“Well, well, well.” Arthur’s frame blocked the dance floor from my view, and this made me angry enough to forget how much his rant had hurt earlier. “Are you going to show us all how to slow-dance with enough room for the Holy Spirit?”

I snapped, “They don’t actually do that, you know.” At first, I’d been relieved by Arthur’s fascination with Mt. St. Theresa and all its holy contradictions. It gave us something to talk about. Now I wished he would just let it go. Only he never would. It seemed like innocent ribbing, but I saw it for what it was: his way of keeping the curtain up on me, reminding everyone—reminding me—who I really was and where I really came from.

“Were you even allowed to dance?” Arthur kept at it. In the neon belly of the gym, he looked like he was sweating droplets of fruit punch. Arthur was always sweating. “Isn’t that the devil’s pastime?”

I ignored him, shifting my weight to the right to peer around him.

“The HOs aren’t coming.” Arthur said.

I reared back as though he’d hit me. “How do you know?”

“Because only losers come to these things.” Arthur grinned, his swollen cheeks glowing triumphantly with facial oil.

I canvassed the room for evidence to prove him wrong. “Teddy’s here.”

“Because Teddy wants to get his dick sucked.” I followed Arthur’s eye line to Teddy and Sarah, dancing as though their pelvises had been sewn together in home ec.

Not wanting Arthur to see me cry, I mumbled that I had to go to the bathroom, ignoring him calling after me, insisting that he was just kidding. I rounded the corner of the gym, pep-talking myself the whole way. They would come. They would.

I froze at the top of the stairs to the locker room, when I saw who was ascending them, having just returned from the bathroom.

“Feeling better?” Mr. Larson was wearing jeans. I’d never seen him wear jeans before. He looked like a guy in a bar. A guy with grown-up intentions. I crossed one leg over the other, concerned he could see up my skirt from where he stood, a few steps be-low me.

“A little.” I took the reach out of my voice like a sick person would, so that he saw only my lips moving around the words.

“Come on, TifAni.” Mr. Larson’s voice was so chastising, so typically adult, that my body tightened in teenage outrage: How dare he turn on me like that? “You know you can’t skip out on practice. What happened?”

I knew if I lied and told him I’d gotten my period that he’d leave me alone, but the idea of talking about my period with Mr. Larson made me want to throw up. “I wasn’t feeling well. But it passed. I swear.”

“Well then.” Mr. Larson smiled, and not sincerely. “I’m happy for your miraculous recovery.”

“Finny!” The voice behind me turned the night on its side. Hilary’s skirt was so short that I could see a flash of cherry red underwear. Hilary dressed the way I was trying to train myself not to dress, but because she did it as a form of rebellion, rather than out of habit, it worked for her rather than against.

“Come on.” She curled a hot pink fingertip at me.

“If you girls leave school property I have to alert your parents.” Mr. Larson’s voice was closer now, and I turned back to see him just one step below me.

“Mr. Larson.” I bulged my eyes at him. “Please. Come on.”

For a little bit there was just a beat of some horrible song, and then Mr. Larson sighed and said he never saw me.

A navy Navigator idled by the curb. The door swung open to reveal three rows of Hairy Legs, Dean and Peyton included, Olivia perched gleefully on Liam’s lap. Jealousy corkscrewed in my chest. It’s just because it’s a full car.

Hilary settled in and smacked her hands on her thighs. “Sit on my lap,” she sing-sang. We could have fit if we just scrunched up next to each other but as I folded myself in the L shape of her body, I smelled the gin, and understood her affection.

I addressed the group. “Where are we going?”

“The Spot.” The driver met my eyes in the rearview mirror. Dave was a senior with arms so thin and devoid of body hair this rabid Italian girl envied him. They called Dave the Hammer behind his back, he was such a tool, but cars are currency in high school, and he had one.

The Spot was nothing but a lone patch of land, fenced in by resting dogwoods, their fleeting bloom still three quarters of a year away, and voluminous, untamed maples clustered close enough together to block the road in the front and the Bryn Mawr College dorms in the back. Bradley kids had claimed the property years ago as a place to drink Natty Ice and give the occasional blow job.

It would have been faster to walk. Cut through the brush behind the squash courts, cross the sleepy, one-way street, and we would have been there in five minutes. But Dave circled the perimeter of the Bradley campus, found a spot to park on an active street several hundred feet from the rough opening in the forest. We filed out of the car, clumsily, giggling, and gathered by the curb. Dean took the lead, helping me navigate the path even though it was clear and well-worn. The trail ended at the base of a miniature vista, and in the far corner, I made out a sawed-off stump. I wove toward it, patting my hand on the surface, making sure it was dry before I sat.

Dean reached into his pocket and held out a beer. “I can’t,” I said.

It was too dark to make out Dean’s face, but his form loomed, challenging. “You can’t?”

“My mom’s picking me up in an hour,” I explained. “She’ll smell it.”

“Lame.” Dean snapped the can open for himself and sat next to me. “My parents are away next weekend. I’m having a few people over.”

The prong of a car’s headlights illuminated our pen, just long enough for Dean to see me smile. “Cool.”

“Don’t tell the HOs,” he warned.

I wanted to ask why, but Peyton sauntered over. “Dude, you know you’re like sitting in the same place that Finnerman blew that little faggot.”

Dean released a wet burp. “Fuck off.”

“I’m serious. Olivia saw them here.” Peyton redirected his voice. “Liv, didn’t you see Arthur giving Ben Hunter a blow job right here?”

Her words carried over in the dark. “It was nasty!”

I traced my finger over the smooth wood surface, considering how sharp the chain saw must have been for the amputation to be this clean. There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to draw attention to my connection with Arthur if he was more marginalized than I thought. This was a serious accusation. “Who’s Ben Hunter?” I asked, trying to stall while I worked out this new piece of information.

Dean and Peyton laughed at each other, and Dean slung his arm around my shoulder. “Some little faggot who used to go here. Slit his little fairy wrists.”

Peyton leaned forward. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, and his face was even more striking up close. “Sadly, he did not succeed in killing himself.”

“Sadly.” Dean shoved Peyton with one hand. He stumbled, dropping his beer. The can rolled, hissing, on its side. Peyton muttered a curse and chased after it.

“What happened to him?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as stricken as I was.

“Aw, Finny.” Dean gave me a shake, harder than I was prepared for, and I bit down on my tongue. “You feel bad for him?”

I swallowed, tasted the tin of my blood. “No. I don’t even know him.”

“Well, I’m sure his boyfriend is devastated.” Dean sucked on his beer. “Watch out for that guy. Arthur. He’s a fucked-up kid.” His fingers dangled over my shoulder, absentmindedly brushed my nipple. “Don’t forget Friday”—our secret made his voice low and private—“and don’t tell Hilary and Olivia.”

I was stupid enough to do as he said.