I sat next to her, repeated my earlier question. “What’s that got to do with Taylor?”

“It’s not obvious? Society expects people to reproduce. We don’t have a species if there aren’t new people. But, depending on the specific society, there are a lot of funky rules about who, when, how people have babies. I’m not arguing about which society has the best baby rules, but what’s consistent in many parts of the world is when a birth happens outside of a society’s rules, and people in power don’t like it, blame is placed on the woman. She’s fast, a whore, a slut. As if every birth that doesn’t get the power player’s stamp of approval is immaculate conception. No male participation at all. Sadly, nothing new there. What’s interesting is Taylor’s young, and calling out that behavior through the most powerful tool available to any oppressed class, social media.” Cressie’s beat-up, scuffed backpack was wedged against her nightstand. She hopped to it like a manic bunny, snatched the zipper open. “You should see these journal articles I found on . . .” She looked in my eyes and trailed off, her shoulders slumping. “You want to know if I’m done with the car, don’t you?”

“No. I want to cuss you out. Then I want you to confirm that you are done with the car.”

“Did you hear anything I said?”

“Taylor Burkin is helping you with your school project. Cool. I hope you get an A. You still messed me up last night, Cress.”

She shook her head slowly, resealed her journal articles back in her bag. “I heard about your hot date. Kiera’s nice, she wouldn’t care that you rode a bike.” Her gaze was shrewd. “Am I right?”

“That’s not the point.”

“If I was wrong, it wouldn’t be a relationship worth pursuing. You boys always get it twisted.” She resumed fiddling with her equipment, extended her tripod’s legs. “You should watch my show. You could learn a lot. Or”—her head tilted, scrutinizing me—“if you let me do your makeup, you can guest on my next episode. A male perspective might help draw in some new subscribers.”

“You’re not putting makeup on me!”

“The light’s going to show every pore on your face.”

“There will be no light, Cressie. I’m not doing your dumb show.”

“Rude!” She punched me in the chest, and I pretended it didn’t hurt. There would probably be a bruise. She said, “If you’re going to be typical Del, kindly close the door on the way out. I want to get one more video done before I leave tonight.”

With her focused on her setup, I massaged my sore sternum. “You’re not staying?”

“Naw, one of my friends is heading back to campus early. I’m bumming a ride.”

“So you are done with the car.”

A sneer, which I took as a yes.

I touched some of the equipment, to her dismay. A telepathic be careful shot into my brain, but I ignored her stern vibe. “Mom and Dad know you’re leaving?”