“I said, I don’t think you’re crazy, Peaches.” “Peaches?” I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow. I can’t tell whether I should be offended or not. He nods at my T-shirt, smirking. My cheeks heat as I remember what I’m wearing. I didn’t have time to pack in Chicago, so I’m wearing yesterday’s jeans and some cheap Mario Brothers T-shirt from an airport gift shop. The shirt is pink with a picture of Princess Peach. Across my chest, it says “Delicious like peaches and cream.” That explains the stares.
