His phone buzzed. He looked at it. I watched his face change, from amusement to concern to a sort of resigned horror that I would come to know well, which was the face Oren Castellanos makes when he realizes that whatever happens next, he is going to be the one to handle it.
"Hen?" I asked.
He turned the phone so I could see it. The text said: SO SO SORRY. Nacho threw up on Bo, Bo threw up in solidarity, I'm in the parking garage, everyone is crying including me. Going home. DO NOT LOSE THE SPOT. Mom already paid for the deluxe package online. Get the picture. Send to Mom. I love you. I owe you my life.
Then, a second later: Just you is fine. Tell Truett hi.
"Just you is fine," I read.
"Just me isn't fine," Oren said. He was staring at the phone. "It's never been just one. It's always two. That's the rule."
"Says who?"
"Says my mother. Says thirty-six years." He rubbed his eyes. "The whole thing is that it's both of us. The year Hen was in Guatemala for a semester she made us Photoshop her in. It was terrible. Her head was too big. My mom put it in the album anyway."
"So Photoshop her in."
"She's going to be very upset if Hen's head is too big again." He looked at the front of the line, where Truett the Santa was waving goodbye to the two little boys. He looked at Bryn, Head Elf, who was still at the entrance to the ropes, eyes on us like a sniper. He looked at me.
I knew what he was going to say before he said it. I saw it come over him. I want to say I was annoyed, and I was a little, but mostly I wanted to laugh.
"No," I said.
"I haven't asked anything."