A will only remember me.

Eventually, the map on my phone tells us we’re getting close to Michael’s house.

“I want to see you tomorrow,” A says.

“I want to see you, too. But I think we both know it’s not just a matter of want.”

“I’ll hope it, then.”

I like that.

“And I’ll hope it, too,” I say.

I float on that for a while, driving home. Then I remember everything else that’s happened, and I start to sink. When I get home, I can’t bear the thought of telling my parents about Justin, so I avoid them. My mom yells something about missing dinner, but I can’t even begin to care.

I call Rebecca for a status report. She tells me, again, that everything’s going to be fine. It will all blow over.

After I hang up, I stare at my phone. I click on the photo folder and it’s like my whole history with Justin is there. He couldn’t rip that up.

I know what I told A is true: It’s not over.

Justin and I are in the bad part now.

Chapter Twenty-Six

School is brutal the next day. All the whispering. All the stares. All the talk. Some of it ridiculous. Some of it true.

Everyone in this building has gone years without caring about me. Now I do something wrong, and suddenly they care. It’s disgusting.

There’s no email from A when I wake up, and I don’t check again. I feel I need to navigate this alone. A can’t help me here. I need friends like Rebecca and Preston to help me.

It is amazing to me how many people are fine with calling me a slut to my face. Girls say it low and guys shout it out.

Justin has made it clear to my friends that they have to choose, and that he’s the one who’s been wronged. He doesn’t care about Rebecca and Preston, which makes it easier for them. Stephanie, though, says she’s going to have to keep her distance when Justin’s around. Steve, too. She says she hopes I understand. I tell her I do.

“You’re too nice,” Rebecca says, overhearing this.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think niceness is my problem.”

It’s like it’s not entirely real to me. There’s a piece of me that’s still calling out for Justin, that thinks we’re still together, and meant to be together.

I can fix this, that piece believes. When, really, it’s the broken part.

It also asks, You gave up Justin for what, exactly?

I don’t know how to answer that.

I check my email quickly before third period. There’s a message from A, saying he’s on his way. I write back:

I don’t think today is really a good day.

But I’m not sure the message will get to A in time. A’s probably already kidnapped whoever’s body he’s in. I can’t stop it.

I tell Rebecca that I’m going to skip lunch. I know she’s going to offer to join me, but I tell her I’d rather be alone, to try to process everything. Mostly I want to hide, and it’s easier to hide when you’re just one person.

“Are you sure?” Rebecca asks.

I tell her I’m sure.

“Remember, this is the worst of it,” she tells me. “The first day is always the worst.”

This is a little less than credible from a girl who will no doubt now go find her boyfriend and sit with him at lunch. But I resist telling her that she’s not allowed to talk to me until she cheats on Ben and he dumps her.

I don’t know where I’m going to go after Rebecca leaves me. Some dark corner of the library should be safe. I’ve never seen a librarian turn a girl away because the whole school is calling her a slut.

I’m about to head there when a voice behind me says, “Hey.”

I am not in the mood for someone else to give me an opinion on my behavior. I turn around and look at the person stopping me. It’s a boy, I think. Maybe a freshman. Also maybe a girl.

I’m confused. Then I look in his/her eyes and am not confused.

“Hey,” I say. “You’re here. Why am I not surprised?”

I know I should be more excited that A’s made it. But honestly? This is one more thing than an already hard day needs.

“Lunch?” A asks.

I guess I might as well. It’s not really the hiding I’d planned, but I don’t know how to explain that.

“Sure,” I say. “But I really have to get back after.”

“That’s okay.”

We walk down the hall. And you would think that maybe some people would be staring at the stranger next to me, a person they’ve never seen before. Maybe not the same guy I am rumored to have had sex with in the gym (there’s no mistaking him for that), but still—someone different.

But no. I’m still the main attraction.

A’s picking up on this, too. He sees them looking at me. He sees them turning away.

“Apparently, I’m now a metalhead slut,” I explain. I genuinely don’t care who overhears. “According to some sources, I’ve even slept with members of Metallica. It’s kind of funny, but also kind of not.” I stop talking for a second and look at A. “You, however, are something completely different. I don’t even know what I’m dealing with today.”

“My name’s Vic. I’m a biological female, but my gender is male.”

A says it like this is obvious. I sigh and tell her, “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Well, it means that her body was born one way, but her mind—”