The cops stay outside the door, talking. I can’t make out the words, just their lulling cadence, but no doubt they’re calling the dean of students.

We sit in silence except for an occasional sniff and murmur from Abby, still trying to get Fitz to talk to her.

I’m numb and exhausted. And cold in the air-conditioned office, even with my galaxy pajama pants and bright-pink, baggy T-shirt. Despite the cold, I start nodding off, nearly falling asleep when Abby’s voice escalates and yanks me awake.

“You have to forgive me,” she sobs. I’ve never seen her like this. Her mascara runs down her face, and her hair is a jumbled blonde mess.

She’s one of those people who are always put together—like she’s going to a club, not an eight a.m. class. She spends an hour each morning blow-drying her blonde hair into sleek perfection—then another hour giving herself cat eyes and pouty lips. She never leaves the room any other way. It’s surprising to see her a wreck.

“I don’t have to do anything.” Fitz’s jaw is clenched, his arms crossed over his chest. He leans as far away from Abby as he can get in the cramped space.

I have so many questions. Fitz said they were over. I didn’t imagine it. But Abby never let on anything about them breaking up. If anything, her boasting about Fitz being in her pocket has increased over the last month. Why did they break up? And if they did, why did he show up here tonight and defend her when Kevin spewed his vitriol?

“What are you staring at?” Fitz is glaring at me now, the acerbic and unexpected attention making my cheeks heat and my heart race. “Why are you here anyway? What were you doing in there? Watching the show?”

My mouth pops open but no sound emerges. His eyes flash with anger and it’s directed at me and I don’t know how to respond. People don’t talk to me unless it’s a quick “excuse me” or “sorry” when we collide, because I’m tiny and forgettable. There’s nothing special about my plain brown hair and plain blue eyes and plain features.

I’m not used to confrontation, not since my first week at Blue Falls High four years ago, before I learned how to be invisible.

For sure, no one has ever antagonized me about daring to try and sleep in my own room during a brawl I neither asked for nor instigated.

I mean, imagine my audacity, trying to sleep in my own bed on a Monday night.

All of these thoughts fly through my head at Mach three, followed by an imagined scenario where I’m telling him he’s a Neanderthal prick with a girlfriend who has more insecurities than China has people.

But I’m frozen. An iceberg. The Titanic could hit me and still, I’d remain. My mouth pops open but no sound emerges.

Surprisingly, Abby comes to my rescue. “She’s my roommate.”

They’re all staring at me now. And still, I can’t speak. Just a block of ice.