I don’t know why the fact that I won’t be seeing A sends me on a spiral, but it does. I should be used to it. I should know this is always going to be part of the plan—or the part that derails the plans. But with everything else such a mess, I was relying on it anyway. And now I’m feeling stupid for relying on it.

Going to school doesn’t make it any better. I feel a distance from everything. Maybe this is self-defense—I can still hear people talking about me, can still see them looking at me like I’m awful. But I also know that nobody here can understand what I’m going through. Nobody here is in love with someone who may or may not show up on any given day. Nobody here doesn’t know what form his or her love will take. And instead of feeling superior to them—instead of feeling smug because I have what they don’t have—I find myself envying them. I want the same stability that Stephanie and Steve have. Or Rebecca and Ben. Which isn’t stability—there are still fights and disagreements and bad days and good days—but it’s at least more stable than the great unknown I’m not-quite-dating.

I am sixteen years old, I find myself thinking. This is way too much.

The one thing I’m not doing is wishing it were a few weeks ago, and that I was still entirely Justin’s. But even that is shakable. Because when I see him for the first time since the gym, it sends me spiraling further. He’s coming out of math class, and I am just another body in the hall. What I see isn’t pretty. It’s much more sad than angry. He has always hated being here, and now he hates it even more. I’m sure, if he saw me, the hate would be shot in my direction. But since he doesn’t see me, there’s nowhere for it to go. Instead, it loops in on itself, chews on its own tail.

A week ago, I would be rushing over to comfort him. I would be trying to unknot that anger, that hate, to get him to breathe. That was what I did. That was what he needed, and what he always resented.

I turn away and move in the direction I know he won’t be going, even though it’s not the direction I need to go. It’s bad enough already. I don’t want to make it even worse.

The next day, A says he can see me. But it comes with a warning.

I’m not sure this guy is your type. He’s pretty huge. I just want to prepare you, because the last time you saw me, it wasn’t like this.

Type. Suddenly A is worried about my type. I don’t want him to be thinking that way. It will only make it harder for both of us. And since I really keep thinking of A as a “he” now, I almost want to tell him that at least he’s got half of my type right, if he’s a guy. But what does that even mean? How wrong am I to think that way?

Love the person inside, I remind myself. This will only work if you love the person inside.

The problem is—and I think about this all through school—I have a mental image of the person inside. When I picture A, I picture him as this attractive guy, shimmering like a spirit or a ghost, jumping from body to body. That is the person I am in love with. And in my mind he’s a guy, and in my mind he’s white, and in my mind he has dark hair, and in my mind he’s lean. Not buff. Not superstar beautiful. Just an ordinary attractive. I can even see him smile.

This mental picture should make it easier for me, should make A more real to me. But it only makes it harder, because I know the mental picture is about what I want, not what A is.

He is waiting for me outside the Clover Bookstore after school. He’s dressed up in a button-down shirt and a tie, which I appreciate. But there’s no way around it—he’s big. Really big. And that’s hard for me to deal with. Not because he’s ugly. There’s actually something sweet about him, in that tie. But he’s just so much bigger than me. I’m intimidated. And, yes, it’s really hard for me to adjust from seeing A in Vic-the-girl-who’s-a-boy’s body one day and this body the next time I see him.

“Hey,” he says when I get closer. I guess that’s our code word now. Our greeting. But it still sounds weird coming in this voice, so low.

“Yeah, hey,” I reply.

It’s even worse when I’m next to him. I feel miniscule.

“What’s up?” he asks, like this body is no different from any other.

“Just taking you all in, I guess,” I say. It’s like a test. Let’s make A as different as possible from last time, and see how you deal.

I’m not in the mood to be tested. I’ve been tested enough.

“Don’t look at the package,” A says. “Look at what’s inside.”

I get it. I do. But still, I don’t like the assumption that this is natural.

“That’s easy for you to say,” I tell him. “I never change, do I?”

God, I don’t want to be fighting. I think this even though I’m the one who’s being fighty.

And then I take the thought one step further, and think, It’s like it was with Justin.

No. It’s not. With Justin, I fought because he backed me into corners.

A is not doing that.

Like now. A could easily say, Yeah, sure you change—the girl I met was really nice, and the girl talking to me right now is acting like a bitch.

But the thing is: A wouldn’t say that. Which is why I’m here.

Instead of confronting me, A says, “Let’s go.” Taking it forward instead of getting stuck here.

“Where to?” I ask.

This gets a smile. “Well, we’ve been to the ocean and to the mountain and to the woods. So I thought this time we’d try…dinner and a movie.”

Ha. Not what I was expecting. But much better than trying to find a desert.

“That sounds suspiciously like a date,” I say, smiling myself.

“I’ll even buy you flowers if you’d like.”

I like the sound of that. “Go ahead,” I tell him. “Buy me flowers.”

I’m both joking and not joking. And he’s serious, because instead of going into the bookstore, he finds a florist and buys me a dozen roses. It’s a little crazy, but this whole thing is a little crazy, so I accept it.

He gives me options from the movie theater down the road, and I say if this is a date, then we have to go see one of those superhero movies that seem designed for dates—enough action for the guys and enough banter for the girls. Of course, as soon as I say this, I realize that this equation doesn’t take into account people who are neither boys nor girls—and also makes some pretty big assumptions about what guys want and what girls want.