My jaw dropped as the words scrolled across Wynonna’s phone.

“Got it,” said the robot inside Wynonna’s phone. “Do you want to send this?”

“FUCK NO,” said Wynezra. “Jesus, Siri. Delete that shit.”

Wynezra closed the screen on the phone, raised it high over the purse in my lap, and mic-dropped it like a rock star.

When Wynonna actually tried, the results were shocking. She pulled out all the stops at lunch.

“Hey, Imogen, I like your sweater,” said Wynezra. “Did you get that at Marshalls?”

“Uh, T.J.Maxx, actually,” said Imogen. Still, she seemed impressed. “Good guess, though.”

“T.J.Maxx! Dammit, I knew it. T.J.Maxx was my next guess. Anyway, the sweater looks great. It really makes your eyes pop.”

The sweater was solid cerulean blue on top and solid beige on the bottom, including the bottom halves of the sleeves. If her arms hung straight down, it was like someone drew a straight line across her arms and torso, separating the colors.

And yes, it made her eyes pop. Made them blossom, even.

“Thanks,” said Imogen. Her smile showed she was clearly flattered—if unsure how to process the compliment.

Holden glanced covertly at me, not about to be outdone in the compliment game by his formerly socially inept best friend. I was wearing an army-green parka over a black top that ended just below my belly button—featuring the face of this three-eyed sphynx cat thingy—a pair of cutoff shorts, and burgundy-red combat boots.

“I like your…” he started to say. Then he did a double take at my shirt. “Is that a cat?”

I glanced down at my shirt and shrugged. “I have no idea what it is. But it’s badass, right?”

“Very badass,” said Wynezra, before Holden could formulate a response.

Holden just nodded stupidly.

Imogen ambushed me the moment I stepped outside of class. Almost predatorily. God, how did she do it? Did all of her classes end two minutes early?

“What do you think of Ezra?” said Imogen. “I want your honest, extremely biased opinion.”

My mouth temporarily lost motor function.

“You had sex, obviously,” she said, filling in the silence. “And that seems to have popped his social cherry—or opened the floodgates, sheesh! And I know you joked about me going to prom with him. But what do you really think?”

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit floating in holy water in the holy porcelain throne of God.

“What do you think?” I said, for lack of brain capacitating.