Whatever he’s giving thought to, I doubt it has much to do with school.

I have study hall third period, but nothing to study for. Instead, I smuggle my UK single of U2’s “New Year’s Day,” which was totally worth getting since it came with an extra 45 of three live tracks, into one of the language labs that line the back wall of the library. Then I shut the door, and hope the librarians won’t do a spot check.

I put the disc on the turntable, grab the worn headphones, and mouth the words to the songs, hoping that anyone passing will think I’m conjugating French verbs. Which I’m not.

Then I read the wall. The story goes that some kids started writing on the walls of the lab back in the seventies. Things like: Even though I’m in ROTC, I don’t support this war, and I’m not sure how to feel about my brother getting out of serving in Vietnam by wearing woman’s underwear to his draft meeting.

Now, there’s paper covering the marked-up wood, and everyone refers to this as the “fear room.” Now, it says things like, I missed a period and I’m afraid I’m pregnant and They’re calling this thing the gay plague, and I wonder if having sex is going to kill me.

As Bono sings about blood-red skies, I grab a pen, and under the last comment, I write, Me too.

I don’t sit around thinking about the fact that I’m attracted to boys, because then I start thinking about all the things I want and don’t know how to get.

And I don’t talk about the fact that I’m attracted to boys because I don’t see the point, given that I obviously don’t have a boyfriend or anything, and the only reason I have somewhere to live is because, having heard nothing to the contrary, my parents assume I’m straight.

Besides, Connor has done enough talking for both of us.

I try to have dinner with Connor on Wednesday nights, but it doesn’t always happen. He’s cancelled so often that I’m surprised when he actually shows up.

This week, he’s actually at the diner before me, wearing a black tux jacket over a gray T-shirt that’s probably supposed to be white. The block letters on the shirt say SAVE THE FUTURE.

Connor works at a thrift store in the West Village. He sorts the clothes when they come in and keeps a lot of the best stuff for himself.

He sticks his foot out—he’s wearing black-and-white saddle shoes—and says, Maurice.

I stare at him. Then I ask, You’ve named your shoes?

He hits me on the arm with the menu, and says, No, idiot. The designer. Maurice.

I stare at him some more until he shakes his head. You’re hopeless, he says. Do you know how much these would go for at Charivari? I got them for a steal. I can’t believe anyone would throw them out.

When I keep staring at him, wondering how anyone could get so amped about footwear, he says, You know nothing about the world outside of Mom and Dad’s. The thing is, you won’t learn anything about life until you move out on your own. I have a futon waiting for you. I’ll even get it cleaned. And you can have your friends over. Or, you know, whatever.