If you still want to start those tutoring lessons, I finish up at the bookstore at 5 today. Meet me there?

Whoa.

I also noticed I didn’t have any missed calls or texts from my parents. When I first got to Rome, they were calling nonstop; now, I hadn’t heard from them in almost two days. That worried me. I wondered if Jake finally decided to pull the trigger and spill my secret. If my mom and dad had already erased me from their lives.

I got up off the couch and went to the bathroom to get my shit together. My hair looked moppy as hell. When I came back into the living room, there were a bunch of drag queens lined up in a row on the TV screen.

Jahan looked at me funny. “You look like you’re watching aliens descend upon earth for the first time.”

“No, I—it’s just . . .”

“You’ve never seen a drag queen before, have you?”

I shrugged. “They kind of remind me of clowns.”

Jahan shook his head. He scooted over on the couch and gestured for me to sit next to him.

“Do you see that?” Jahan pointed at a drag queen who had just come out of a limo wearing a sparkly jumpsuit and a big white wig. “A clown would never.”

He was right. Drag queens were far more advanced than clowns. I had never watched RuPaul’s Drag Race before, but it didn’t take long before I was asking questions about the rules and the competitors. It was like America’s Next Top Model but with men in high heels. And the shade. These people threw incredible amounts of shade.

+10: Enjoys RuPaul’s Drag Race.

During the lip-sync portion, I texted Neil back.

Buongiorno.

Neil responded:

Wow, you’re already fluent! Maybe you don’t need me after all . . .

I wrote back immediately.

Beginner’s luck.

He replied:

So what you’re saying is you still need a tutor?

I paused.

How do you say yes in Italian?

Neil wrote:

Sí. Like Spanish. Perfetto. Meet at the bookstore then?

I started to type out “see you there,” but I just sent a thumbs-up emoji.

After the Drag Race episode ended—a tall white queen appropriately named “Milk” got eliminated—Jahan’s friend left, and Jahan went into the kitchen to make pasta. I kept checking my phone to see if my parents had decided to call or text.

“Everything okay?” Jahan asked as we were eating. I had hardly touched my food. “Fine. I’ll fess up. The Bolognese sauce came from a jar. I have clearly ruined Italian food for you. You can go home now.”

Home. Jahan winced at his word choice.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know you can’t . . .”

His voice trailed off. He was right, though. Because if Jake really did tell my family, I couldn’t go back home. I imagined showing up at our doorstep, meeting my parents’ blank stares. They wouldn’t recognize me. They would only see the person in that photo, kissing Jackson in the car.