“That’s great. Make sure you catch up on what you miss from someone in the class.” Then he tells me to have a good day, and I don’t even feel a twinge of guilt when I walk right back out of there again. It just goes to show that even people who really know you well may not have any kind of bullshit radar. You could just spend your days lying your ass off to everyone.

Dee is right. I am fed up.

And so, when a group of senior-year Barbie clones gives me the once-over on my way out, I flip them not one, but two birds—ka-pow!—one in each hand. Boom. And then I slam open the front door, or at least I try to, but it’s one of those really heavy metal ones that takes forever to actually open, and so the moment is not actually that momentous.

Dee stands up and I can’t help but smile.

*   *   *

We are winding our way through the suburban streets of my childhood. It is a warmish day, and the sun is in our faces, and I feel, even with everything—everything bad—pretty good. Not alone, anyway, and that’s something.

I kick some pebbles. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Exploring,” she says, just like that. Decisive.

I don’t say anything, but the silence isn’t awkward. We walk through the quiet streets, Dee with her hands jammed in her pockets, occasionally looking at me mischievously. I don’t tell her that I have never skipped school before, that I have never, in fact, “explored” and don’t even know what she means. I am buzzing with the newness and badness of this. These are streets I grew up on, but they suddenly seem fresh and different; I never see them during the weekday school hours.

“What’s your mom like?” Dee says, out of nowhere.

“How do you know my mom?” I ask, alarmed.

“I’ve seen her around …” She pauses; then, “She’s pretty.”

“I’m sure she’d love to hear that.”

“You look like her, you know. Except”—she looks at my clothes—“you don’t dress at all the same.”

I laugh. “Oh, you mean because I’m not vacuum-packed into my clothes?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She says. “I’ve never seen your dad, though. Is he not around?”

I glare at her. “What is this, therapy?”

She shrugs. “God, defensive. Why, do you need therapy?”

“No, I just mean … No. Whatever.” I jump up to pull a leaf off a tree we’re passing under. “My dad left, okay? Why the hell do you want to know so much about my family?”

“I like to watch people. See what makes them tick.” She looks over at me. “My mom took off, too. And my dad has a new girlfriend who could give two shits about me.”