Wait. What? What are we fighting about?

“Rebecca, why are you mad? I don’t understand why you’re mad.”

“I’m mad because my best friend is dating an asshole. And no matter how many times I point it out to her, she looks at me like I’m the one saying the world is round, and she’s like, No no no—flat.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” I insist. “She was trying to trap him into doing something. He was right to be mad.”

“That must have been so hard on him, to have a hot girl flirt in his direction. I don’t know how he could stand it. Poor victim.”

“It wasn’t like that.” There’s no way I can explain.

“Well, in his version, it was. You know, the racist, sexist version he gave us in the hall? Or maybe you don’t even notice those parts anymore.”

“I do, but…that’s not him. That’s just him being mad.”

“Oh, like it doesn’t count if you’re pissed off? I wish there were an Olympic competition where you could show off all the contortions you do in order to justify your relationship with him.”

I hate it when she uses her smartness to contort things about me, to make me feel so dumb.

“Why do you have such a problem with me and Justin?” I challenge. “Why? It’s not like he hits me. It’s not like he abuses me. It’s not like he cheats on me. Why can’t you just accept that I see things in him that you might not see. And that you might not see them because you’re a bitch to him all the time.”

“So I get to be the bitch now? Fine. Then you, my friend, are the scary girl. He doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t abuse me. He doesn’t cheat on me. Can you hear yourself? If those are the standards you have—Hey, he hasn’t punched me, so everything must be okay!—that scares me. That makes me think that at some point you’ve used these justifications. Oh, it’s really bad right now, and he’s being awful…but at least he’s not hitting me. Have a little more respect for yourself than that, okay?”

We are in the middle of art class. We are supposed to be drawing a sleeping turtle that Mr. K has brought in. Other people can probably hear us.

“Can we please not have this conversation here?” I ask her. When it comes out of my mouth, it sounds a little like pleading.

Rebecca sighs. “I don’t know why I bother.” Then she shakes her head, correcting herself. “No, I do know. Because you are my friend, Rhiannon. And because it kills me to see you twist yourself around to be with him. I know you’re not really hearing me right now, but one day, these words might come in handy. They might help. Which is why I’m putting them out there. So they’ll be there when you need them, and you’ll know that I’m here when you need me.”

It’s perfectly said. Too perfectly said. I want to tell her that I already have one guidance counselor and don’t really need another. I want to tell her that I can tell she enjoys seeing me suffer, because if I’m the patient, then she gets to be the nurse, the doctor, the guardian angel. Part of me appreciates it, but mostly I resent it.

She returns to her drawing and I return to mine. The turtle wakes up and tries to run away. Mr. K catches it every time it attempts to escape. The first time this happens, the class laughs. The fourth time, it’s just inconvenient.

When I hang out with Justin after school, he doesn’t mention Ashley or even Rebecca. We go back to his place and play some video games—I lose in an early round and have to watch until he’s done. Then he moves his hands on me and we start to make out, and without us talking about it, I know we’re going to go all the way this afternoon. I try to get into it, but I keep wondering if he’d like it better if I had a different body—if I had Ashley’s body. Then as we’re getting naked and more intense, I think about being in his body and having sex with Ashley. Would I like it? Do I want that? I can’t feel that way, and then I start thinking the opposite—what if A were in Justin’s body right now? What if it were A inside of me, A covered in sweat, A kissing me? I know it would be different. I know he’d be looking at me more. Feeling me more. Here more. I feel so fucked up for thinking these things. For imagining A here, A with me. I am cheating on Justin in my head, even if it’s still his body that I’m cheating with.

It finishes before I’ve really gotten anywhere. Justin asks me if I want him to keep going with me, but I tell him no, I’m fine. I’m good. I’m great.

Chapter Fifteen

I check my email before I go to sleep that night. No emails from Justin. No word from Rebecca. Just something from A.

I have to see you again.

A

I wonder what body A is in right now. I wonder if I would’ve wanted to sleep with it. I wonder if I’m wrong to wonder that. I wonder what the hell I’m doing.

I don’t answer. I want to see A—of course I do.

But I still don’t see the point.

Justin is in a dire mood when I catch him in the morning. Another long-distance lecture from his dad. Another test he’s not ready for. Another day he doesn’t want to be here.

I try to plant myself firmly at his side. I complain about my own history test coming up today. I tell him that hanging out with him yesterday was much more fun than studying, anyway. I don’t tell him that I studied when I got home.

“I fucking hate this place,” he tells me. I must remind myself I am not a part of the place. He is not talking about me.

It’s hard to be supportive when you have no idea what you’re supporting. It’s hard to be there for someone when he won’t let you know where he is.

I tell him I’ll see him at lunch. He doesn’t react. And why should he?—I’m only stating the obvious. We always know how our day will go.

I walk to my classes. I talk to the people I always talk to. I am barely paying attention to my own life.

I go to Spanish and I listen to people talk about the glories of Madrid. I go to art and I can barely lift a brush.

Then I’m walking into math and something inside me wakes up. Alert. Instead of going into the classroom, I glance back at the hall and see someone looking at me. In an instant I know A has come back. A is here.

It’s in the eyes. This boy with his swoopy hair and his polo shirt and his jeans could be any boy. But those eyes, that way of looking at me, could only belong to A.