Aislin has no self-editing function. She is incapable of ever not saying what she’s thinking.

“I’m sorry?” Solo says.

“It’s expensive. It’s … delicious. And I could eat it with a spoon.” She’s employing her purring, hair-tossing, flank-stroking voice, one that brings an alarmed expression to Solo’s face. He’s probably not used to girls like Aislin.

Come to think of it, almost no one is used to girls like Aislin because there’s only one Aislin.

God, I’ve missed her.

“Leave him alone, Aislin,” I say mildly.

What can I say? I like the girl. She’s the polar opposite of me.

“Oh, is he yours, E.V.?” Aislin asks innocently. She’s about six inches away from Solo. “Can I at least have … the leftovers?”

Aislin is tall, taller than I am, and I’m not short. She’s wearing shorts which, if they were any shorter, would qualify as the bottom of a bathing suit, and she has about a mile of leg. Her T-shirt might as well be spray paint. She has sleek, short, stylish copper hair and eyes that slant up, giving her an exotic, feline look.

And breasts. Which she deploys with absolutely cynical yet devastating effect.

I love myself and my body and I’m proud of being who I am blah blah blah. But there are times when I would give a lot to have Aislin’s body and her boldness.

She knows no fear, Aislin.

No, that’s not true. She shows no fear.

“Your bag,” Solo says, leaning back with his eyes wide and voice a little trembly. “It’s uh … security … you know.” He shoots a panicky look at me.

I shrug. I’m not rescuing you, dude. I look down to conceal an anticipatory grin because I know what’s coming.

Aislin takes the bag from Solo, but before he can escape, she clamps a hand on his wrist. She opens the bag and examines its contents. “So I guess they took my flask.”

“They said something about your personal property being returned when you leave.”

Good boy, Solo: a complete sentence.

“Wait!” Aislin says. She reaches into the bag and then, yes, draws out a long string of condoms. “At least,” she says, “they didn’t take anything I really … need.”

A strange whinnying sound comes from Solo. He flees the room.

Aislin laughs, delighted. She perches on the edge of my bed and I say, “You are such a bitch.”

“I know, aren’t I?”

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” I sigh. “I miss everything. I miss homework. I miss the very special stench that is the girls’ locker room.”

“Nerd. School’s over in a few days, anyway. They’ll let you make it all up in the fall.” Aislin pats The Leg. “Oh, crap, sorry! Did I hurt you?”

“No, actually. The pain pills work really well.”

“Don’t suppose you have any extra you feel like sharing?”

I breathe in deeply. “How’s Maddox?”

“Who?” she asks. “I’m sorry, that name slipped right out of my brain when I saw Mr. Scruffy McMuscles.”

“His name is Solo.”

She grins a huge, lascivious grin. “Why, of course it is. But he could be in a duo without too much trouble.” She switches on her serious face. “Maddox is out on bail. If he doesn’t screw up again they’ll probably let him go with community service.”

“If,” I say.

I know it’s wrong, but Aislin’s troubles are almost reassuring to me, they’re such a regular feature of our lives.

I first met Aislin in sixth grade. My dad had died over the summer, and she provided much-needed distraction. Even then, she was the glamorous fashionista, and at a point where I was still four years away from noticing that boys existed as something different and apart and interesting, Aislin was already charming them like a cobra mesmerizing prey.

She was also the only one who could make me laugh that horrible year.

“You know Maddox,” Aislin said. She looks down and away, her patented move to ensure I don’t know how much something is bothering her.

When he goes off to prison—and he will, someday—Aislin will probably wait for him. Her loyalty is fierce.

I love her.

“So what are you doing in here for fun?” she asks.

“Help me get into my wheelchair and I’ll show you,” I say.

It takes a while, but we manage to haul my giant leg and bruised body into my wheelchair.

Except, now that I think about it, am I bruised anymore?

“Push me over to the mirror,” I say.

It’s a floor-to-ceiling mirror, gilt-framed.

I brace for the worst. I saw myself early on, a reflection in a piece of shiny equipment: It was not good. I had huge raccoon eyes, my nose was red, and there were two visible bumps on my forehead, one of which was about the size of an egg yolk.

Since then, I’ve been avoiding mirrors.

I stare at my reflected image in disbelief.

I’m me.

“Huh,” I say. Where are my bruises? My egg yolk? “Push me closer.”

“It’s kind of hard to believe you almost died,” Aislin says. “It’s only been, like, a few days.”

“It’s nuts,” I say. “I mean, my eyes were all…” I wave my hand around my face. “I looked like I’d been hit by a train. With good reason. I shouldn’t be this…”