Imogen actually insisted that I let her set everything up. I think she felt bad about being resistant to the double date idea. She called Wynezra directly, asked “him” on the date, and then told “him” to pass the word on to Holden. She informed them that we would be picking them up at seven p.m. sharp.

Dress was semiformal.

You see, Imogen only agreed to all this under one stipulation: that we do makeovers and she dress me up like a Barbie doll.

Imogen didn’t strike me as the makeover type. How bad could it be? If she wore makeup, it was so low-key that you didn’t know she was wearing makeup. And her wardrobe was very un-Vogue, to say the least.

When I first mentioned the stipulation to Wynezra—between sixth and seventh period—she laughed.

“She’s only the makeover type for special occasions,” said Wynezra. “And when a special occasion does arise, it’s like all that pent-up feminine instinct explodes out over her. You’re gonna look like a Disney princess.”

Everything was perfect. We had a double date. Holden and Imogen were excited about said date. Imogen was even talking about prom! All of this was, like, pinnacle-of-my-life great. Things had never been better.

So why couldn’t I stop thinking about Wynonna?

She was obviously damaged. And I didn’t mean that as an insult. I meant it in a way that I could totally relate to. The longer I was in her body, the more I felt like there was a blur between Who She Is and Who I Am, and her sadness felt like my sadness, and I just… I wanted to help her. I barely even knew her—and half the time, I couldn’t even stand her—but I wanted to help her. Whatever that meant.

Maybe that’s why I felt emboldened. Maybe it was because my last attempt at “meddling with Wynonna’s life” had been met with reward.

I stayed up until 3:14 a.m. googling “Roscoe Jones.”

This wasn’t about curiosity. It was about gathering intel. It was about taking action.

It was about making right an irrevocable wrong.

Of course, I stopped a few minutes before 3:14 a.m. Closed my browser windows. Deleted my search history. Stripped down to my boxers, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin to maintain some semblance of “trying to sleep.”

I swear to god, I just wanted to help.

ELEVEN

ON ANY OTHER SATURDAY morning—stranded in Wynonna’s house, in Wynonna’s bedroom, in Wynonna’s body, with nowhere to go—I might have had no idea what to do with myself. I wasn’t scheduled to play Barbie with Imogen until one thirty. Meanwhile, at Slevin Manor, Wynezra was going to attempt the impossible and “sleep in.”

(Good luck with that.)