I went to shul yesterday, she says, for Yom Kippur. You know, you’re supposed to spend the day repenting for everything you’ve done wrong over the past year, but I did a lot of thinking and made a decision. A couple of them, actually.

With Becky, it’s hard to tell if that means she’s decided what she’s getting for lunch, decided what her next sewing project will be, or decided she’s moving across the country to grow kumquats. I know better than to react until I know what direction she’s heading.

I’m going to make it work with Andy. Somehow. Neither of us wants to be with anyone else, and I don’t want to be the girl that bails when things get hard.

I nod. Happy for her, I guess.

And, she says, I’m going to work my ass off at school this year. I’m finally going to be editor of the Spirit, and I want the articles in there to matter. I know people want to read about the sports teams and everything, but I feel like there’s an opportunity to make some sort of a difference. As much as you can make in a high school paper, anyhow.

I nod in agreement and not only because she looks so happy. There’s no reason the school paper can’t cover things that are going on outside of our walls.

Then she says, Maybe I’ll even convince you to write something.

Me? What would I write about?

The smile that makes its way across her face tells me she’s already thought this through and has been waiting for the right moment to hit me with it.

Can you maybe write something about the Gay Pride Parade? she asks. I think it’s about time more kids know that they have options.

Why me?

She reaches over and puts a hand flat on my chest. Because you care, Michael, she says. And look at what happened to James. I’m sick of it.

I wince and ramble, I don’t know, Becks. I was only there for a couple hours, and I’m still trying to make sense of everything. I’m not sure I’m ready to come out to the whole school.

You can write the article anonymously if you need to. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t feel safe doing.

I don’t know. Can I think about it?

She smiles and gives me a hug. Of course you can. Just let me know.

The next Friday, I wake in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke on the fire escape.

Once I realize the building isn’t on fire and I’m not dreaming, I rush to the window and climb out.

James, you’re back. I throw my arms around him and feel him wince, so I let go and look at him. He looks thinner if possible, and the black angled shirt he’s wearing—the one with all the snaps and buckles—hangs loose on him.

My eyes stray to the yellowed bruises on his face. I don’t know what to say to a friend who has been beaten, so I stay quiet.