"You sound distracted," Mom says. "Are you studying?"

I jolt at the accusation.

"Uh, yeah," I lie. "Big test coming up."

I click off the listing for exorcists in my area. The search was a bust. I found just over twenty exorcists within busing distance, spaced equally far apart on the circumference of a wide, wide circle with my school in the dead center. Looking at the map, it's as if my school repels exorcists.

Subtract the ones I can't bus to and from in my break between classes, and I'm left with twelve. Subtract the ones I can't reasonably afford under my sixty-dollar-per-month budget, and that leaves... absolutely none. I wish my scholarship stipend covered more than books.

I type exorcisms for charity as my Mom starts talking again.

"I made the apple pie recipe from your website," she says. "I used the apples from your uncle's tree. They were the tiniest apples, Alvaro. The tiniest little apples! They were like grapes."

My mom is my biggest fan. As much as I hate to admit it, my mom might be my only fan (but I'm working on converting Kayla).

"How did it turn out?" I ask, scrolling through the first few listings. It doesn't look like exorcists do a lot of charity work. There's one headline about an exorcist in Los Angeles cutting the ribbon of a massive glass building labeled Retreat For Spiritually Weakened Youths.

"Oh, good, really good, it looks beautiful." I can hear that she has me on speakerphone. "The ghost cookies were really sweet, lots of sugar. Someone said on the pie recipe to use two-thirds of the sugar. Hopefully it turns out a little less sweet."

I clench my teeth. TheConfectionist. My nemesis. Mom, how could you betray me?

"It's an apple pie," I say. "It's supposed to be sweet."

She laughs. "Apples are already sweet, Alvaro."

A listing catches my eye. Psychic Consultant - Reconvene with the Dead, Reconcile with the Damned. Video Chat Appointments Available. Reasonable Rates, Inquire Now.

Is that what Joren is? Damned? My mind flicks through images of D&D demons and fever-dream flashes, burned into my memory, of the movies that scared me as a kid. I tab over and search for the word damned.

Damned: condemned or doomed by God to suffer eternal punishment.

Hm. This is starting to sound less and less like it's any of my business.

Yesterday, I tried to ask my RA for a roommate transfer, but apparently the university doesn't keep a bunch of empty rooms lying around just in case someone decides they're afraid of their roommate. I'd either have to convince someone to switch with me or convince the university that it's in their best interest to separate us. I'm not about to pick a fight with Joren.

The video chat psychic calls herself Jana Love. Her website is real Web 1.0: pastel purple backround, text that goes all the way to the sides of the screen, the works. At the top, obnoxious yellow marquee text reads HEALING - LOVE SPELLS - NUMEROLOGY - PALM READINGS - YOUR LOCAL PSYCHIC FOR OVER 12 YEARS.

The testimonials page is immediately hilarious. The people pictured are definitely stock photos. Alongside each is a caption like, "I never believed in my marriage until Jana helped me discover the power to love myself!! Now my husband and I are celebrating our fifth anniversary!!" or "I used to dream every night about eating all the food in my fridge!! Jana helped me uncover my hidden desire to become a pastry chef!!!"

The number of exclamation points gives me a sneaking suspicion that the same person wrote each testimonial.

"Alvaro, are you still there?"

"Hi! Yes!" I scribble down the number for the psychic. She's no exorcist, but I'm not sure I understand the difference, anyway. And twenty dollars for an hour-long video call is definitely in my price range.

"Okay, you're busy," she says. "I'll go. But first, do you have something new for me?"

"Oh, yeah, I wrote one down," I say, flipping through the notebook on my desk. It's mostly drawings of cats. Cats with hats, cats with mustaches, cats eating ice cream, ice cream shaped like cats, rocket ships carrying cats to planets made of ice cream. In the top margin of my page from Spanish class, there's a little scribble in the margins.

"Here it is," I say, clearing my throat. "Did you know that the Spanish word for apple is manzana?"

She clucks her tongue. "Are you taking Spanish, Alvaro?"

"I'm joking," I say, grinning. "But I am actually taking Spanish. It's an easy credit; why not?"

"You're lazy," she jokes. "What's the real one? Come on."

"Okay, here's the real one," I say, finding it in the bottom corner of my physics notes. "Did you know that the tides are actually slowing the Earth's rotation? A billion and a half years ago, a day on Earth used to be 19 hours instead of 24."

She's not trying to make sure I pay attention in class; she trusts me enough. My Mom's just excited that I'm in college. She and Dad didn't get to go, and she was so proud of me when I got my scholarship. She said she knew my Dad would be too. I already knew that, but it was nice to hear it coming from her. It feels closer to having it come from him, since they were married for twenty-two years and all before he died. She says she's going to go to college too, or since she can't come with me, I need to tell her my favorite thing I learned in class every week.

"That is very strange," she says. I can always tell from the way she speaks so slowly that she's thinking deeply about it. "That is a really good one. Well, I'm going to go visit your uncle tonight to show them the pie his apples made. Should I tell him anything for you?"

"Tell him hola," I say. "That means hello. We learned that a few weeks ago."

"You are so lazy," she repeats. "Okay. Good luck studying, I love-"

"What are you doing?" Joren asks. I nearly leap out of my chair. The phone drops to the floor.

"BLOGGING!" I shout.

He entered so quietly it's like he phased straight through the wall. My panicked brain tries to convince me that he was here the whole time, but I know he wasn't, because I have developed the super unhealthy habit of looking over my shoulder every five minutes.

Joren looks at the stock photo for a moment. I want so badly to click off the webpage before he can read the URL, but force myself not to so I don't look more suspicious. I can hear my mom asking what happened from underneath the dresser.

"They don't look like food," Joren says, retreating to his desk.

I put a hand over my pounding heart and exhale. "Recipe's not done."