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“You’re welcome,” Branley says.

“I was kind of surprised, honestly,” I admit, when she doesn’t add anything else. “After I . . . well, after what happened in Hendricks’s room.”

“When you almost punched me?”

“Yeah.” I drop my eyes. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re not the first girl who’s wanted to punch me.”

I doubt I’ll be the last either, but I don’t say that.

“It wouldn’t have mattered who it was, just so you know,” Branley continues. “It could’ve been your friend Sara, or one of my friends, or some chick I don’t even know. I would’ve helped. My cousin went to college last year and . . .” She lets the sentence die, the awkwardness between us growing thicker. “I would’ve helped,” she says again.

I think about how I felt that night, watching Branley with her perfect body on display for the boys to ogle and the girls to envy. I wonder if I’d seen her being carried out if I’d have interfered, and I just don’t know.

“So your friend Alex . . .”

“What about her?”

Branley watches me closely before going on, one hand on the doorframe, her finger tapping as she thinks. “You know what she did after you passed out?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

“I also know what those guys were going to do to me.”

“I think she’s crazy,” Branley says.

I feel my blood kick up a notch, my heart skipping a couple beats when I think of Alex, unquestioning in her own bathroom doorway as I lay crying in my underwear. “She’s not crazy,” I say, keeping my tone as level as I can.

And then I spot the edge of a hickey peeking out of Branley’s sweatshirt, perched precariously right on the edge of her collarbone. The same place Adam always liked to leave them on me.

“You just don’t like her because she’s got Jack,” I add, throwing some of the hurt that just bloomed in my belly onto her.

Her eyebrows shoot up, the relaxed girl-next-door face sliding away as every muscle she has tenses and the Branley I know comes out. Eyes half slit, a little color high on the cheeks, nose a centimeter too far in the air for the commoners to try to approach.

“Why would I care about that?” she asks. “I have Adam.”

It’s a challenge, and she’s got her chin stuck out, begging for me to crunch it back into her teeth. And I want to. I want to pop that perfect jawline out of place and tear some of her hair out by the roots and inspect them to see if that’s natural color she’s flaunting or if there’s some chemical assistance at work. But that’s not who I am, and I know that playing the fantasy out in my head and actually doing it are two very different things.

And it’s also not why I came here. I unclench my fists.

“Hey, you know what, Branley?” I say, and her eyebrows go up even farther, waiting for whatever cut I’ve got next, her own response probably lined up and ready to fire as soon as I finish.

“You’re really pretty,” I say, and her perfect mask falls in a pile of confusion.

“Seriously,” I go on. “I always thought your looks were all in the makeup, like you try too hard or whatever. But you don’t need it. You’re naturally really good-looking.”

“I . . .” She just kind of stands in the doorway, mouth hanging open as if I’d informed her I’m pregnant with the next Jesus. “Thank you,” she finally says, eyes slipping back into slits as if expecting a backhand tacked onto the compliment.

“That’s all. Thank you for the other night,” I add quickly as I head for the porch steps, back toward the safety of my car and the predictability of four-four time. I’ve cracked the driver’s side door when Branley calls my name and I turn to see her standing on the porch, barefoot, arms huddled against the cold.

“I’ll see you Monday,” she says, her words sapped of all energy by the time they cross the distance between us, the frigid bite of the air stealing any intended warmth.

But she still said them.

“Yeah, see you in school,” I say.