“Are you really that big of an idiot?” I don’t give him time to answer. “Most of all, I hate you for making me doubt myself. Because deep down, I know that if you really wanted to go with me, you would have talked to Melissa. You would have figured it out. And whether that’s because you don’t want the whole school to know you like guys or because you don’t want the whole school to know that you”—I motion down the length of my body and with the flick of my hand, I picture every stretch mark and roll—“like this guy . . .”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“I’m a fat, femme gay guy with drag-queen aspirations,” I say plainly, almost defeated. “The person who decides they want to be by my side has to do it with their head held high. I’m done being with people who are embarrassed by me or ashamed of me. I’m too good to keep secret.” I say the words, but I don’t know if I mean them. I don’t know how I ever possibly could. But I have to, and maybe if I say it enough, I’ll believe it too.

“I’m sorry.” He holds his hands around his head, like he’s in excruciating pain.

I want him to tell me I’m wrong and that he’d be proud to be with me, but he doesn’t. Tears begin to spill down my cheeks as his silence grows. I step past him. “Excuse me.”

He grasps my hand, but my fingers slip through his as I walk back inside.

I follow a hallway to the auditorium exit where Hannah and Clementine are eagerly waiting for me as teachers do their best to disperse us all and send us back to class.

“Where is he?” Clem demands. “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill that shithead jock.”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to kill him. I already did.”

“I’m sorry.” Hannah frowns as she touches my forearm gently. “I was starting to think he was an all-right guy.”

“Yeah, well, an all-right guy doesn’t make out with you in front of your grammy’s house and then take someone else to prom.”

“You were brilliant, though,” Clementine says, throwing her arms around my neck. “I mean, Waylon, you stand a real shot at winning this thing.”

“You have to say that,” I drone. “You’re my sister.”

“Uh, no, sir. When’s the last time I said anything just because you were my brother?”

“I guess I shouldn’t bring up the time you legit didn’t tell me about your life plans because you didn’t want to hurt my feelings?”

“Low blow,” she says.

I shrug.