He takes a breath and looks back at the house, and I know he’s wishing that someone would rescue him. “Ah,” he says. “So this isn’t about my transitioning but about my leaving.”

“Yes, about ‘your’ leaving, Mr. Grammar Cop. Why the hell are you leaving? Why does everybody leave?” I hear myself, blubbering, snot running into my mouth.

He touches my shoulders with both hands. “I’m not really going anywhere, Stevie. I’ll still be here. Just not in this house.”

“Right. Not here. Just like Lottie’s never here, and my mom’s mentally not ‘here’ anymore, and Dad has Eleanor, and there’s always that goddamn douchebag in my house—”

“Sorry, what douchebag?”

“Where is Lottie, anyway?”

“Lottie’s not here, I’m afraid.” He tries to wipe my face with the handkerchief, and I swat him away.

“Oh? She’s not here? Well! No shit, Sherman. What a surprise.”

“Listen, Stevie, is this about all that Heather stuff? Did you want to talk about anything?”

“No, Pete, I do not want to talk. I’m done talking.” I pick up my bike, which is definitely on the wobbly side now, and steer her off the driveway, spitting a little blood on the road as I go.

“Well, that was just awesome,” I hear Pete mutter, and my ears go red because that’s what happens when I act like a dick.

I am riding again, a little lopsidedly, with no set destination, but I hit the main drag and pull in at Tim Hortons. Through the window I can see the outline of Dee. Well, actually, specifically, the outline of her hair. Her hair has more presence than I do. I drop my bike against the brick facade and push open the door.

“Wow. You look like shit,” she says, calmly sipping a coffee. “What happened?”

“One vanilla-dip doughnut with sprinkles, please,” I tell the kid working at the cash. We know each other from school but pretend not to. He hands it to me; I pay and head to Dee’s table, sitting heavily on the plastic chair, which swivels around beneath me. I can feel all the life whiz out of me like a balloon with no knot to hold the air, flying around the room, getting smaller and smaller. I realize I haven’t eaten in a really long time, and this doughnut is amazing. But I still feel like something isn’t working, like the bike chain of my brain fell off and no one knows how to put it on right.

“Nobody sticks around, nobody’s good,” I mutter.

“‘Nobody’s good’?”