“Yes to the latter, of course.”

It takes every ounce of willpower in my body not to snort out loud. I wait for Jake to call him out on his bullshit right away, but I’ve clearly underestimated Jake’s confidence in his own charms, because a second later he stammers out:

“O-oh, well... I mean, don’t get me wrong, my man, you’re great and all. Really. And the whole being gay thing, that’s—like, I’m totally cool with it. You know, love is love is love and all that...” He clears his throat. “But I just—I don’t really feel the same way about you.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah... But, like, no hard feelings, right? We good?”

“Certainly.” Henry pauses. “And I do apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable by hanging around here so often. In fact, I’ll be leaving right this minute...”

I know this is my cue to get the hell out of here, but something makes me pause. Scroll through Jake’s photo album again. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for until I come across a video taken of Jake a few months back.

Blood pounds in my ears. Adrenaline and fear and something like excitement shoot through my veins in a dizzying rush.

Could I? Should I?

And I guess it all comes down to this: I don’t know whether it’d be morally right to take matters into my own hands, but I do know that Jake is an asshole. I also know that Rainie’s been worrying herself sick for what must be months now, and that this kind of situation isn’t uncommon at all, yet somehow it’s always the girls who get blamed for it, who are slut shamed and silenced and forced to shoulder the consequences. And I know that Rainie and I aren’t friends, that we’ve barely even spoken to each other apart from our one awkward conversation in the bathroom, but I still can’t help feeling angry on her behalf.

I still can’t resist the urge to teach Jake a lesson.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, almost as if acting on their own accord. For once, I’m grateful rather than embarrassed to have sent my teachers so many homework questions and follow-ups in the past; I’ve got every single one of their emails memorized.

By the time Jake pushes open the door, grumbling something about coffee and having too many people fall in love with him, I’ve done what I need to. I glide past him, swift and silent as a battleship in the night, finally ready to return home after winning an unlikely war.

We’re in English class when Mr. Chen opens up the email.

I made sure he would. The email subject says nothing but “Class 12C, Jake Nguyen: Urgent—please show in class.” Everyone can see it, too; Mr. Chen loves showing us video analyses of our texts on YouTube, so his laptop is always connected to the projector.

Across the room, Jake’s face goes blank with confusion at the sight of his own name on the screen.