There’s no rational explanation for why I tell her this, other than I’m desperate to talk to anyone about it. I haven’t spoken to Adam since the park on Sunday and it’s driving me nuts. For the past few days, I’ve felt him staring daggers into my back and he’s still upset but I can’t even tell why anymore. I don’t know if he’s upset from our argument or because we haven’t talked since or because he’s decided he doesn’t want to be friends anymore. Whatever it is, I don’t know how to fix it.

I know the solution to this is to get close enough to get a better read on his feelings, but I’m terrified of the answer. I was acting pretty weird and harsh on Sunday and it wouldn’t surprise me if he just decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.

“Dude, did you spend your whole weekend getting into fights?” Alice snaps me back to reality. A spoonful of cereal is lifted halfway to her disbelieving face.

“It wasn’t that kind of fight,” I explain. “I’m not even sure it was a fight.”

“You know,” she says dryly, “you’re getting a lot better at explaining yourself.”

“Shut up,” I groan, “I just—I was all worked up from the dance and I told him about it and he didn’t get why I was so angry at Henry and I sort of let slip that it hurt and I couldn’t help it and then he wanted to know more about that and I snapped at him and left.”

“Smooth,” Alice deadpans.

“Alice—” I stare at her pleadingly, not having the patience or the energy for her smart-ass antics this morning.

“Have you tried, I don’t know, talking to him?” she asks, like she knows everything.

“No,” I admit. “His feelings have been kind of jagged—like sharp toward me—and it hasn’t seemed safe to approach.”

“You should talk to him,” she says sensibly.

I take a sip of orange juice, avoiding eye contact with her. Alice’s feelings are starting to edge toward pity, and looking at her will just make it ten times worse. She doesn’t usually feel bad for me like this—that sticky, sunset-colored gum that clogs up my joints—so I must look pretty glum.

“Yeah,” I assure her. “Yeah, I will.”

But I can’t. School is a toxic whirlwind of emotion and I can’t block it out. There’s the prickly static of stress, face-melting embarrassment, dripping hot-cold sludge of shame/disappointment; twisty, twirly butterflies. My body is a mess. I want to burrow further into myself. I want to tear off my own skin.