“Yes,” I say. “The Midday Spectator is running a feature on me. It’s due to go online this afternoon, and in the physical paper tomorrow. The thing is, they’re not sure which angle to take.” I turn the screen around to show the headmaster and my dumbfounded mom. “There’s the feel-good story about how I grew up closeted in Boulder, and blossomed at boarding school. Gained the confidence to be myself, found a supportive network of friends, learned the Catholic values of acceptance and community, yadda yadda yadda. But they’re kind of leaning toward a more headline-grabbing take. How I was forcibly outed by a group of drunk teenage boys, and instead of the school protecting me against an act of violence, I was expelled due to suspected homophobia in the school board itself. The last part wasn’t my words,” I say. “They just sort of added that in. Anything to make sure the story gets talked about, am I right?”

Mom is looking between the headmaster and me with eyes so wide her brows disappear beneath her bangs. The headmaster takes a long time to reply. So long, in fact, that I eventually catch on that he’s waiting for me to go on.

“I know the alumni association is really concerned about the terrible reputation I gave the school last week,” I say with mock empathy, because I’m apparently now the sort of person who can boldly give adults attitude without hesitating. Maybe I’ve officially run out of craps to give. “Hopefully, we can go back to the Spectator and tell them they’re gonna have to pull the expulsion story because it’s not true. Otherwise, the alumni association may have lots of concerns by tomorrow night, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want that.”

It’s extremely hard to read the headmaster’s face. He folds his hands together and rests his chin on them pensively. Then, I swear, he almost smiles. “I agree,” he says finally. “I think the association would find that scenario quite objectionable.”

FORTY-EIGHT ROSE

Inside Harriet’s room, we face each other. Me, angry enough to launch myself at her again. Her, apprehensive and bewildered. “Rose,” she says, holding up her hands. “I never contacted the palace. I swear. Not once.”

“How did you figure it out, then?” I ask, a little hysterical. “When? Tell me, and fast, so I know you’re not lying.”

“It was late last year. I knew you were spending a lot of time together, and I was jealous, and I wondered, I guess. But then one night I saw you and Danni go inside together, and when she came back down later, she had a hickey. And she did not have one when I saw you together an hour before that. But I didn’t tell the palace, Rose.”