“Well, I was on the trip already, I didn’t see any of this go down myself. But they were talking about it in the staff room today.” Mom straightened, smiling to herself. “I have to be honest, it won him a few brownie points as far as I’m concerned. Not many kids would stand up to Stan.”

Well.

Huh.

I made a mental note to bring this up with Brougham the next chance I had. Why hadn’t he told me he’d done that? We’d spent practically the whole day together Saturday, and he hadn’t thought to mention he’d fought my case to the principal?

Add that to today’s story about Brougham punching—punching!—someone at a party over the locker? Well, people always wrote in to the locker asking about mixed messages, and I gave the same approximate answer every time. Mixed messages don’t exist: they’re telling you the truth clearly through their actions, and you’re either believing their honeyed words like a lovesick fool, or placing too much weight on the odd inconsistent action. But maybe I’d have to eat my words, because there was nothing clear about Brougham’s behavior. Not when he was apparently still happy with Winona.

“Are you calling this girl or what?” Mom asked, snapping me back to the present.

“No,” I said. Everything was too confusing and scary and overwhelming right now. A phone call was too much to stack on top of all that. “No, I’m going to text her.”

“Don’t you dare! A text is not an appropriate apology, Darcy.”

But I ignored her, because it had just occurred to me that as awkward as I found a phone call, Brooke would probably find it even worse. Put her on the spot and demand a response that instant, or else sit in an uncomfortable, lengthening silence? No, that was a rude, emotionally laden demand on someone. A text was actually more polite. It would let her know, plainly and confusion free, where I was coming from, then she’d be free to process it and respond in her own time. Or, not at all, if that’s where she was at.

“Your generation is so rude,” Mom complained as I composed the text. “Darcy.”