at and silver dog bowls filled with water. The air smelled of sweet cream and greasy fries.
As they stood in the entrance, the cool air-conditioning washed over them. Peter closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in the chilly breeze, a small grin curling his lips.
Wendy couldn’t help letting out a pleased sigh. She tilted her head down to let it cool the back of her neck. Sweat trickled down the middle of her back from their walk. She didn’t even want to look at what kind of sweat spots were forming under the arms of her tank top.
When she looked up, Peter was giving her a sidelong glance, an eyebrow arched. “You sure you don’t want to stay for a bit?” he asked, looking far too smug for Wendy’s liking.
She scowled at him. “I really hate it when you do that,” she told him.
“Do what?” he asked, feigning innocence.
“You know exactly what.” Wendy’s stomach growled loudly. She hadn’t eaten since dinner with her mom the night before. “Fine,” she said. “But only because I need to eat something.”
Peter walked up to the counter and stared down at the huge tubs of ice cream, his nose practically pressed against the glass while his fingertips tapped out an erratic rhythm.
“What kind of ice cream do you like?” Peter asked, his breath streaking across the glass, not peeling his eyes away from the brightly colored tubs.
“I’m not a huge fan of ice cream,” Wendy said, stepping forward to stand next to him.
Peter balked, looking downright insulted. “What kind of person doesn’t like ice cream?” he asked incredulously.
“Not everyone likes ice cream!”
He gave her an intensely disapproving look. “Okay, well, when you do eat ice cream, what kind do you have?”
“Vanilla.”
“Vanilla?”
“What!”
“Vanilla is the most boring flavor of all the ice creams!” he argued, dramatically throwing his arms in the air. “Jeez, you sound like an old lady,” he said, giving her a bump with his shoulder.
“Vanilla is classic!” Wendy shot back, returning his bump with a nudge.
Peter threw his head back and let out a loud, forlorn sound of disgust.
Patrons sitting at the bar turned their heads.
Wendy’s cheeks flared with heat. She shoved Peter’s side. “Shh!” she hissed.
Unperturbed, Peter shook his head slowly. “You really need to branch out—broaden your horizons,” he told her.
“There’s nothing wrong with vanilla,” she muttered darkly.
“Whatever you say, Wendy.”
Wendy huffed, doing her best to ignore his stupid face and that damn smile. “What’s your favorite ice cream, then?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“Bubblegum.”
Wendy scoffed. “What are you, eight?”
Peter shrugged his shoulders as his eyes drifted to the handwritten menu. “Sometimes.”
Wendy narrowed her eyes, unsure whether or not he was joking.
“Whoa,” Peter said, suddenly pointing at something behind the counter. “I want that.”
He was pointing at a picture of what looked like three scoops of chocolate ice cream with swirls of dark chunks, topped with caramel drizzle, whipped cream, and a cherry. The lettering below it read, TRY OUR NEW TRIPLE CHOCOLATE MOCHA ICE CREAM! MADE WITH REAL STUMPTOWN ESPRESSO BEANS!
Wendy snorted. “The last thing you need is sugar and caffeine,” she told him.
“I’m getting it.” Peter turned to the cashier. “Can I order one of those things, please?” he asked.
Wendy recognized the girl behind the counter from school, but she didn’t know her name. Her light brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head, loose strands framing her face. She had on dramatic eyeliner that accentuated her brown eyes. A purple rhinestone nose ring sparkled in her nostril.
Wendy pushed her hands through her own short, blunt hair, suddenly feeling very plain.
Not unlike vanilla ice cream.
“Sure,” the girl said. She leaned on the counter and flashed Peter a smile. “How many scoops?” she asked.
“THREE!” was Peter’s enthused reply.
“Two,” Wendy cut in. When Peter jutted out his bottom lip, she added, “I’m the one who’s paying, remember?” She turned back to the girl. “And I’ll take an order of fries and a cup of ice water.” Wendy glanced at the ice cream again. “And one scoop of London Fog,” she added.
Peter’s smirk was knowing and triumphant.
Wendy rolled her eyes. “I happen to like Earl Grey.”
The smile the cashier gave Wendy was markedly less warm.
Wendy slid her debit card across the counter to the cashier. When she looked down, she saw Benjamin Lane, Ashley Ford, and Alex Forestay smiling up at her. They had taped the missing posters to the countertop. HAVE YOU SEEN ME? was written in big, bold letters at the top of