He pulls one earbud out and says, “Just leave us out of anything you’re planning. It’s getting out of control.”

“I’m going, for sure,” says Jesse, before we can respond. “Shit always goes down at big parties.”

“Preach,” says Dee.

At that moment, a few guys come toward us with trays of slushies. Aidan is one of them.

It happens so quickly.

He deliberately crashes into Dee’s chair, dumping a Slurpee down her back. She jumps up, her chair screeching and toppling over.

“Oops. Sorry. Must have tripped.”

“What the fuck, man?” she howls, turning on the guys. Their eyes widen in exaggeration, like they’re afraid.

“It was an accident,” Aidan says. “Oh shit. Don’t go psycho on me now.” He pretends to look scared. “Chill out. Literally.” They laugh and move on, while the teacher in charge calls out across the room, asking what’s going on, without actually moving from his post. Dee steps over her chair and storms out of the caf to the sounds of people catcalling and laughing. I see Paige watching, her hand on the shoulder of her bag, before she leaves the room.

I follow Dee into the bathroom. She has her shirt off and is drying it in the hand dryer.

“This is some bullshit,” she says, her lips a straight line of fury. A girl comes in, looks furtively at Dee in her bra, and darts into a stall. “He’s going to be sorry for this,” she mutters.

“Maybe it was an accident?”

Maybe she asked for it. Maybe she got in the way. Maybe she brought it on herself. My eyes sting with tears trying to get out. This keeps happening, coming out of nowhere and surprising me, ever since the stairwell. I look up and wipe under my eyes.

“No fucking way. He’s one of those assholes who has been posting all over social media about us. I believe his latest was”—she cocks her head as though trying to remember—“ah yes: ‘Die, feminazi cunts.’”

“Charming,” I say, inspecting myself in the mirror.

“What are you doing?” Dee asks my reflection. She puts her shirt back on.

“Nothing. Are you ready?”

*   *   *

Later, I tell my mom that I’m going out tomorrow night. She is pouring a can of mushroom soup over a bunch of ingredients in a casserole dish.

“Good for you, Stevie. You need to get out more.”

Reg is sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone. “Oh, I remember those summer parties in high school,” he says, smiling but not looking up. “Do I ever. Good times, good times.”