Isaac’s legs were crossed. On his lap was a copy of Teen Vogue he’d found in the bathroom. He held it open with one hand, folded it back on itself. In the other hand was a chewed-up pen. Jack said, “What the hell are you doing?” “A personality profile,” Isaac said. “You have to list your qualities. What you think are your qualities. Then have five other people each give you a quality about yourself. That’s the part I’m on now.” “Sounds like fun.” Isaac shrugged. “It’s kind of interesting.” “To women at hair salons.” “Why don’t you give me a quality?” Isaac asked, tapping the butt of the pen on the questionnaire. “Are you serious?” “Yeah.” “Alright,” Jack said. “You smell like diaper-rash cream.” Isaac’s eyelids drooped a fraction of an inch.
