“What if we have this backwards? What if Diana Holly is telling the truth? Not about the assault, of course, but what if Billy really did harass her? There’s a lot we don’t know, Nate. Maybe that’s why he’s so fucked up. Maybe he feels guilty—”

“Don’t be a traitor, Cassie. I’m telling you right now.”

“Shouldn’t we consider the possibility?”

“Let’s say it’s true. Let’s say Billy texted Diana fifty times a day and stalked her all over campus. Doesn’t make him a rapist. Doesn’t mean he deserves to rot in prison. Why Dad doesn’t realize this makes no fucking sense.”

“Maybe he thinks seven years is better than twenty.”

“If you support Dad, and betray Billy, I will never forgive you.”

“Never,” I swear to Nate. “Never. Never. Never. I’d never betray any of you.”

* * *

A girl has more confidence at sixteen than she’ll ever have in her life. She also has more self-loathing. It’s why we’re so moody, why our reactions are outsized. Cyclonic drama is how we achieve balance. The world is chaotic and irrational. At sixteen, we lack a way to control it. So we lean into the chaos. We become the chaos. We express what we feel in real time because we believe, mistakenly, that unburdening ourselves will stop the tumult, or at least help us make sense of it.

Marcus’s kiss unravels me. At almost-sixteen, I feel powerful, unstoppable. I have thoughts and desires. Cravings I can’t yet put into words. My needs, my urges, are all-consuming. Little by little, my life gets reduced. I spend entire days fantasizing about him. No parents or brothers, no classes or activities. Avery is frustrated with me. I won’t text her back. I don’t invite her over. We barely see each other. “What is going on?” she demands to know. But how do I explain I’m not the same girl I was six months ago? Everything is different. “Nothing’s going on, Chickadee,” I tell her, using our pet name for each other. “You’re overreacting.”

I move through my life, my school, my house with purpose. Every action I take, every move I make, is deliberate and calculated. I choose outfits to provoke—short shorts and tank tops, blouses with three buttons undone, uniform skirt hiked up to mid-thigh. Makeup, blowouts, manicures, pedicures, bikini waxes, stiletto heels, dangly earrings, lacy bras, sexy thongs: once these were part of my costume, playing at being a grown-up. Now they’re artillery.