Leila has been smoking for two years, and she only tried it because she was auditioning for the fall play at our high school, a postmodern—whatever the hell that means—interpretation of Tennessee William’s A Streetcar Named Desire, when we were juniors. She wanted Blanche DuBois so much that she spent weeks watching the Marlon Brando film over and over, reciting her monologue, and smoking. It started with one and became a sort of ritual: capture the moment of a scene, take a drag.

With one last, great puff, her head dips, and she smushes the butt into the face of the rock. The smell—and the fake theatricality—turns my stomach.

She flips her hair as she snaps back to attention. Legend has it that’s how Leila Casablanca was born: flipping her hair and shaming the nurses for not having better-quality blankets in the delivery room. Leila’s curvy hips and buxom chest accentuate her petite frame, and her long, wavy black hair bounces weightlessly like an animated princess’s against her olive skin.

As she revels in the imagined praise, she turns and meets my gaze. Clearly unsure what to do, she stiffens.

“Mother Monster Haus of Gucci, who is that?” Benny whispers. “Because she is fabulous!”

“Ex-BFF,” I whisper back harshly.

“Oh, we hate her! Hussy!” Benny hisses.

I want to laugh, but there’s nothing funny about this. Seeing her was inevitable. After all, she confirmed her intention to come here, to my college, my animation program, without telling me she even applied. Because to do that, she would have had to admit everything else she did to hurt me. Which would never happen. It’s not her style to admit faults. She’s too self-absorbed to be fallible.

I just didn’t think I’d run into her this soon.

She picks up her sunglasses, primps her hair in the reflection, and plasters the fakest smile on her face as she bounds toward us.

“Chase, how are you?” Her voice drips fugazi diamonds as she offers an air kiss, one for each cheek, and a rigid hug that I have to reciprocate, or I’ll look like a complete ass. She turns toward her audience, who waits for her to speak before they know how to react.

This is what Leila does to people. She hooks them in, makes them feel like they’re the center of her universe, and she can do so within a few minutes of them knowing her. It used to impress me until it started to unnerve me.

“Everyone, this is Chase Arthur. We went to the same high school together. He’s in the animation program, too. Or is it they? I never can remember pronouns. No time like college for a reinvention, amiright?”

I stare at her, wide-eyed. I don’t even know what pronouns I feel comfortable using. Maybe he. Maybe they. Maybe something else entirely. Right now, I’m comfortable with he. I tried to explain this to her last year, but she just scoffed.

Benny leans in. “Did she really just—”