“You wouldn’t have told me,” she says, her tone emotionless. I realize she’s right. I wouldn’t have wanted to get involved. Maybe I would have told Hannah instead, hoping that Hannah would do the right thing.

“Would you have believed me?” I ask.

“Probably not,” she answers. “You’ve never liked me much.”

“That’s not true,” I say, feeling defensive.

She looks at me pointedly. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve never liked you much either.”

Her words should hurt, but somehow instead of feeling insulted, I’m relieved. It’s nice to get it out in the open, to be able to stop pretending. “It’s nothing against you,” she says. “You just don’t like any of the same things that I like. I can feel you rolling your eyes at me every time I talk. You think just because I like doing my hair and makeup, and looking nice, and flirting with boys that I’m dumb.” She doesn’t sound angry or aggressive—just very matter-of-fact.

“I don’t think you’re dumb,” I say. “I think you’re . . . intimidating.” I pause before the word, nervous that she’ll laugh or throw it back in my face.

“It’s just so high school,” Danielle says. “Isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Pretending to like the people we hang out with. Hanging out with people we don’t like because we’re supposed to.”

“Well, there aren’t very many people at school to choose from.”

“But I like Sophie way more than I like you,” she says. “No offense. But for some reason I hang out with you way more. Because there are four of us. That’s just the way it is. I don’t even know how it started. Hannah, I guess. And Andrew. They liked you, so I had to like you. But all you did was act like you were so much cooler than me, because you could skateboard and liked old movies and were friends with the guys. And then, oh wow, this hot college guy liked you, and that just made you even cooler. What makes you so special?”

“But,” I protest, finding her hard to believe. “But you’re Danielle fucking Oliver. You’re cooler than everyone!”

She laughs, hiccupping a little bit. Even like this, even while crying and feeling sorry for herself, she still looks amazing. “I know,” she says, licking her thumb and wiping the mascara away from under her eyes. “You know,” she says, studying the smudges on her fingers, “I think this is the first real conversation we’ve ever had.”

“Some friends,” I say, laughing.

“I thought it could have been you,” she says, “writing the notes.”

“What?” I ask, my voice rising. “I wouldn’t have.”

“Yeah. But then I realized you’re a terrible liar. You couldn’t have gotten away with it.”

I laugh and flick some water at her.