“Wait,” he said. “That’s not a word.”

I looked down to where, in a moment of desperation, I’d played zixic on a triple-word-score space.

“Uh, sure it is.”

“What’s it mean?”

“It’s sort of like…quixotic, but with more…”

“Bullshit?”

I laughed out loud. I’d never heard him swear before.

“More zeal. Hence the z.”

“Uh-huh. Use it in a sentence.”

“Um…’You are a zixic writer.’“

“I don’t believe this.”

“That you’re zixic?”

“That you’re trying to cheat at Scrabble.” He leaned back against my couch, shaking his head. “I mean, I was ready to accept the whole evil thing, but this is kind of extreme.”