That was Carswell’s first thought when Jules slammed his locker shut and Carswell barely managed to get his fingers out of the way in time.
“Morning, Mr. Keller,” he said, calling up a friendly smile. “You look particularly vibrant this morning.”
Jules stared down the length of his nose at him. The nose on which a sizable red pimple seemed to have emerged overnight. That was one other thing about Jules. In addition to the height and the brawn and the fuzz, his growth spurt had given him a rather tragic case of acne.
“I want my money back,” said Jules, one hand still planted on Carswell’s locker.
Carswell tilted his head. “Money?”
“Stuff doesn’t work.” Reaching into his pocket, Jules pulled out a small round canister labeled with exotic ingredients that promised clean, spot-free skin in just two weeks. “And I’m sick of looking at your smug face all day, like you think I don’t know better.”
“Of course it works,” said Carswell, taking the canister from him and holding it up to inspect the label. “It’s the exact same stuff I use, and look at me.”
Which was not entirely true. The canister itself had been emptied of its original ridiculously expensive face cream when he’d dug it out of the trash bin beside his mother’s vanity. And though he’d sometimes sneaked uses of the high-quality stuff before, the canister was now full of a simple concoction of bargain moisturizer and a few drops of food coloring and almond extract that he’d found in the pantry.
He didn’t think it would be bad for anyone’s skin. And besides, studies had been showing the benefit of placebos for years. Who said they couldn’t cure teenage acne just as effectively as they could cure an annoying headache?
But Jules, evidently unimpressed with the evidence Carswell had just presented, grabbed him by his shirt collar and pushed him against the bank of lockers. Carswell suspected it wasn’t to get a better look at his own flawless complexion.
“I want my money back,” Jules seethed through his teeth.
“Good morning, Carswell,” said a chipper voice.
Sliding his gaze past Jules’s shoulder, Carswell smiled and nodded at the freckled brunette who was shyly fluttering her lashes at him. “Morning, Shan. How’d your recital go last night?”
She giggled, already flustered, and ducked her head. “It was great. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it,” she said, before turning and darting through the crowd toward a group of friends who were waiting near the water fountain. Together they broke into a fit of teasing chatter as they proceeded down the hallway.
Jules pushed Carswell into the lockers again, pulling his attention back. “I said—”
“You want your money back, yeah, yeah, I heard you.” Carswell held up the canister. “And that’s fine. No problem. I’ll transfer it over during lunch.”
Harrumphing, Jules released him.
“Of course, you’ll lose all the progress you’ve made so far.”
“What progress?” Jules said, bristling again. “Stuff doesn’t work!”
“Sure it works. But it takes two weeks. Says so right here.” He pointed at the label, and Jules snarled.
“It’s been three.”
Rolling his eyes, Carswell tossed the canister from hand to hand. “It’s a process. There are steps. The first step is”—he respectfully lowered his voice, in case Jules didn’t want the sensitive nature of their conversation to be overheard—“you know, clearing away the first layer of dead skin cells. Exfoliation, as it were. But a really deep, intense, all-natural exfoliation. That takes two weeks. In step two, it unlocks all the grease and dirt that’s been stuck in the bottom of your pores—that’s the step you’re in the middle of right now. In another week, it’ll move on to step three. Hydrating your skin so that it has a constant, healthy glow.” He quirked his lips to one side and shrugged. “You know, like me. I’m telling you, it does work. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s skin-care products.” Unscrewing the cap, he took a long sniff of the cream. “Not to mention … no, never mind. You don’t want it. It’s not worth mentioning at all. I’ll just take this back and—”
“Not to mention what?”
Carswell cleared his throat and dipped forward, until Jules had lowered his own head into their makeshift huddle. “The scent is proven to make you more attractive to girls. It’s practically an aphrodisiac, in aromatherapy form.”
A crease formed in between Jules’s brows, and Carswell recognized confusion. He was about to explain what an aphrodisiac was when a third form sidled up beside them.
“Hey, Carswell,” said Elia, the pep squad captain, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. She was easily one of the prettiest girls in school, with thick black hair and a persistent dimple in one cheek. She was also a year older and about four inches taller than Carswell, which wasn’t particularly uncommon these days. Unlike Jules, Carswell hadn’t seen even a glimmer of a growth spurt yet, and he was really starting to get fed up with waiting, even though none of the girls seemed bothered that they’d been outpacing him in the height department since their sixth year.
“Morning, Elia,” Carswell said, slipping the canister of facial cream into his pocket. “Perfect timing! Could you do me a favor?”
Her eyes widened with blatant enthusiasm. “Of course!”
“Could you tell me, what does my good friend Jules here smell like to you?”
Instant redness flushed over Jules’s face and, with a snarl, he pushed Carswell into the lockers again. “What are you—!”
But then he froze. Carswell’s teeth were still vibrating when Elia leaned forward so that her nose was almost, almost touching Jules’s neck, and sniffed.
Jules had become a statue.
Carswell lifted an expectant eyebrow.
Elia rocked back on her heels, considering for a moment as her gaze raked over the ceiling. Then—“Almonds, I think.”
“And … do you like it?” Carswell ventured.
She laughed, the sound like an inviting wind chime. Jules’s blush deepened.
“Definitely,” she said, although it was Carswell she was smiling at. “It reminds me of one of my favorite desserts.”
Jules released him and, once again, Carswell smoothed his jacket. “Thank you, Elia. That’s very helpful.”
“My pleasure.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was wondering if you’re going to the Peace Dance next week?”
His smile was both practiced and instinctual. “Undecided. I may be cooking dinner for my sick grandmother that night.” He waited expectantly as Elia’s gaze filled with swooning. “But if I do end up going to the dance, you’ll be the first I ask to go with me.”
She beamed and bounced on her toes for a moment. “Well, I’d say yes,” she said, looking suddenly, briefly bashful. “Just in case you weren’t sure.” Then she turned and practically skipped down the hall.
“Well,” said Carswell, pulling the canister back out of his pocket. “I guess our business is all concluded, then. Like I said, I’ll return your payment in full by second period. Of course, the retail price on this stuff just went up twenty percent, so if you change your mind later, I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge—”