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“What?”

Olivia narrows her eyes at me. Latraey puffs out her cheeks in barely restrained frustration. The school’s entrance hall, I realize, has gone completely quiet. A teacher a few doors down peers out of her classroom to see what’s going on.

“Tell me what I’m going to study in college,” Alyssa repeats. “All the applications I’ve been putting in. All the work I’ve been doing. What is it for.”

I say, “This is stupid.” My voice betrays me and cracks. “Go to class.”

“Tell me.”

She’s never told me.

Or I wasn’t paying attention. Or I forgot.

But who gives a shit. Honestly. It’s college. She has all her dad’s money, so she can go study something like history or English, and Warren Hanover will cover her nice apartment in Vermont or California or whatever.

“You don’t know,” Latraey says.

Alyssa laughs. “Yeah. Obviously. Morgan, you don’t know anything about me, and you don’t care, and I’m done with it.” She wipes her eyes. “I’m blocking your number. Don’t talk to me anymore.”

“What’s going on here?” a teacher calls, coming down the hall toward us, intending to break up whatever gathering is getting too much attention. But Olivia is already pulling Alyssa up the stairs, holding her, as Latraey whispers, “You did it,” and then they’re gone.

The teacher prompts, “Ms. Slaughter?” because I’m the only person left standing here.

I don’t—I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. Fine. I don’t have to deal with her anymore. We’re done.

Good.

After ISR, walking fast toward the back door where Felicity and I agreed to meet, I check my phone one more time.

Alyssa

so I know I said I was going to block you but. I just have to tell you that I’ve been so worried about you for so long and I swear to god I did my best but I just cant keep doing this anymore. do you know how scared I was at that club??? and you just ignored it?????? I’m sorry if any of that came off rude or mean and. none of it came out well. all I’m really saying is that I’m sorry your life is so bad that you felt like you had to treat me that way and I’m STILL over here APOLOGIZING TO YOU because you hurt ME and oh my fucking god maybe?? maybe this is alllll my fault and I always let you walk all over me because you did like two nice things for me once and I should’ve stopped talking to you when you said you wanted to choke me but here we are I guess

I hope you and felicity get along

sorry. blocking you for real this time

Potomac Loft Living, the luxury apartment complex containing Dad’s penthouse, isn’t the most expensive residential building on the District Wharf—that honor belongs to the hypermodern monstrosity down the street, positioned next to a long line of yachts—but it’s still nothing to turn your nose up at. Seagulls scream and circle. A police boat churns down the Potomac River. Trees rustle as couples walk the waterfront and friends meet up for brunch.

Felicity looks up at the building and whistles. They’ve been jittery the entire walk from the Waterfront station; looking at me from the corner of their eye, shifting their weight, unable to shut up.

Liking them scares me. They still have every confession on their phone. Every ugly thing I’ve admitted is right there, a loaded gun in their pocket.

Still, I can’t imagine going up to the penthouse without them.

I can’t believe I ever thought it’d be Alyssa instead.

“Your mom’s been eating the cost?” Felicity asks. “All this time?”

I nod. Another one of the reasons Mom needs the documentary. Maintaining the second mortgage on the town house and the penthouse has been tough. Every offer for the place has come in insultingly low, and Mom isn’t have having it, so apartment P02 has been sitting here, burning money, for over half a decade.

Felicity drags that gold necklace between their teeth as we watch a handsome businesswoman step into the building and smile at the concierge. The chain scrapes against their enamel. I can hear it.

“Can—” I choke. “Can you cut that shit out.”

Felicity presses the necklace against their chest. “Sorry. Nervous.”

I would say I feel the same, but nervous is an understatement. None of the “feeling” words my therapists tried to teach me do this justice. My right hand gropes about at the base of my neck, digging around for the slightest excuse to pluck strands of hair from the follicle. No. I yank my hand away and jam it into the pocket of my uniform sweater. I am not going to start pulling my hair out again.