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to date her again.”
    I laugh.
    “Many girls aren’t me. You’d better get used to it.”
    “Can’t.”
    “Why? I did awful things to you and I’d do them all over again.”
    He winces. “I don’t think you meant them.”
    “I meant them.”
    “You know, that ’94 issue of Cosmopolitan didn’t have anything in it about G-spots,” he says. “But I should’ve figured you were lying.”
    “Yeah, you should’ve.”
    “But Becky does know where it is.” My mouth drops open. I try to recover, but it’s too late; Chris saw it. I don’t know why I expected Becky to tell me something like that. He smiles. “Doesn’t bother you, does it?”
    “No.” I swallow. “Okay, so why exactly can’t you go out on a second date? If it doesn’t bother you that she’s not me when you fuck her, I don’t see why you can’t—”
    He holds up his hand. “We didn’t fuck.”
    “Oh, I see. Congratulations.”
    “Where do you think she is?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    He nods at the poster of Jessica. “Where do you think she is?”
    “Dead,” I say. “Either that or working as a prostitute. But probably dead.”
    “Nice. I can’t believe you just said that.” He blows a strand of hair out of his eyes. “You didn’t used to be this cold.”
    “You know, if I do my homework and I don’t come to school hungover anymore, it’s still going to be like this. It’s not a phase, Chris. This is who I am.”
    “Do you ever hear yourself?” he asks. “You’re so full of shit.”
    “No, I’m not anymore. That’s the point.”
    He grabs my arm and leans forward, unbearably close. His lips graze my neck and get close to my mouth. I shiver.
    “Fuck off, Chris.”
    He lets me go and stands.
    “Good luck with your essay.”
    He heads back in the direction of the gym. I reopen my binder and poise my pen above the blue lines. I should at least try.
    Write a thousand-word essay comparing how you relate to “The Yellow Wallpaper” as a senior to how you related to the story as a freshman .
    I didn’t even reread the stupid story and the only memory I have of it isn’t entirely accurate, if I’m to believe Becky, which in this case I do. Still, I’m a fantastic liar in all other aspects of my life, so writing a thousand-word lie should be easy.
    I can do it. I can do this.
    As a freshman, I found “The Yellow Wallpaper” to be —
    Fuck it, I’ll just cry.

four

    I’m a fantastic crier. Everyone is on suicide watch .
    Plus: I don’t have to do the essay.
    Minus: it landed me in Grey’s office and she called my parents.
    Plus: we’re getting a dog this Saturday!
    On Tuesday, Norton surprises everyone by giving us an honest-to-God project that will take up a huge chunk of our time and account for a huge chunk of our grade and I don’t like him so much anymore.
    “Two sides of the same landscape,” he announces, standing before us like Patton. “That’s what this project is about. You’ll pair up—”
    Norton’s momentarily interrupted by the sound of screeching chairs as best friends skirt close, claiming one another. You don’t want to wind up with someone like me for a partner. He frowns.
    “On second thought, I’ll put you into pairs—” Everyone groans. “Quiet.”
    Chris glances at me. Bet he was going to ask.
    “Two sides of the same landscape,” Norton repeats in his gravelly voice. “Here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to arrange a time to meet with your partner to scout the local landscape and take a picture of it. You’ll bring that picture to class. Are you all with me so far?”
    I’m bored already.
    “You will, as partners, proceed to paint the left and right side of the landscape, respectively, using the photo as a reference for the base . I want you to reimagine the landscape itself. The colors, the season—turn a paradise into wasteland! There is one caveat: you and your partner must reimagine each side of your landscape independently and figure