At last I pulled off campus and headed north up Meridian toward the highway. She kept talking, of course. She always did. “I’m sorry, okay? I should’ve let Ayala die years ago. But yeah, you’re right, it is kind of a way of coping with—I mean, Holmesy, you’re exhausting.”

“Yeah, all our friendship has gotten you in the last couple months is fifty thousand dollars and a boyfriend. You’re right, I’m a terrible person. What’d you call me in that story? Useless. I’m useless.”

“Aza, she’s not you. But you are . . . extremely self-centered. Like, I know you have the mental problems and whatever, but they do make you . . . you know.”

“I don’t know, actually. They make me what?”

“Mychal said once that you’re like mustard. Great in small quantities, but then a lot of you is . . . a lot.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

We were stopped at a red light, and when it turned green I was somewhat ungentle with Harold’s accelerator. I could feel the heat in my cheeks, but couldn’t tell if I was about to start crying or screaming. Daisy kept going. “But you know what I mean. Like, what are my parents’ names?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know the answer. I just took a long breath, trying to push my heartbeat down into my chest. I didn’t need Daisy to point out what a shitshow I was. I knew.

“What are their jobs? When was the last time you were at my apartment—five years ago? We’re supposed to be best friends, Holmesy, and you don’t even know if I have any fucking pets. You have no idea what it’s like for me, and you’re so, like, pathologically uncurious that you don’t even know what you don’t know.”

“You have a cat,” I whispered.

“You just have no fucking clue. It’s all so fucking easy for you. I mean, you think you and your mom are poor or whatever, but you got braces. You got a car and a laptop and all that shit, and you think it’s natural. You think it’s just normal to have a house with your own room and a mom who helps you with your homework. You don’t think you’re privileged, but you have everything. You don’t know what it’s like for me, and you don’t ask. I share a room with my annoying eight-year-old sister whose name you don’t know and then you judge me for buying a car instead of saving it all for college, but you don’t know. You want me to be some selfless, proper heroine who’s too good for money, but that’s bullshit, Holmesy. Being poor doesn’t purify you or whatever the fuck. It just sucks. You don’t know my life. You haven’t taken the time to find out, and you don’t get to judge me.”

“Her name is Elena,” I said quietly.

“You think it’s hard for you and I’m sure it is from inside your head, but . . . you can’t get it, because your privileges are just oxygen to you. I thought the money, I thought it would make us the same. I’ve always been trying to keep up with you, trying to type as fast on my phone as you can on your laptop, and I thought it would make us closer, but it just made me feel . . . like you’re spoiled, kinda. Like, you’ve had this all along, and you can’t even know how much easier it makes everything, because you don’t ever think about anybody else’s life.”

I felt like I might throw up. We merged onto the highway. My head was careening—I hated myself, hated her, thought she was right and wrong, thought I deserved it and didn’t.

“You think it’s easy for me?”

“I don’t mean—”

I turned to her. “STOP TALKING. Jesus Christ, you haven’t shut up in ten years. I’m sorry it’s not fun hanging out with me because I’m stuck in my head so much, but imagine being actually stuck inside my head with no way out, with no way to ever take a break from it, because that’s my life. To use Mychal’s clever little analogy, imagine eating NOTHING BUT mustard, being stuck with mustard ALL THE TIME and if you hate me so much then stop asking me to—”

“HOLMESY!” she shouted, but too late. I looked up only in time to see that I’d kept accelerating while the traffic had slowed. I couldn’t even get my foot to the brake before we slammed into the SUV in front of us. A moment later, something slammed into us from behind. Tires screeching. Honking. Another crash, this one smaller. Then silence.

I was trying to catch my breath, but I couldn’t, because every breath hurt.

I swore, but it just came out as ahhhhggg. I reached for the door only to realize my seat belt was still on. I looked over at Daisy, who was looking back at me. “Are you okay!” she shouted. I realized I was groaning with each exhalation. My ears were ringing. “Yeah,” I said. “You?” The pain made me feel dizzy. Darkness encroached at the edge of my vision. “I think so,” she said. The world narrowed into a tunnel as I struggled for breath. “Stay in the car, Holmesy. You’re hurt. Do you have your phone? We gotta call 911.”

The phone. I unbuckled my seat belt and pushed my door open. I tried to stand, but the pain brought me back into Harold’s seat. Fuck. Harold. A woman wearing a business suit knelt down to my eye level. She told me not to move, but I had to. I lifted myself up, and the pain blinded me for a minute, but then the black dots scattered so I could see the damage.

Harold’s trunk was as crumpled as his hood—he looked like a seismograph reading, except for the passenger compartment, which was perfectly intact. He never failed me, not even when I failed him.

I leaned on Harold’s side as I staggered back to the trunk. I tried to lift the trunk gate, but it was crushed. I started pounding on the trunk with my hands, screaming with every breath, “Fuck oh God, oh God, oh God. He’s totaled. He’s totaled.”

“You’re kidding me,” Daisy said as she walked to the back of Harold. “You’re upset about the goddamned car? It’s a car, Holmesy. We almost died, and you’re worried about your car?”