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I silently handed Mandy her cup of icecream and began mushing mine into a creamy paste with my plastic green spoon. She rolled her eyes dramatically at me and led me to one of the nearby benches, sitting cross-legged in the frozen seat. I followed in suit, glad that my long coat protected my legs from the ice-burn of the metal through my jeans. "Your butt is adorable," she said through a mouthful of peanut butter zig-zag, watching the cars pass by a few feet in front of us.

I adjusted my position on the bench and scooped up a spoonful. "Likewise," I answered before licking my spoon tentatively. One, Mandy and I dated at one point. We just decided the relationship wasn't working as "more than friends" or whatever, so we took it back a step. So I'm pretty sure comments like her previous one mean nothing. We talk like this all the time.

And two, I don't get icecream often. So this is like a new experience every time I have it.

I pull my coat closer to the back of my neck to shield it from the soft but biting wind. I feel like I need to run. Either that or smoke. Mandy uses the spoon as a shovel to dig into her icecream repeatedly, every once in a while looking up at the constantly grey sky or to the cars making their way down the road or at me and into my bowl to make sure she's not out-eating me. Her long blonde hair is beautiful. I think that's what first caught me is her hair. When we met at a Relient K concert, it was short, like pixie-cut. But it was an amazing, naturally pale blonde that couldn't be any more angelic. Now she has it long on her left side, short on her right. Still that incredible colour, though. "How are things with Robert?" I ask, working my fingers to keep them warm.

"He's OK," she answered, picking at the remains of what used to be 12 ounces of icecream and toppings, now melted mush in her bright yellow bowl. "I don't know what his deal is though. He acts like he likes me but sticks with Carmen like glue. I'm not taking any moves until they're separated, first of all because I like Carmen, she's cool, and second because I'm not that kind of girl." I could've finished the ending of her sentence for her. She's always "not that kind of girl". She's told me what she isn't so many times that I'm not really sure what she is. I guess it's fun to guess. "I kinda like him though. If the chance presents itself and it isn't under precarious circumstances, I'm taking it."

I nodded and shoved some more of the sickeningly sweet liquid into my mouth so that I wouldn't have to answer. I'm not good at relationship-related talks. I only asked because I know that kind of stuff is important to her. It always has been. “We should start heading over to the gym now,” I said, standing and chucking the near-empty bowl into the trash by the bench. It’s already 6, and the school closes at 7:30. I pulled out a cigarette and lit the end, cautiously protecting the small flame from the wind. A puff of smoke released itself from my mouth. “I just need to run a few, maybe we can do some one-on-one, then I’ll just shower when I get home. More time for playing.”

“OK.” She jumped up and tossed her bowl away, lacing her arm in mine and tugging me in the direction of the school. “Sounds good. I may beat that adorable butt of yours, so I hope you’re not a sore loser.”

I find a smile working its way across my lips, a laugh escaping me. Even as a non-demigod, she knows she can’t beat me. She laughs along with me, pulling me around the corner of the park to the school’s empty parking lot. “Don’t worry, I’ll be a good sport about it,” I answered, letting go of her hand to run up and hold the door for her, stomping on my little-used cigarette on the way. She punches my arm lightly and runs inside, slipping off her heels to stretch her bare feet against the cold, glazed wooden floor and grabs a ball from the basket to the side. I slide out of my jacket and pick up a run around the court, breathing in and out heavily, allowing myself to fall into that trance. It’s incredible how everything just disappears when I run, or play basketball, or an instrument, or listen to music… Like now is real. Like I’m really experiencing time, self-awareness, all that jazz.

I have to swerve out of the way of the basketball coming a hundred miles an hour in my direction. I stop running and glare and Mandy playfully, chasing the ball down the side of the court. She laughs and skips her way to the middle of the court, brushing her hair out of her face. “You’ve been running for like ten minutes,” she complained, hugging herself and pouting. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Then the look on her face changed- to that look she puts on to mask what she’s thinking. But it’s obvious that she doesn’t want you to know something when she wears it. “Actually I think I have to babysit tonight,” she said, walking over to her shoes by the doors. “I forgot about it. Sorry, man. But I’ll be there tomorrow, rooting for you.”

I held the ball under my arm and watched her fasten her heels back on, marveling at how well she could maneuver in them. “No problem. See you tomorrow.”

And she was gone.

I bounced the ball, admiring the echoing sound it created. I was planning to scrimmage, but now my partner’s gone. Soooo… Maybe I could just practice my shots. Or run some more.

“Thought you’d be here.”

I looked up to see Nico partially hidden behind the bleachers in his usual black attire, shuffling his feet. He had his hands shoved in his pockets, a backpack slung over his shoulder. Looking as collected as always. Mandy probably saw him creeping around. She’s good at reading moods, emotions. I wonder if something’s up with him. “Yeah,” I responded, bouncing the ball again. “Can you play at all?”

He glared at me like I’d insulted him. “Ha-ha, very funny. You’re like four feet taller than me.” But he set his backpack down and removed his jacket, making his way slowly over to the center of the court.

“More like three inches,” I commented, checking the ball.

He caught it and threw it back, sighing heavily. “Like it makes a difference,” he grumbled, getting low.

I faked right and cut left, easily making a layup. “It makes a huge difference,” I answered, grabbing the ball and throwing it to his unmoving form. I internally laughed at the look of surprise/grumpiness/whatever-ness on his face as he caught the ball and just stood there.

The high butterflies ejected themselves into my stomach again. I had to say something. Words burned at the back of my throat, until they pushed themselves out. “Could you come to my game tomorrow?” And then I was incredibly nervous again. That panic raged within my head until it split into a headache. I need a cigarette. Please answer. Doesn’t even have to be positive, just answer.

“Yeah, sure. I’d like to.”