What would I say, anyway? Natalie ditched me because she finally realized I’m not worth her time? She found better friends? Because she’s too embarrassed to be around me since I came out, even though she was the one sitting right beside me when I finally worked up the courage to tell my parents I was a they and not a she. I absolutely, most definitely would never ever admit the real reason Natalie doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.

“Well, make sure you do your homework.” Mom shoves a steaming cup of tea into my hands before drifting back to the laptop. That’s it, the sum total of parental interaction. Thank goodness.

With my dinner in one hand and my tea in the other, I escape upstairs, pausing outside Toivo’s room. None of his regular doof-doof techno vibrates the landing. No sounds of single-person shooters or sword-wielding heroes slaying dragons either. The silence is ominous, but then maybe Toivo has learned to spell his room for privacy the same way the teachers have spelled the staff lounge.

His door is bare except for a bold, black poster with white bubble font warning family members to Keep Out.

Whatever.

I kick open my own door, unadorned except for the nameplate my dad nailed up when I was like five. I should really do something about that.

While I’m eating, I go in search of the Knock-Knock Jokes, surprised when the track explodes in my ears, all power chords and frenetic drumming. I pay extra attention to the drumming, easily imagining Morgan slamming the life out of the cymbals.

The lead vocals aren’t great. The singer sounds older, with grit in their voice, but it’s punk rock so I’m not sure it matters. I much prefer the backup vocals. Wish I could hear the band do something slower and more acoustic. My foot starts tapping to the beat and I hum along to the supercatchy chorus. It’s rinse and repeat with all five of their songs and I can hardly tell them apart, but Morgan was right. They’re actually pretty good.

I open up QuikGab and add him. His avatar is—big shock—a skateboard with an anarchy a on it. My fingers hover above the keyboard, not sure what to type. I guess he must’ve gotten a notification when I added him because he gets in first.

So? Are you going to make me famous?

The Messenger isn’t Rolling Stone, you know. I type back. This is so much easier than talking face-to-face.

Gotta start somewhere. Did you get the green light for the article?

It takes me a moment to understand what he means before typing back Yes as a smile cracks the corners of my mouth.

Great! Want to hang in the library again? Tomorrow?