I laugh. “Okay, sure. But they liked each other. Which Andrew and I do not.”

“Good point!” she says. “But friends with benefits is a thing, isn’t it? People definitely do that. And it’s not like there’s any risk of you guys liking each other, because you like James Dean and Andrew likes the entire junior class.”

“I can’t believe we’re even discussing this,” I say.

“It can’t be that outlandish that you guys would sleep together. Your parents thought you had, remember? If parents aren’t even shocked by something, then you know it’s pretty tame.”

“Even if I did think this was a good idea, which I don’t, because it makes no sense, there’s no way I could possibly ask him. What would I say? It would completely freak him out.” She’s making me nervous; the idea is making me nervous.

“He’s a guy. Straight guys don’t turn down opportunities to sleep with hot girls.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter me up with compliments,” I say, and she smiles.

“I only speak the truth.”

“You’re a horrible person.”

The bell rings to signal the end of lunch.

“I know, but I’m your horrible person, remember?” She pats my knee. “Good, I’m glad that’s settled.”

“Wait, nothing is settled.” My heart is in my throat.

She stands and picks up her backpack. “Aren’t you glad you have me here to solve all your problems?”

Later that night, I can’t sleep. Every time I feel like I’m starting to drift off, Hannah’s words slam into me, jerking me back to miserable consciousness. When I close my eyes, images of Andrew float in front of me—memories of the times I’ve seen him with girls, seen him pressing them into the walls at parties, lips fused together, hands tangled in hair. I try to imagine him kissing me instead, just testing out the idea, and my eyes shoot open, an embarrassed feeling washing over me like somehow, in his own bed a few blocks away, he can tell what I’m thinking. I hate that Hannah has planted the seed there, but her words are like a wriggling worm in my brain.

The suggestion seems so typical Hannah—like all those comments she’s made about Andrew and me since middle school.

But he’s cute! she said, in eighth grade, the first time I’d gone over to her house.

I pretended to barf. He’s cute in the way you’re cute. It was hard to explain. Like, I know you’re pretty, but I’m not into girls.

But you are into boys.

But I’m not into Andrews, I said, rolling my eyes. If you think he’s so cute, why don’t you date him?

Because he’s yours, she said, like it was obvious.