But he’s okay?

James strips—I forget how thin he is under the shoulder pads and the scarfs and the jewelry—and shrugs into the Clash shirt that Connor put aside for me at the store. London Calling. Pretend you’re a rebel, he’d said, and I didn’t bother to figure out what he meant.

James doesn’t speak until he’s lit another cigarette and opened the window again to blow the smoke out.

We wait while a symphony of sirens plays and then streams away into the night.

My father is fine. My father is always fine. Of course, he neglected to bring me the one photo I asked him for, but what else is new?

What was the photo?

Oh, he says, waving his free hand, naked without his rings. Something for the new show. But that isn’t really the point. Honestly, I think he’d be way more interested in me if I were a hyena or mountain lion. If I were something carefree and feral.

After the rain stops and James warms up and leaves, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. At the tiny blue star I’ve glued in the corner.

And I wonder, is everyone a mass of insecurity? Even James?

Our career assessments come back, and Becky and I wait until we meet up with James after school to open the envelopes.

According to this, I should either become a stewardess or join the military, Becky says. What the heck is that about?

Did you say you love travel? I ask.

Well, there wasn’t a box for “get me the hell out of here.”

I stare at my report for a long time. Long enough that she grabs it out of my hands and starts laughing.

Human services? What the hell is that?

That, James says from behind the new edition of Backstage, means that Michael should consider a career in psychology. Or social work.

The pages rustle.

Or, he continues, just write a whole lot of songs that people conceive babies to.

I grab the tabloid from him.

Did you ever take one of these? I ask.

James runs a hand through his hair and stretches his head backward like a cat in the sun.

I want to change the world, he says, horrified. I want be true to myself. I have no wish to be in a box.

Don’t worry about that, Becky smirks. There probably isn’t even a box big enough to hold your jewelry collection.

It’s easy to coast during the day. Wake up. Go to school. Come home. Do homework. Go to sleep. Get up and do it again.

At night, when I can’t sleep, and the sirens don’t want to quit, or when my dad is yelling and my mom is trying to calm him down without pissing him off more, I lie here like a bystander, watching anxieties parade through my head.

First in line: Gabriel. Is this what Connor felt for Tony? This rush and hum that takes over my whole body when I even think of him? Is this why my brother did the loudest, the most public thing he could think of for a relationship he knew probably wasn’t going to last? Because he couldn’t hide the enormity of it anymore? Because it was so unfair that he’d even have to try?