“Maybe? Like I said, I went to a psychiatrist for this shit. My grasp of what did or didn’t happen is kind of Jell-O salad.”

“Okay…” I offered a hollow, lobotomized nod. “Well, whatever the case, whatever this is”—I made an ambiguous gesture between the two of us—“I don’t think it’s permanent.”

Wynezra nodded in a way that was listening, and hopeful, and probably not believing a single word I said. Who could blame her? I hardly believed a word I said. This was some next-level Twilight Zone shit we were in. But if we were going to survive this ordeal, we needed to keep our cool.

“With that said,” I continued, “I think the most important thing right now is staying on the same page with each other. We each have our own lives, and there’s a balance that needs to be maintained. The last thing we need is to screw things up for each other.”

“Okay…”

I took a deep breath. This was when things were going to get tricky.

“We need to go to school,” I said.

“School?”

“More importantly, we need to go to that theater class.”

Wynezra snorted. “Nope.”

“We need to be in that play!”

“Wrong again.”

“I need to go to prom!” I said. “I can’t get banned from prom. I just can’t.”

“Why?” said Wynezra. “Give me one good reason why you just absolutely need to go to prom.”

I bit my lip.

“So you can ask Imogen to prom?” Wynezra prodded. “So you can ask out a girl who has no idea that you’re obsessed with her BECAUSE YOU NEVER TALK TO HER?”

“What?” I said. I immediately felt my body flush. My sweat glands were going the way of Chernobyl. “I am not obsessed—”

Wynezra snorted.

“Okay, okay. Maybe… it’s possible… that I have a small crush—”

Wynezra snorted.

“Okay, a moderately sized, normal crush—”

Wynezra snorted.

“Fine! I have a big, fat crush on Imogen. I have since fourth grade. I’m obsessed with her, and I can’t stop thinking about her. Are you happy?”

“Why would that make me happy?” said Wynezra. “That’s just creepy.”

“Oh, c’mon. Like you’ve never had a crush on anyone.”

The sky went dark. I hadn’t been paying attention to our surroundings—where we were even heading—until now. It was all concrete ramps, pillars, and rows of expensive cars. We had pulled into a parking garage.

“Where are you going?” I said.

“Home,” said Wynezra.

She pulled into a convenient open spot by the silver doors of an elevator. Exited the car. Strolled leisurely off, leaving me behind.

“Wait!” I said. “Can we even park my car here?”

“Not my problem.”

I became an immobilized fixture in the passenger seat, paralyzed with indecision, glancing between my illegally parked car and my body—possessed by the spirit of a teenage anarchist—storming off.