Ugh. Sam Crowley’s the kind of guy who’s always looking around to make sure people are laughing at whatever lame story he’s telling—and then he’ll tell the same story later just so he can include the part about how everyone laughed so hard when he told it before. He’s the worst. “I don’t know,” I told Kayla. “Kind of doubt it. Have to finish writing a paper.”

“Summer school?”

“Yeah. Lit and Comp. What about you?”

“Summer school?”

“No, Crowley’s. Are you going?”

“I was thinking about it,” she said.

I kind of wish she hadn’t told me that. Kayla’s the type of girl who calls movies “films” and isn’t embarrassed to tell you she plays piano for fun, but is embarrassed about how pretty she is, because she’s pretty without even trying. I don’t know why she gives a crap about who goes to Sam’s thing or whether she should go. The saddest part of parties like that is when girls like Kayla start doing keg stands or when they puke on the kitchen floor and everyone freaks.

“Anyway,” Kayla said, “you should go. It’ll be fun.”

I nodded and told her, “I’ll think about it.” But seriously, we had nothing to say to each other after that. It wasn’t awkward, though, which was cool. Awkward silences don’t bother me anymore, anyway. They used to back when I thought I was the one who didn’t know how to talk to people, but I don’t think that now. Nick helped me realize I’d just been talking to the wrong people my whole life.

Like, I used to think my sense of humor was dumb. I’d crack a joke at lunch and everyone would still be staring at me like, “Wait, was that the punch line?” I thought I was legitimately stupid, too, because I’d ask questions in class and the teacher would be like, “Okaaay.  Anyone else?” Eventually I stopped raising my hand and being funny out loud.

Sometimes it was almost like I was speaking another language, like whenever I tried to find common ground with Dad—asking medical questions maybe, like, Why do I get charley horses at night but not so much in the daytime?—except instead of answering me he’d be all sarcastic, like, I don’t know, Son. Maybe it’s related to your psychedelic urine, because I asked him one time why my pee turns neon when I take vitamins, which is an excellent question, actually, but he acted like I was a hypochondriac or trying to be special. Maybe if he’d have just answered like a normal dad, I’d have been interested enough in his area of expertise to want to be a doctor too.