily compiling ingredients, and I can’t help wondering how he can be so proficient at this on his very first day. Finally, he pours chocolate syrup over a frothy mixture in the Styrofoam cup, then slides a straw into it and takes a sip. “Ah. Haven’t had one of these in ages.”

I stare at him. “Did you just make an egg cream?”

He nods. “Is there a problem?”

“No, I …” Suddenly, I feel tingles everywhere, and not the good kind. “It’s just not exactly a very popular menu item.”

“Is that so?” He takes another sip and swallows, punctuating it with an exaggerated “Ah!”

“I’ve just … had an inexplicable craving for one in the last day or so. I quite enjoy them.”

After that, the conversation lags. I end up staring awkwardly at the giant rotating light-up cone in the corner while he inspects the flooring. Finally, I say, “What did you say your name was, again? Aaron?”

“Eron. Eron DeMarchelle.”

“Eron? Is that short for something?”

He nods. “Geronimo.”

“Eek. No wonder you go by Eron. Are you named after a relative?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a very popular name in Italy. I was born there.”

“Italy?”

“Yes. Mama and I moved here when I was five. I mean, to, um, Canada. And then I moved here a few weeks ago. It was quite a bit different, where I came from.”

“Oh.” No duh. Based on his weird dress and stiff way of talking, he could be from Mars. Maybe his mom is adamant that he not stray too far away from the customs of his homeland. My mom always insists on bringing out her record of goofy Polish folk songs whenever we have company. I can’t think of anything else to ask, so I say, “DeMarchelle sounds French.”