“Yes,” Professor Piper said. “Necessarily. If you’re asked to write something original, you can’t just steal someone else’s story and rearrange the characters.”

“It’s not stealing.”

“What would you call it?”

“Borrowing,” Cath said, hating that she was arguing with Professor Piper, not ever wanting to make Professor Piper’s face look this cold and closed, but not able to stop. “Repurposing. Remixing. Sampling.”

“Stealing.”

“It’s not illegal.” All the arguments came easily to Cath; they were the justification for all fanfiction. “I don’t own the characters, but I’m not trying to sell them, either.”

Professor Piper just kept shaking her head, more disappointed than she’d seemed even a few minutes ago. She ran her hands along her jeans. Her fingers were small, and she was wearing a large, narrow turquoise ring that jutted out over her knuckle. “Whether it’s legal is hardly relevant. I asked you to write an original story, you, and there’s nothing original here.”

“I just don’t think you understand,” Cath said. It came out a sob. She looked down at her lap, ashamed, and saw the red F again.

“I don’t think you understand, Cath,” the professor said, her voice deliberately calm. “And I really want you to. This is college—what we do here is real. I’ve allowed you into an upper-level course, and so far, you’ve greatly impressed me. But this was an immature mistake, and the right thing for you to do now is to learn from it.”

Cath locked her jaw closed. She still wanted to argue. She’d worked so hard on this assignment. Professor Piper was always telling them to write about something close to their hearts, and there was nothing closer to Cath’s heart than Baz and Simon.…

But Cath just nodded and stood up. She even managed a meek thank you on the way out of the classroom.

Thinking about it now, again, made the skin on Cath’s face feel scorched clean. She stared at the charcoal drawing of Baz pinned up behind her laptop. He was sitting on a carved black throne, one leg draped over its arm, his head tilted forward in languid challenge. The artist had written along the bottom of the page in perfect calligraphy: “Who would you be without me, Snow? A blue-eyed virgin who’d never thrown a punch.” And below that, The inimitable Magicath.

Cath picked up her phone again. She’d called Wren at least six times since she left class. Every time, the call went straight to voice mail. Every time, Cath hung up.

If she could just talk to Wren, she would feel better. Wren would understand—probably. Wren had said all that mean stuff about Baz and Simon a few weeks ago. But she’d been drunk. If Wren knew how upset Cath was right now, she wouldn’t be a bitch about it. She’d understand. She’d tug Cath back from the edge—Wren was really good at that.

If Wren were here … Cath laughed. It came out like a sob. (What the eff, she thought, why is everything coming out like a sob?)

If Wren were here, she’d call an Emergency Kanye Party.

First she’d stand on the bed. That was the protocol back home. When things were getting too intense—when Wren found out that Jesse Sandoz was cheating on her, when Cath got fired because her boss at the bookstore didn’t think she smiled enough, when their dad was acting like a zombie and wouldn’t stop—one of them would stand on her bed and pretend to pull an imaginary lever, a giant switch set in the air, and shout, “Emergency Kanye Party!”

And then it was the other person’s job to run to the computer and start the Emergency Kanye playlist. And then they’d both jump around and dance and shout Kanye West lyrics until they felt better. Sometimes it would take a while.…

I’m authorized to call an Emergency Kanye Party, Cath thought to herself, laughing again. (This time it came out slightly more like a laugh.) It’s not like I need a quorum.

She reached toward her laptop and opened her Kanye playlist. There were portable speakers in one of her drawers. She got them out and plugged them in.

Then she turned the volume all the way up. It was a Friday night; there was nobody in the building, maybe nobody on campus, to disturb.

Emergency Kanye Party. Cath climbed onto her bed to announce it, but she stepped right down. It felt silly. And pathetic. (Is there anything more pathetic than a one-person dance party?)

She stood in front of the speakers instead and closed her eyes, not really dancing, just bouncing and whispering the lyrics. After the first verse, she was dancing. Kanye always crawled right under her skin. He was the perfect antidote to any serious frustration. Just enough angry, just enough indignant, just enough the-world-will-never-know-how-ridiculously-awesome-I-am. Just enough poet.

With her eyes closed, Cath could almost pretend that Wren was dancing on the other side of the room, holding a Simon Snow replica wand for a microphone.

After a few songs, Cath didn’t need to pretend.

If any of her neighbors had been home, they would have heard her shouting the lyrics.

Cath danced. And rapped. And danced. And eventually there was knocking.

Damn. Maybe the neighbors are home.

She opened the door without looking and without turning down the music (Kanye-impaired thinking), but ready to apologize.

It was just Levi.

“Reagan isn’t here!” Cath shouted.

He said something, but not loud enough.

“What?” she yelled.

“Then who is here?” Levi shouted, smiling. Levi. Always smiling. Wearing a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned at the wrists. Couldn’t even be trusted to dress himself. “Who’s in there, listening to rap music?”

“Me,” Cath said. She was panting. She tried not to pant.

He leaned toward her so he wouldn’t have to shout. “This can’t be Cather music. I’d always pegged you as the mopey, indie type.” He was teasing her; only genuine emergencies were allowed to interrupt the Emergency Kanye Party.

“Go away.” Cath started to shut the door.

Levi stopped it with his hand. “What are you doing?” he said, laughing, and pushing his head forward on the “doing.”

She shook her head because she couldn’t think of anything reasonable to say. And because it wouldn’t matter anyway; Levi was never reasonable. “Emergency dance party—go away.”

“Oh no,” Levi said, pushing the door open and sliding in. Too skinny. Too tall.

Cath shut the door behind him. There was no protocol for this. She’d call Wren for a sidebar consultation if there was any chance Wren would answer the phone.

Levi stood in front of Cath, his face serious (for once) (seriously, for once) and his head deliberately bobbing up and down. “So,” he said loudly. “Emergency dance party.”

Cath nodded.

And nodded. And nodded.

Levi nodded back.

And then Cath started laughing and rolled her eyes away from him, moving her hips from side to side. Just barely.

And then her shoulders.

And then she was dancing again. Tighter than before—her knees and elbows almost locking—but dancing.

When she looked back at Levi, he was dancing, too. Exactly the way she would have imagined him dancing if she’d ever tried. Too long and too loose, running his fingers through his hair. (Dude. We get it. Extreme widow’s peak.) His eyes were absolutely gleaming with mirth. Putting out light.

Cath couldn’t stop laughing. Levi caught her eyes and laughed, too.

And then he was dancing with her. Not close or anything. Not any closer, actually—just looking at her face and moving with her.

And then she was dancing with him. Better than him, which was nice. She realized she was biting her bottom lip and stopped.

She started rapping instead. Cath could blow these songs backwards. Levi raised his eyebrows and grinned. He knew the chorus and rapped with her.