For the readers who knew something was up, even when I didn’t

It’s either that, or she’s on a date. It’s not even funny, having a mom who gets more action than I do.

Hard to know what she means by that. Maybe it’s a secret diss. Like, why are you even here, Leah? Or maybe: I didn’t even notice you, you’re so irrelevant. But maybe I’m overthinking this. I’ve been known to do that when it comes to Abby.

And of course, Garrett, who ordered scattered, smothered, and covered waffles with sausage and hash browns, leaves literally a dollar. I don’t get that. Leave a fucking real tip. I throw an extra couple of dollars down myself to make up for it.

one thing, I can’t stand people who are that pretty. She’s got these Disney eyes and dark brown skin and wavy dark hair and actual cheekbones. And she has the opposite of a resting bitch face. Basically, Abby is human candy corn. She’s fine in small doses—but too much, and you’ll puke from the sweetness.

should say, for the record, that having a mother who’s hotter than you sucks balls.

I can’t fuck your life, I’m monogamously fucking my own life.

“So.” I grin. “You and Cal.” “Shut up.” “That is so fucking cute.” “There’s no that. Nothing’s happening.” “Okay, but I just got a boner watching you hug, so.” “Leah!” “I’m just saying.”

Morgan likes dubbed anime, which is basically blasphemy, and Anna once described Chiba Mamoru as “barely attractive.” But other times, it’s as if we read each other’s minds.

Imagine going about your day knowing someone’s carrying you in their mind. That has to be the best part of being in love—the feeling of having a home in someone else’s brain.

Me too! I start to type. But it reads a little too much like OMG GARRETT I LOVE YOU PLS KISS ME. So I delete it

If I were, I’d be dead. RIP Leah Burke. She died of acute awkwardosis.

“She’s just upset right now. You can’t take this personally.” Okay, I hate when people say that. You can’t take this personally. It’s not personal, Leah. Morgan’s skipping school to avoid me, but it’s totally not personal. God. I know I should be sympathetic, and I know I’m a jerk, but it just hurts. “Leah, it’s not about you. She’s just disappointed,”

mean, I’ve never been rejected from a school. But I know what it’s like to not be good enough, in some bone-deep fundamental way

Alice Spier is exactly who I want to be when I’m in college. She is nerd-cute perfection—effortlessly smart, hipster glasses, and zero tolerance for Simon and Nora’s bullshit. I may have had a low-key crush on her in sixth grade, until I fell hard for her adorable dumbass little brother.

“That girl is pure charisma,” Mom barrels on. “And she just seems like a total sweetheart. Like, I’d honestly love to see you with someone like her.” “Mom.” “You don’t think she’s cute?” “She’s Nick’s girlfriend.”

Then I turn back to Anna’s text. I guess I’m kind of at a loss. Like, I don’t want to be a negligent friend, but I don’t know how to help Morgan if I can’t even talk to her. I think I hate the concept of needing space. What it really means is that the person’s mad at you, or hates you, or doesn’t give a shit about you. They just don’t want to admit it. Like my dad. That’s just how he put it. He needed space from my mom. And now here we are, almost seven years later, at a steakhouse with fucking Wells.

mean, parents sometimes date people. I know this. Moms are technically human beings, and human beings are allowed to have romantic lives

I dress myself carefully, like I’m going into battle. I feel stronger when I look cute. I zip into my universe dress—the greatest thrift store find of my entire life. It’s cotton, blue and black, sprinkled with stars and galaxies across my chest. My boobs are literally out of this world. Then I muss up my hair so it’s just a little wavy and spend twenty minutes giving myself flawless winged eyeliner. It makes my eyes look super green in a way that almost catches me off guard

“You know, I didn’t realize you and Suso were such good friends.” I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “We’re not. It doesn’t matter. Jesus. I’m just saying it’s racist.”

her head to look at me. “Anyway, I heard you stood up for me today.” “The Morgan thing?” “Mmhmm. Bram told me what happened.” She smiles. “You didn’t have to do that.” “I mean, Morgan was being racist.” “Yup. But not everyone would have called her out, so.” Abby shrugs. “Thanks.”

She’s leaning against the bathtub now, back straight, pretzeled legs.

He said drinking lets you say and do things without filtering or overthinking. But I don’t get how that’s a good thing.

Sure, Abby. I totally know. My boyfriends are always trying to call me during parties. So many parties. Which I totally go to, because I love sitting in bathrooms watching other people drink. I should hate this. Why don’t I hate this?

Abby releases me and twines both of her hands through Garrett’s, peering up at him with doe eyes. “Garrett, sweetie,” she says, “I will never, ever do that.” Then she tugs her hands away and pats him firmly on his bicep. “In front of you,” she adds quietly, nudging him toward the bathroom.

I think my brain’s made of Jell-O. My thoughts won’t stay in one place. She’d never do that. In front of Garrett. But maybe otherwise? How am I supposed to interpret that

My mind reels through the last few hours. Morgan’s blotchy red anger. Lying to Garrett. Abby kneeling in front of the bathroom sink. Abby taking Garrett’s hands. Abby saying never. But only never in front of Garrett. And I have no idea if she’s kidding.

