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I dump out my makeup bag across the counter. This bathroom at the end of the science hall is always dead after school, so I avoid the rush and hang out here while everybody else does whatever normal people do when class is over: attend extracurricular clubs or go home to their loving family, I guess. I wouldn’t know.

“Like what?” I reply.

“That you didn’t mean to.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s see how that goes.”

Alyssa sighs. As we stand next to each other in the mirror, our black skirt–red sweater uniforms match perfectly. It reminds me of the semester I transferred to Winthrop—sneaking her into the girls’ room and teaching her makeup, then wiping it all off before the ride home. It was a good distraction from the expulsion, court dates, and threats of institutionalization that come along with putting a boy in the hospital.

That said, I’m not sure if I actually like makeup. Gender gets weird when you’re a closeted trans boy, but also feminine, but also coerced into girlhood by a bitch of a mother. Am I actually feminine? Or is the mask I put on to hide my autism just in the shape of a girl? It might be easier to prefer something I don’t have a choice to be. After all, if I come home barefaced, Mom might accuse me of trying to transition behind her back. And there’d go the trust—the only shot of getting away from her before I inevitably rip out her throat.

Am I jealous that Alyssa was actually allowed to transition?

Every day.

“It might help,” Alyssa says, and I roll my eyes.

“I didn’t mean to,” I mock my alternate-universe self in a whiny voice as I dab on my foundation, “it was an accident. Come on.” I scoff. “Whatever. I’m going to the library, figure out where to start with the whole Jane Doe thing. Missing persons database or something. You should come with me.”

Alyssa frowns. “You’re really going through with this?”

I glare into the mirror as I work. “Of course I’m going through with it. I’m sick of this, I swear to god, every day it’s something else, you’re all watching me and waiting. The documentary producer, Jenna, Mom—”

“Oh,” Alyssa says. “Oh.” Like it’s finally clicked for her why I’m doing this. “Morgan. You answered so many prayers when you got him arrested. You don’t owe anyone more than that.”

I snap, “Then maybe people could act like it.“

The last words come out loud. They crack.

Hands shaking, I smear on my concealer. “And what prayers, anyway” is all I can say. “They’re all still dead.”

Alyssa looks at the sink in silence.

She knows how bad it was. The DC Ripper forced her dad into early retirement. According to her parents’ divorce proceedings, the police department practically strong-armed him into resigning—his obsession with my dad destroyed his marriage, messed up his kids, nearly killed him. It hangs over her head almost as much as it hangs over mine. She should want this, too.

“So.” Concealer done. “Library. It’s a block or two away, we can walk. Sound good?”

Alyssa’s mouth opens, shuts.

Not good.

“My friends and I are going to the Portrait Gallery,” she says quietly. My stomach drops. “The photography conservator is doing a demonstration. We got tickets and everything. I really don’t want to miss it.”

I didn’t know she had friends. She’s certainly never told me about them. “The Portrait Gallery.”

“We’ve been planning this for weeks.” She gathers up her bag, eyes flitting nervously to the door like she can hear my teeth grinding together. “And. I don’t know. This doesn’t feel, like, good? Thinking too much about your dad, I mean. Getting involved in that again. I think you should give yourself a little bit, wait until you’re not so … freaked out.”

“I am not—” Oh my god, she is not doing this to me. “Is some stupid museum more important than this? Do you want to help your dad get his shit together or not?”

That was too far. Alyssa takes a step back.

“I’m not saying I won’t help,” she says. “I’m just worried about you.”

Whatever. “It’s fine. I didn’t know you gave a fuck about the Portrait Gallery, but it’s fine. Have fun.”

“Right,” Alyssa says. Her throat bobs as she reaches for the door. “We will. Bye.”

And then I’m alone, makeup scattered across the sink—blush, eyeliner, palettes, lip gloss—and nails digging so hard into my palms that I’m about to draw blood.