Or maybe Kane was making it up. Maybe, like him, Ursula had no idea they were friends. Maybe, like him, her memory was messed up.

Beneath his doubt, Kane knew this wasn’t true. Ursula had been on that path for a reason, and that reason was Kane. So why not just tell him?

Back outside the school, his dad pulled him into a tight hug while Kane’s body continued to thrum with suppressed rage.

“Kane, you’re shaking.”

“Nerves.”

“You’re going to do great, okay? And if you want to come home, just text us.”

“Okay.”

This was the moment for a heartfelt goodbye, but Kane had just noticed a familiar head of orange hair among the crowd of kids at the bike rack. He gave his dad a bright smile, said he’d be home later, and ran off.

Fifty feet. Twenty feet. Kane pierced through the milling students in the parking lot, rehearsing under his breath as he closed in on Ursula. Ten feet. She was barely done locking up her bike when he stopped short, the rack between them.

The instant she saw him, Kane knew he was right. Her face opened in shock, then closed in careful neutrality.

“Hey, welcome back.”

The words Kane had prepared vanished in this throat. All he could think to say was: “I have some questions.”

Ursula shouldered her bag and walked away from Kane, who was failing at the confrontation he had imagined dozens of times. Luckily, she turned back.

“You know the old court?”

The old courtyard. Not really a courtyard. Just a slab of concrete penned in by three windowless walls that opened to the wooded area behind the school. An optimal meeting spot for cutting class, smoking, and hooking up. Or so Kane assumed. He’d never done any of that. But he knew what it was.

“Meet me there after homeroom,” she said before he could even nod, and then she walked away.

Homeroom was clearly expecting Kane. He burst in, mind buzzing, and only realized there was nervous applause when it ended and a big silence settled.

Everyone watched him, waiting for him to say something.

“Thank you for the card,” he mumbled.

Viv Adams raised her hand. Ms. Cohen, who had frozen while writing WELCOME BACK KANE!!!! on the whiteboard, seemed hesitant to call on her but did anyways.

“I like your haircut,” said Viv.

“Thanks.”

“Looks like it hurts.”

Someone snickered. The room went electric with cruel energy as the other students bit back laughter. Viv was always calling herself brutally honest, but she was more concerned with being brutal than with being honest. Kane was in no mood.

“No, Vivian, getting a haircut doesn’t usually hurt unless, like yourself, your head is neck-deep up your own ass.”

“Mr. Montgomery!”

And with that, Kane’s triumphant return to high school ended in its own fiery crash.