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[Transcript]

        “Here, Mr. Puckett,” Isaac mumbled, his eyes downcast with shame. “This is for you. My parents INSISTED.”

        The young spectral was standing at the counter of the Corner Shore, rigid with embarrassment, as he presented a freshly baked pie to Max’s dad.

        “Wow!” Peter Puckett gingerly accepted it, obviously touched by the unexpected gift from his new neighbors. “How thoughtful!”

        Isaac sighed. Clearly Mr. Puckett shared his son’s penchant for sarcasm.

        “Before you ask,” Isaac grumbled in apologetic solidarity, casting a scornful glance in the direction of his house, “yes, it is APPLE pie.”

        Ugh. His mom hadn’t even used one of the interesting apple varieties they sold at the supermarket, like a Red Malicious or the local Bayview Bonbon. She’d used Granny Smith, a fruit so generic it sounded like it was in witness protection and yet somehow had nothing to hide. HOW were his parents both ignorably boring and a mortifying sideshow SIMULTANEOUSLY?? Isaac wished that they were normal like Max’s dad was.

        “Oh. Hey, Isaac.” Max had appeared at the base of the stairs.

        “Ah! Max!” Isaac’s eyes lit up.

        “Don’t,” Max grunted at his dad, who, having been handed a chance to check a box off his bucket list, was rearing back to throw the pie directly at his face. “...Did you need something, Isaac? If so, you’re in the wrong place. We don’t sell things people need.”

        “So true, son.” Peter Puckett twirled the pie upon his finger. “We don’t even need to sell things people want.”

        “Yes we do,” said Max. “We really do need to do that.”

        “A souvenir is a window to the past. When you gaze upon—”

        “—a seagull in a Santa hat with someone else’s name on it,” Max cut in, glancing towards a nautical holiday ornament embossed with the name “Nathandrew”.

        “—you don’t see paint and plastic,” Peter Puckett finished, nodding at his son. “You see the precious time you spent in paradise! We don’t need to offer anything you don’t already have. What we’re selling are fond memories... straight back to the supplier!”

        “Creating something from nothing. We’re like gods,” Max flatly stated.

        “Amen!” His father took a big bite of apple pie using a method akin to a backhoe scooping dirt.

        “Actually, Max,” Isaac whispered, leaning in, “I’m here because we need to talk. There’s something super important that I have to discuss with you... in private.”

        Sensing yet another supernatural fiasco, Max gave his fellow Activity Club member a weary look... but Isaac’s huge, blue, sidewalk-puddle pupils were insistent, so Max relented with a sigh.

        “...Yeah, sure.”

        As he came around the counter, though, Max picked up the baseball bat that he’d propped up out of sight. Isaac jumped when he noticed it—drat! He couldn’t warn Max that he was in danger with the dubious spirit he’d bonded with sharing his senses!

        Mr. Puckett followed Isaac’s startled stare.

        “Maxwell...” he said to his son. “You’re not menacing your classmates with a metal bat, are you?”

        “Don’t be ridiculous.” Max slung his haunted cudgel on his shoulder. “Isaac’s in eighth grade. We’re not classmates. Shall we?” He gestured to a ringed rack of touristy t-shirts on the other side of the store.

        Isaac nodded, wracking his mind for an alternate plan.

        “Well?” Max asked along the way, once they were far enough from his dad for the Corner Shore’s surf music to drown out their voices. “What pressing question brought you all the way—well, next-door, I guess.” Something about that didn’t sit right in Max’s head. Isaac, his neighbor? Shouldn’t that have led to more absurdity by now? Max felt like he would have made at least one or two memorable jokes about it, but none came to mind.

        “Um... y-yeah, so...”

        Isaac was panicking. Why had he been so dramatic before? Now Max was expecting juicy gossip... but Isaac couldn’t risk rousing the suspicion of the spirit in his bat! Doorman had said that it spoke through Max. If it could take control of him to do something like that... then Max could end up in danger if it found out Isaac was trying to interfere. He had to think. Think. What could he say to stall for time until he found a chance to talk to Max alone?

        “Did... did you know that Mr. Spender and Mr. Garcia... k-kiss each other probably?”

        “...What?” Max stopped and squinted at Isaac, who immediately turned beet red.

        “I-ISN’T THAT... NORMAL? No, that’s—I mean, y-you’re right! You probably don’t have to kiss if you’re just CASUAL boyfriend and, um, other boyfriend. Wow!” Isaac was reeling. He felt like a rollercoaster built without rails, realized that was just a normal vehicle, and found himself blushing even brighter. “It’s just that I assumed they kiss—NO. It’s m-more like I just didn’t think to think they DIDN’T kiss, y’know? Not that I was thinking about it. I don’t know why I led with that instead of that Mr. Garcia said they’re dating. Dated. Go on dates sometimes.”

        Max blinked.

        “Dude, are you, like... good?”

        “AM I BAD?” squeaked Isaac.

        “What? No, of course not—”

        “IF YOU KNEW THAT THEN WHY DID YOU ASK IF I’M GOOD?”

        Max put his cast on Isaac’s shoulder. He didn’t dare move the hand with the bat in it while Isaac was this skittish; he might have ended up electrocuted.

        “Isaac. Mr. Spender is like an angel that fell from a heaven that only clowns can go to, and Mr. Garcia floats down rivers fully-clothed for fun or maybe just to feel something.” Max shook his head. “I didn’t know or care before, and really I still don’t, but in hindsight they’re probably obsessed with each other, like dualistic deities of dorkiness. They probably kiss all the time. I’m sorry you hatched from a white picket fence egg and it gave you original sin, but—”

        “You’re very theological today, Max,” Isaac mumbled, timidly eyeing the cast on his shoulder. What if he signed it. What if he signed it with his name.

        “Blame the looming apocalypse. Listen, you’re not helping; you throw lightning bolts and here I am attempting to placate you.” Max sighed. “The point, O mighty Zeus, is that I’m not trying to shame you for—hey, are you even listening to me?”

        Isaac jumped.

        “Huh? O-of course!”

        “Sure. Cool.” Max used his bat to scratch the back of his head. Even with A/C, the Corner Shore was strangely summer-warm in this one section. “Listen, I think it’s really funny that my dad thinks that I’m bullying you, so let’s just take this—”

        Max parted the merch on the circular t-shirt rack like curtains, planning to continue their conversation inside. Revealed within, however, was an unexpected occupant: Johnny Jhonny was crouched on the floor, stuffing his face with shoplifted Corner Shore snacks, his improvised breakfast.

        Caught between an aggressive “Do you mind?!” and a reflexive “I can explain!”, Johnny fumbled out the words through a mouthful of treats and simply said:

        “Can you explain?!”

        Max could not. He shut the t-shirt curtain.