yes, I tell her, typing out every letter slowly. She’s calling it home again, I notice. I’m going home.

It takes her an hour to respond, but finally she sends, ok.

29

This story, our story, goes everywhere, and in between catching up on my homework and rehearsal and talking through my new future with Carly, I think about Angles. Carly got a note from the Angles program director—I am still heartily welcomed to join them for the summer in Milan. But, of course, that’s not the issue. The money is. Once again. Most of the time I’m okay. Most of the time I’m happy to brainstorm with Carly about what’s next. But I still haven’t taken that photo of Madame Rabei off my bulletin board. It still hurts to have wanted something for so long, to have been so close but never close enough, despite everything we went through. How hard we tried.

I learn how to not totally freak out on the phone with all the nice people from the sites who have seen our video on the internet, who want to talk to us. The New York Times asks what it feels like to have been thrust into such an intense but incredibly relevant debate; the reporter at Slate asks what’s next for us. What’s next, most immediately, are school-wide assemblies to address the issue, in-class discussions, and an official movement to revise the dress code. The Daily Mail asks if we thought it was a witch hunt and if we could maybe send them lots of pictures of us in our burlesque costumes.

We say no, and their headline isn’t very flattering.

We get a lot of emails, and some of them are terrible, and some of them are the familiar kinds of photos we could wallpaper a whole building with, but most of them we can read together on Thursday Twizzler night and high-five one another.

“Do you think I’ve peaked?” I ask my friends.

Katherine hits me on the head with a pillow.

Finally, Friday night.

We can’t go out and celebrate not getting expelled, so we’re taking over the common room, fourth floor, site of historical shenanigans and now a girls’ dorm dance party. I’ll start decorating as soon as I finish this text, but Jack is making it difficult.

He puts his arms around me and kisses the side of my neck and I smile, leaning into it, but I keep typing on my phone.

“I mean, not to nag—”

“Nagging a little bit,” I say, my thumbs flying.

“Nagging a lot. Nagging obnoxiously. Nagging you with kisses.” Behind my ear, the line of my jaw, tickling a little bit, so I shrug, laughing.