Lottie’s head is down, and she’s covering her ears. I see the scar on her arm from where she fell off her bike when we were eleven. I remember how bad the cut was, full of gravel and dirt, but she was so tough. Pete cleaned it and put a bandage on it and gave us ice cream with cookie crumbs on it, and I remember that we said that it looked like the dirt from her arm. It tugs at me, seeing that scar, and her with her hands over her ears. She stumbles as we finally walk through a closed door and into an area where we can hear again. We gather in a crowd while the man who works there tells us the stats about how they recycle up to ninety-seven percent of the material that goes in there, and how the recycling plant we are in is a charity that transforms so much of what goes in into something else. He opens a bag he’s holding and holds up a piece of crown molding.

“This,” he says, “used to be a Styrofoam takeout box. It was crown molding trapped in the body of Styrofoam, and we helped it become what it wanted to be.” He chuckles and so do a few other people. The man gestures for the group to follow him into another room, and the crowd starts to move.

Most of the group have gone through the doorway when Justin, a guy standing beside me, nudges Lottie in the back. “Like your mom,” he says.

His friends snicker and act like they are shocked and offended between giggles. I look at her, her lower jaw sticking out, and feel a rush of old loyalty burst up, surprising me.

I turn to him. “Shut the fuck up,” I hiss, loudly.

He raises his eyebrows and makes a face of mock concern, clutching his chest. “Oh, sorry. Did I offend your girlfriend?”

I glance at Lottie.

“Stevie, don’t,” she says.

I ignore her. I look back at Justin. “You are such an asshole, and let me tell you: guys like you? Your time is up,”

“Oh really?” He smirks. “Lemme guess. You’re part of that Heather shit. We all know about you and that tranny teacher.”

“What did you say, you transphobic dick?” I shout, thrusting my body forward like I’m going to start a fight, like I’m going to beat this guy up who could flatten me. Because he’s still Pete, after all, even if I can’t count on him like I once could; he’s part of me, somewhere deep inside. I won’t stand for anyone trying to take shots at him.

Justin laughs, but nervously, because I notice there are a bunch of other students who have turned around and are snapping their fingers and smiling at me. “Preach,” someone murmurs, and someone puts their hand on my shoulder.