“If I make this one,” I say, tossing an invitation snowball from one hand to the other, “you have to pick up this mess by yourself while I watch and eat fries. I’m not getting fined for littering.” I squint and aim carefully, but miss. Of course. “Ha!” he crows. “Sucker. If I make this, you have to go back inside and buy me a chocolate shake.” Nicholas misses, too. “Damn.” I snort. “Your aim’s even worse than mine.” “Your face is worse,” he mutters, to which I have to laugh.
