“I like Fight Club, you bigot,” Lola said.

“Most girls don’t like intelligent films?” Grace said. “Or girls that do like Fight Club are special snowflakes and therefore better than the rest of the womenfolk?”

“Oh God, no, that’s not what I meant. The girls here—they probably haven’t even seen Fight Club, you know? They’ve never even watched it.”

“I am a female and I have seen Fight Club,” Lola said.

“There you go. Of the two women in the room, one hundred percent of them have seen Fight Club. Your ‘most girls’ statistics might need some reevaluating.”

“I’m going to stop talking now,” I said, “lest more of the patriarchy vomits out of my mouth.”

Grace grinned. “We’re teasing you, Henry.”

There was a beat of silence—these would become a constant fixture in our conversations—in which I tried desperately to keep the conversation going beyond its natural point of death.

“Why’d you change your mind?” I said quickly.

Grace stared at me, the remnants of her smile fading. “I don’t know,” she said finally. Right at that moment, the bell for first period rang, and—even though we technically didn’t have to go to it because it was designated newspaper time—Grace Town stood up and packed her things and left the room.

“Did you hear that?” I said to La after Grace was gone. “She likes the Pixies and Fight Club.”

“Pretty sure I like the Pixies and Fight Club, you giant bag of dickweed.”

“Yeah, but you’re a devious lesbian who steals boys’ first kisses and then forever emasculates them by coming out of the closet two weeks later.”

“Speaking of, I forgot to tell you something. Madison Carlson legit asked me the other day how bad a kisser you must be to turn a girl off mankind forever.”

“I hope you politely explained that sexual orientation is predetermined and that you were already a lesbian when you kissed me.”

“Oh no, I told her you have a crooked penis and that after I saw it I could never contemplate seeing another.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“Anytime,” Lola said as she, too, stood and packed up her things. At the doorway she stopped and glanced back at me, her head cocked in the direction Grace Town had left in. “I like her, Henry. There’s, I don’t know . . . something about her.”

I nodded, and said nothing, but because Lola was my best friend, and because we’d known each other all our lives, she smiled. Because, even without speaking, even without words, she knew exactly what that nod meant: I like her too.

THAT AFTERNOON AFTER my last class, when the bell rang, I walked out of the classroom and—shoving my books into my bag—almost ran headfirst into Grace Town. I didn’t realize until later that she must’ve asked Lola where my locker was. I’d certainly never told her, and the only other human I’d seen her speak to was Mr. Hink, who didn’t know either.

“Henry,” she said.

“Hello,” I said slowly.

“Do you want a lift home?”

“Okay.”

“You still have to drive yourself, though.”

“Uh. Sure?”

Grace turned without another word and made off down the hallway without checking to see if I was following (I was, of course). When we made it to the football field, she sped up, which made her limp much more pronounced, her movements slightly wild. It was a stride I could only accurately describe as Mad-Eye Moody–esque. I jogged every fifth step to keep up with her. At the edge of the school grounds I looked back to where Lola and Murray were waiting (as always) in the bus line to catch a ride to my house. I waved. They both raised their right arms and saluted me in unison. Grace Town did not see, thank God.

Out on the street, the silence was broken only by the occasional passing car and the steady click of Grace’s cane against the road, until she eventually spoke. “So what’s your story, Henry Page?” she said. There was, once again, an undercurrent of anger that I didn’t understand, like Grace was disappointed in me for some reason. “Give me all the gory details.”

“I, um. Well.” I got stage fright. “I like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain?” I said weakly.

“Don’t you find it strange that whenever anyone asks you to describe yourself, you draw a blank? It should be the easiest thing in the world to talk about—I mean, you are you—but it isn’t.”

“Yeah. I guess. Although it’s kind of like asking someone, ‘How was Europe?’ after they’ve spent three months there, you know? There’s a lot to cover.”

“This is true. Shall we narrow it down? Let me ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

“It’s going to be intensely personal, so feel free not to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Uh . . . Okay,” I said, steeling myself for questions about my sexual orientation or my unnatural predilection for wearing my father’s black coat even in the heat, which seemed to be, when meeting strangers, the two most popular courses of inquiry.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Not what I was expecting. “Um . . .” I’d never really had a favorite color. Or maybe I had too many to list. All colors were created equal as far as I was concerned. “I don’t give colors preferential treatment? What about you?”

“Alice in Wonderland’s dress blue.”

“So, like, sky blue?”

“No, not at all. I hate sky blue and baby blue and periwinkle, but Alice in Wonderland’s dress blue is perfect.”