“Because you’re also bi?”

“I’m still working out the whole label side of things,” she says, kind of wincing in a really adorable way, before taking a sip from her mug. “I say bi or pan sometimes, but I don’t know if it feels right. I’ve never dated a girl, but I’ve had serious crushes and almost girlfriends. And then last summer I did hook up a little with Nikki’s cousin who’s nonbinary. I guess I just like who I like.”

“That’s okay,” I say, in case she feels weird, because she shouldn’t. And also because I really don’t want to hear any more about who she’s hooked up with.

“It doesn’t always feel okay, though,” she says. “Like you and my mom are bi, and Vera calls herself gay, and Jayla’s a lesbian, and Nikki is straight, and I’m just—”

“Jubilee,” I say.

“Yeah.” She takes another sip. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It is.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“I told you, you can ask anything.”

“You’re seventeen, right? That’s what you said in your texts.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, not sure where she’s going with this.

“How come you don’t go to school?” And ah, okay, that’s a fair question, but not one I really want to answer.

“I do. I go to an online one, but I’m way behind.”

“Why don’t you go to an actual school, I mean. How’d you get out of that? Teach me your ways, O wise one.” She smiles. “Do you know how much more cello time I’d have if I didn’t have to sit in school all day?”

“Nah, trust me, if you’re doing good where you are, you don’t want to follow my lead on this. But it is an actual school, like, it’s still hard and a lot of work, but I get what you mean. I’ve been to pretty much every kind of school out there, but none of them worked out.”

“How come?”

And here we go. I did not envision having this talk in the middle of a coffee shop with her military BFF watching from the back room, but. “Because it turns out that formal education and being crazy don’t mix.”

“You’re not crazy.”

“I told you last night—”

“That doesn’t mean you’re crazy. Stop it.”

“I can literally give you the numbers of multiple doctors who will tell you otherwise.”

“Stop saying crazy,” she says, and she looks legitimately annoyed. We sit in silence for a minute, and I wait for her next question. I’ve learned already there will always be a next question with her. And I don’t even mind.

“Do you have a diagnosis, then, or whatever? How does that work?”

I snort. “I don’t have a diagnosis, Peak. I have a laundry list.”