“What else is on the list?” Riff asked, digging his fingers into a fresh piece of dough. This was his second attempt. The first had died bravely after a failed hand toss and an unfortunate encounter with the floor.
“Igloo,” Thump muttered around a mouthful of mozzarella.
“Nah,” Ghost said flatly.
“Iggy Pop.”
“That one’s mine,” Bodhi grumbled. “Pick another.”
“Okaaaay,” Thump drawled, completely missing Riff’s snort. “Iggy Smalls.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh my god.”
“That one’s good,” Mick said approvingly.
“I dig it,” Ghost added.
“You’re all ridiculous,” Clara declared, placing basil leaves on what was shaping up to be a disturbingly perfect pizza.
Bodhi leaned across me to grab a bowl of prosciutto and murmured, “They can call you whatever they want. You’ll always be Iggy Pop to me.”
His lips brushed the shell of my ear, and a shiver ran straight down my spine. I couldn’t stop the way my mouth tipped up at the corners.
“What’s Iggy short for, anyway?” Mick asked, carefully spacing out his mozzarella.
Bodhi straightened, putting a little space between us. I hoped the heat creeping up my neck wasn’t obvious.
“It’s not short for anything,” I said lightly, my ignorance expertly performed.
“You’re such a liar,” Thump pouted. “Comeon, Iggy Smalls. Tell us.”
“If I told you,” I said with a wink. “I’d have to kill you.”
“Hot,” Thump muttered, and I bit back a laugh.
I scattered mushrooms and prosciutto over my pizza, finishing it with basil. Something nudged my arm. When I glanced left, Bodhi was watching me from the corner of his eye.
“Will you tell me?” he whispered, quiet enough that only I could hear.
I chewed my lip, considering it.
My name had embarrassed me for as long as I could remember. It was ostentatious. Stupid. An unwanted heirloom from my too-posh parents. Most kids spent their childhood wishing for something unique, the kind of names celebrities gave their kids. Apple. Cricket. Bandit.
I’d been the opposite. I would’ve killed for something boring, like Joe. Or Ben. Even my upper-crust peers at boarding school thought it was too much, and they wielded it like a weapon.
I was ten when I started going by Iggy.
One of my nannies, Myrtle, had found me crying in the playroom one Easter break. When I told her I was sick of being picked on for my name, she’d told me to pick a new one. I hadn’t really understood at the time, but I liked the way she called me Iggy. Liked how it felt when it was just the two of us.
So I’d decided that was who I was.
My parents hated it. Flat-out refused to call me anything else. And most of my teachers ignored the request. But it didn’t matter. I shed my old name like snakeskin and grew into something new. Something truer.
I made it official at eighteen, using some of the birthday money my parents tossed at me like a consolation prize. They were furious, but I didn’t care. Seeing my real name on a government document made it worth it.
No one knew the old one anymore.
I hesitated now, standing there with flour on my hands and Bodhi watching me like he already knew I’d say yes.
