“Non, tu es méchant,” she says.

“Wow, original,” I whisper.

“Et … tu es un balourd.”

I don’t know what that means but it sounds meaner than méchant so I look at her with wide eyes. How dare she call me a balourd!

“Well, tu es un batard,”

“Tu es un imbécile.”

I’ve run all out of French insults that I know, but I don’t want to let Flávia have the last word.

“Tu es une commère.”

Flávia frowns. “Je ne suis pas.”

“Oui. Tu … as dit … aux gens que … je suis une lesbienne,” I say, before dropping my voice to a whisper and adding, “You’re the only person in this whole school who could have even suspected my sexuality. Don’t pretend.”

She blinks at me in silence for a moment. I have to say, she’s a phenomenal actress, if nothing else.

“You think I sent the text?” Her voice is soft and low, like she’s genuinely surprised that I think this.

“You, or Chyna. She’s always happy to spread gossip about me. Or anyone.”

Flávia shakes her head. “It wasn’t me, I swear. I would never do that. And … I didn’t tell Chyna anything. Not about us …” she trails off, holding my gaze for a long moment. That word “us” hangs between us heavily. As if there was an us, is an us, could be an us.

She looks away, back at her desk. She stares at the wooden desktop where girls from the last few years have scratched in their graffiti: Their names, random doodles, math equations obviously meant to help them cheat.

“I’m sorry.” At least she has the decency to look slightly ashamed. Her head is bowed down low. I thought I would feel proud for finally confronting her, for making her feel some shame, but I don’t. Instead, discomfort settles into my stomach. Making her feel shame doesn’t undo what’s happened. It doesn’t change the shame I’ve been feeling for the past month … for my whole life, really. It doesn’t change anything at all.

“Look … you have no reason to believe me, but I could never do that to someone else. Maybe it was Chyna, but she didn’t find out from me, I promise. I’m sorry if it was her, though. And I’m sorry … I’m sorry for yesterday.”

I don’t want to believe her. I shouldn’t believe her. After everything else, I have no reason to believe her. But her words, the “someone else” echo in my head. I could never do that to someone else.

She’s looking at me, eyes wide with expectation and a vulnerability in her expression that I’ve never seen in her before.

Against my better judgment, I nod my head, and my lips form the words, “I believe you.”

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