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“You shouldn’t be that way about her,” Alex says. “I hear what people say and I bet half of it isn’t even true. And even if it is—fine. She’s no different from you and me; she wants to have sex. So let her.”

“Easy to say when it’s not your boyfriend she’s having sex with.”

“Was Adam your boyfriend when it happened, or had you already broken up?”

Technically I don’t know, and the burn has faded. My words lack the heat they used to, like I’m saying things out of habit and not because I actually feel that way anymore. I think of Branley that day on her doorstep, and how she’s been a little nicer to me in the halls, saying hi sometimes when there’s really no reason why she has to.

“I kind of don’t think so.”

“Me neither,” Alex says. “She likes boys, and she can get them. You were hurt by that, but it wasn’t Branley who hurt you. It was Adam.”

“Fine,” I say. “But Branley and Jack used to hook up all the time, Alex. I mean, like, they cut their sexual teeth on each other’s crotches and never really stopped even when they were dating other people. So how would you feel if you found out Jack still had Branley on the side?”

“I’d be pissed,” she says. “But not at Branley. She doesn’t owe me anything.”

“Would you, like, rip Jack’s face off?”

She laughs, a loud one that she has to muffle with her hands. And part of me is a little bit shocked at that and part of me revels in it.

“No,” she says, like maybe she considered it for a second. “But I’d definitely punch him in the dick.”

My turn to laugh.

“So hey,” I say, finally finding a moment to talk about something that only she and I talk about. “Remember the day I hit Branley?”

“Uh, you only kind of hit Branley,” Alex corrects me, and I give her a little shove in the dark.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, and I told you the difference between thinking about hurting someone and actually hurting someone is—”

“Is like fucking huge, yeah,” I interrupt. “But here’s something weird I’ve been thinking about.”

“Oh boy,” Alex says, and I shove her again.

“Shut up, I listen to all the weird shit you think about all the time.”

Alex makes a pfft sound in the dark.

“Okay, so, here’s the thing. I realized that yeah, I think about violence sometimes, but I fantasize about apologizing, too.”

“That’s fucked up,” Alex says—and she hardly ever swears. “Explain.”

“Like if I see someone bullying somebody in the hall or whatever, it bothers me and I’ll think about it a lot, like a lot. To the point where I replay it in my head and create this situation where I’m really nice to them, and tell them I’m sorry that happened or whatever, ask them to sit with us at lunch.”

Alex is quiet like she’s thinking, so I keep going.

“My mom and dad get all these Christian magazines, right? And when I was little there were always pictures of kids in Africa with cleft palates on the back cover, and if you give five bucks or whatever they can fix this kid’s face. There was this one girl who was a big mess, like her face was split in half, and I had this whole thing where I pretended I made Mom and Dad go to Africa and adopt her. She’d come home and live with me and we’d fix her face, but also she’d be my sister because I never had one, and I’d give her half my room and half my toys and half my clothes.

“And it was kind of screwed up because that made me feel better, you know? Like me thinking about doing a good thing took away all my guilt. Kind of like how me imagining hitting Branley helped me take care of wanting to without actually doing it.”

“Except in this case it’s not a good thing because that girl in Africa benefits in no way from you daydreaming about being her hero,” Alex says. “If my dad only considered giving us his money instead of actually doing it, I’d be homeless and eating free lunch.”

“And your mom would have to drink bottom-shelf scotch,” I add.

Alex fake shudders. “Good thing we’re flush.”

“Yeah, no shit.”