“Dammit,” I muttered. I jumped out of the car and chased after her.

When I caught up to her, she had already pressed the up button on the elevator, causing it to light up. The door opened almost immediately.

She stepped inside and pressed the button for the third floor. I reluctantly followed. Slowly, the elevator door closed—like a solemn metaphor of any chance I ever had of asking Imogen to prom.

“Let’s talk this over,” I said.

“If you want to go to school as me, go without me,” she said. “Go ahead. Ruin my reputation. But there is no way I’m going to school pretending to be you, and there is NO WAY I’m doing Shakespeare.”

“You do realize that this is a half-assed production, right?” I said. “Principal Durden is filling it with detention kids! So if you’re worried about not being any good, I can assure you that no one is going to be any—”

“You do realize that I don’t give a fuck, right?”

The elevator door opened into the long, wool-carpeted hallway, lit by crystal sconces. Wynezra stormed out.

I followed.

“You’re not even you,” I said. “What’s your grandma gonna think when she sees some random boy in her house?”

“Her name’s Carol,” said Wynezra. “Stop calling her my grandma. That makes her sound like a decent human being.”

“What’s Carol going to think?”

“She works at the university until shit-thirty in the fucking evening. So I don’t have to worry about her for a while.”

“Is she a teacher?”

“She’s the head of the department of anthropology.”

“What’s anthropology?”

“It’s, like, fancy social studies.”

Wynezra marched directly into her room and threw herself on her bed. She lay there for only a brief moment—then tweaked her head up, glancing from side to side. She reached her arms out, spread-eagle, measuring the width of her mattress.

“Well, this sucks,” she said. “I feel like my queen just turned into a full.”

“Carol’s going to come home eventually,” I said. “What if we haven’t changed by then?”

Wynezra sighed. “Then I suppose it’d be helpful if you were here, so you could tell her I’m your new boyfriend.”

“What?” I shrieked. I actually shrieked—activating feminine vocal frequencies Wynonna had never dared to utilize.

“Or my gay friend. Although I’m probably not very convincing. I’m wearing day-old clothes, and I haven’t showered. Your body smells like fermented heterosexual frustration. Hmm. On that note…”

Wynezra bounced off the bed and waltzed out of the room.

“Where are you going?” I said.

“Shower,” said Wynezra.

“What? But…”

“Oh, c’mon. I’ve already seen your package in full throttle. I need to shower. I smell like actual balls.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Would you rather we hop in the shower together, blindfolded, and scrub each other’s bodies? Is that more appropriate?”