“Dude, don’t even,” said Wynezra. “You don’t even know.”

“I mean, she didn’t seem like she meant it in a mean way.”

“You don’t know her, Ezra. I do. Everything she says, everything she does… it’s like a snide little insult. She pretends to be polite, but deep down, she’s a condescending bitch who thinks she’s better than everyone else—especially me. Or you, for that matter.” Wynezra chuckled bitterly. “Get used to it, Wynonna Jones.”

“So… where are your parents? Why not live with them?”

Wynezra grew silent. Every muscle in her face seemed to atrophy.

Oh shit? Were they…

Were they what? Divorced? Walked out?

Dead?

“Let’s not talk about my parents,” said Wynezra, calmly—calmer than I’d heard her all morning.

I nodded silently. We drove like that for a while—not saying a thing to each other.

“What do you remember about Romeo and Juliet?” she said finally.

“What? Like, in general?”

“No, not ‘in general.’ You were in the play, right? The one from fourth grade?”

I responded with a confused look. That just pissed her off.

“Why am I even asking you?” said Wynezra. “I know you were in it. You were the star of the fucking show! You and Imogen both. Just nod your head and show me that you acknowledge this was a thing that happened.”

I nodded my head—slowly—like I was acknowledging my way into a trap.

“Okay,” said Wynezra. “Good. Now tell me what you remember about the night of the performance.”

It was a trap.

“Are you making fun of me?” I said.

“Can you just not be an insecure little bitch?” said Wynezra. “Just for one moment? Tell me, exactly, what do you remember?”

“I forgot all my lines!” I said, throwing my puffy blue arms in the air for emphasis. “I forgot everything, like a complete dipshit. There. Are you happy?”

Wynezra did not look happy. Her lips—my lips—were pursed skeptically.

“You remember forgetting your lines?” she said. “Like, you remember standing there, on the stage, not remembering them?”

That was a weirdly specific question. All things considered, however, it hardly ranked on the weird-o-meter.

“I mean, it was weird,” I said. “Like, I knew my lines, but I felt disconnected from myself.”

“Disconnected?” For once in her life, Wynonna seemed interested in what I had to say.

“Yeah! Like I was seeing myself forget my lines. Like an out-of-body experience. Like I was sitting in the…”

I stopped. Choked softly on my words.

Like I was sitting in the audience.

I turned. Looked at Wynezra. Now she looked happy. Or, at least, like I had validated her entire existence. She had contorted my face into a maniacal grin—eyes vast, lips coiled, all teeth exposed—like some sort of villain.

“Oh my god,” I said. “What do you remember?”

“That was me!” said Wynezra. “You saw me forget all your lines.”