“Alice Spier shared it from Simon’s Facebook.” God, you have to love how my mom isn’t friends with my friends’ parents. She’s friends with their siblings.

“You know, the last time we went prom dress shopping together, you were on the inside.” “Haha.” “My little prom fetus.”

I have nothing close to prom-appropriate. I’ve skipped every single dance since we grew out of bar mitzvahs. Which was clearly the right decision, because these dresses are trash, and prom is stupid anyway.

“It’s two hundred and fifty dollars.” Mom pauses. “Don’t worry about it.” “What?” I inhale sharply. “We can’t afford that.” “It’s fine, sweetie. It’s not a problem.” “What, are you going to rob a bank or something? Or are we using Wells’s money?” My stomach coils tightly at the thought. “Leah, don’t you dare give me that look.” “I’m just saying—” “I don’t want to hear it,” she snaps. It seems to echo off the ceiling.

Whom It May Concern: In my professional opinion, Leah Catherine Burke should be barred from any and all prolonged interactions with Abigail Nicole Suso, whose middle name she has absolutely no reason to know, but knows anyway. Of course I fucking know it.

“Yeah.” She laughs out loud. “God. Boys are just so . . . ugh. I’m never dating one again.” “Maybe you should date girls,” I say. She grins. “Maybe I should.” I turn quickly toward the window, face burning. Just. Holy fuck. I said that.

When she and Abby see each other, they shriek and hug in the doorway, even though I’m pretty sure they’ve met literally once. Honestly, how well can you know your cousin’s girlfriend’s friend’s sister? But it’s Abby, so who knows.

“Okay, but you know the drill. Dental dam! Condom!” Mom’s golden rule. Not super relevant, considering I get no action. And even if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be on this trip. Not in Caitlin’s apartment, and definitely not in front of Abby. I can’t imagine bringing a girl home. Abby wouldn’t even know what was happening. I’m 99 percent sure she thinks I’m straight. Even Simon thinks I’m straight.

She has to be kidding. Not a bad idea? Abby living in my bedroom. I’d lose my mind in a week. “Or not,” she says quickly. “Just a thought. We don’t even have to decide now.”

“Because you’d make me go to parties. You’d do doe eyes at me until I agreed.” “Oh.” Abby grins. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

“The beginning of what?” She sinks back, smiling dreamily. “Of real life. Of adulthood.” “That’s terrifying.” “It’s amazing.”

“Want to see a picture of my cousins?” She scoots closer, tilting her screen toward me. I peer at the image: Abby sandwiched between two white girls, all bright-eyed and beaming, with loosely wavy hair. “Molly’s the brunette, and Cassie’s the blonde,” Abby says. “This was from their moms’ wedding.” She swipes through a few more pictures, landing on a brightly lit shot of two women grinning at each other under a floral arch. One is honey-blond with kind of a granola vibe, even in a wedding dress. The other woman is wearing pants, and she has Abby’s face. I mean, literally, she’s an older version of Abby. It’s really disorienting. “I didn’t know you had gay aunts,” I say finally. “Yeah, my aunt Nadine is a lesbian. I think Aunt Patty is bi.”

I give up. I set my phone down and dig around for my sketchpad and pencils instead. I need to get into my zone. That happens sometimes when I’m drawing. It’s like the world stops existing. Everything disappears, except the point of my pencil. I can never quite explain it to people. Sometimes there’s a picture in my head, and all I have to do is translate it into curves and shading. But sometimes I don’t know what I’m drawing until I draw it.

“I’m serious. You could do commissions or something. People would totally pay for your stuff.”

walk out to the elevators—and Abby grabs my hand, squeezing it quickly, before pressing the button for the fifth floor. It feels strange and surreal to be here, to be doing this. It’s like a tiny trip through time. This could be us next year, wandering into Tuesday-night parties off campus. I’m not 100 percent sure how I feel about that. Or how I feel about the fact that she’s still holding my hand. Why do straight girls do that? How do I interpret that?

Abby says yes, and I guess that sort of bugs me. Sometimes I think I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t drink.

“I dare you to kiss me,” she says.

It’s just that every time I try to type something, my brain shuts down completely. I can’t even type “hello” to this girl without bursting into flames.

I’m pretty sure this is the kind of crush you can die from.

Because Abby kissed me. Because she may not be straight. Which means I had to update every single one of my daydreams to reflect this. We’re talking about a massive overhaul, Garrett. I don’t think you realize how many Abby-related fantasies live in this brain.

“Did you know I had an ultrasound the day before my prom?” “That’s . . . cool?” “It was cool! It was the big one, too. That’s when I found out your gender.” “Gender is a social construction.”

So, that’s a thing that’s happening. I’m wearing combat boots to prom.

“I’m going to do this,” I say softly. And then I kiss her. Really fast.

“Girlfriend, huh?” “And roommate.”

“That’s literally the worst idea ever.” “Like I care.” She smiles. “You are trouble, Suso.” “You have no idea.”

Like, I’m pretty sure my academic career is over, and God help me on the AP exams, because how are you supposed to think about calculus WHEN ABBY SUSO IS YOUR GIRLFRIEND?