Look, I’m no hero; I know I fall right in here with the insufferably smug and self-righteous. I know all about checking privilege even when my self-pity seeps out of my pores like grease. I read articles online about cultural appropriation and transphobia and I consider myself pretty woke. The only thing that educating yourself doesn’t inoculate you against, though, is becoming a know-it-all, and as thick in the trees as I am, I know I am that. And yet. STFD, Mr. Cavalier, is what we’re saying with our rolling eyes.

At the doorway, there is a basket of condoms. On the way in, and on the way out, the Aidans and Lukes of the class stock up because God knows they are getting just a shit-ton of action.

On Monday, Aidan held one up for me. “Stevie, it’s important that you don’t procreate, so make sure you pay attention,” he muttered, just loud enough for his cronies to hear, and Paige, whose ass he’d grabbed as she leaned up against him and smiled at me. She let out a little yelp and swatted him. My eyes prickled and I squeezed them shut furiously. When I opened them, I saw Dee staring after him, her face a mask of rage.

On Monday and Tuesday, we were taught the terms. We learned, some of us, the idea that gender is a construct. That biology, genitalia—the things that open wide or hang and pulse and quicken—are separate, sometimes, from how we identify. From who we crush on. From who we are. We learned that gender is a performance. And this made me perk up a bit. It was a throwaway mumble from the teacher, who was reading off something, but it snaked its way toward me and looped under my arms and threw me into the air.

A performance. I looked down at myself and remembered Pete asking me where I got the shirt I was wearing. And then all I could think about was that goddamn handkerchief, and man, if that didn’t blow my mind. All the performances around me ran through my head, including Reg-who-looks-like-James-Franko (without the melted face), with his belts and scarves and god-awful V-neck T-shirts. And this idea propelled me from Monday right through to Wednesday, where I am now, alert and listening, while Mr. Cavalier sweats and stutters and is performing brilliantly as Teacher Who Wished He Was Anywhere Else. But something is different. There is someone else here today. Today, Mr. Cavalier gets a lucky break.

He tells us, “Today, we have a special guest. Pablo Estavez, of the White Ribbon Campaign, is here to talk to you all about consent.”

Consent. I feel nervous, like everyone can see my face going red. I don’t risk a look at Aidan, who I’m sure isn’t giving a thought to me or to what he did in the stairwell.