Wynezra was fidgeting uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. This was clearly the last thing in the world that she wanted to talk about. It unearthed layers of herself that she would rather stay buried. But she pushed through it like a civic duty.

“Anyway, promise to do that,” she said, “and I’ll promise to help you fix your relationship with Willow—in addition to us getting each other our prom dates with Holden and Imogen. Is it a deal?”

“What makes you think my relationship with Willow needs to be fixed?” I said. This was sarcasm, of course, because Willow hated me as much as the Republican Party hated the environment.

Wynezra narrowed her eyes at me.

“Okay, deal,” I said.

“Great,” she said. “Because Holden started texting me last night.”

My eyes inflated inside their sockets. “Seriously?”

Wynezra smiled in such a way that exposed all of her—my—teeth. In retrospect, it was less a smile, and more a facial spasm. It teetered between ecstatic and terrified, but was mostly on the verge of another nervous breakdown.

“Holy shit,” I said. “How’d it go?”

“Awful. I have the flirting skills of a lonely crazy person stranded on a desert island. I went back over everything I texted him and immediately wanted to cheese-grate my brain.”

“Oh.”

“But he likes me!” she exclaimed. “I’m almost positive he likes me. And I think that has everything to do with you. Like, slapping his ass? Oh my god, what were you thinking?”

I definitely wasn’t “thinking” during that part. And I almost admitted this; however, I quickly became distracted by an erroneous detail.

“Wait,” I said. “You texted him?”

The implication was simple: She was dyslexic. How was she able to text him, let alone read his texts?

Wynezra met my confusion with judge-y eyes. With one hand on the steering wheel, she reached into my purse. (Yes, I was using Wynonna’s one and only purse—a turquoise, acid-washed punk bag with metal studs—because the pockets of girl pants were basically impossible to use unless you were looking to store a very large coin, like a doubloon.) She pulled out her phone, unlocked it, and raised it to her mouth.

“Okay, Siri,” she said. There was a soft chime. “Show me my messages.”

“You’ve got several text messages,” said the female robot living inside Wynonna’s phone. “Here are the five most recent. The first one is from Holden ‘Hottie Bugatti’ Durden. Do you want to hear it or skip it?”

“Hear it,” said Wynezra.

“It says, ‘Hahahahahahahahahahaha.’” The robot inside Wynonna’s phone made sure to enunciate every “ha” like the rivets in a rumble strip on the side of the interstate. “‘Ur funny wynonna.’ Do you want to reply, repeat it, or go on to the next one?”

“Reply,” said Wynezra.

“What’s the message?”

“I want to bone you with Ezra’s dick.”