Wynezra’s arms became rigid at her sides. Taut ropes of fury. Looking at her—at the hatred seething out of her teeth and nostrils—I realized this wasn’t even about the body-swapping.

It was about the notebook.

It was about her secret.

I bit my lip. “Look… I’m sorry about snooping—”

Wynezra gave a sharp bark of laughter. It sounded so totally like her, it was weird seeing and hearing it come out of my mouth. “Please. Why don’t you just get it over with?”

“What? Get what over with?”

“We both know where this is going. You’re either going to blackmail me or you’re going to go straight for the jugular and ruin my life. Well, I’ll help you make your decision.” She leaned forward, hands braced against the stall walls, until her face—my face—was only inches away. “I don’t bend to blackmail.”

She straightened herself, turned, and exited the stall.

“Wait,” I said.

Wynezra whipped around. “No! No waiting, Ezra! If you’re gonna do something with this big fucking secret, then do it already. I’m not gonna sit on my hands, hoping it goes away. I’m not gonna get strung along by your twisted little scheme. Go ahead. Tell Holden. Go have a big fucking laugh over it. It’s not like I was planning on going to prom with that asshole anyway. I’m banned, remember? I don’t give a shit.”

“I can help you,” I said.

The words just sort of came out of their own accord. They had a collective mind, separate from my own.

“What the…” Wynezra reared back. “Did you listen to a word I said? I’m not getting strung along by whatever it is—”

“I’m not stringing you along,” I said. “As far as I see it, I don’t have any leverage over you. I don’t want any leverage over you. What I want is your help. I think we can help each other.”

Oh my god, why was I still talking?

My mouth had gone rogue. Mutiny was afoot.

Wynezra was silent for a long moment. The hard edges of her face did not soften. But the guard in her eyes did lower ever so slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“I like Imogen,” I said. I took a deep breath to quell the swift-approaching anxiety attack, closing in like the shark from Jaws with ominous theme music and everything. “I want to go to prom with Imogen. You and I both know I can’t pull that off on my own. I can barely talk to her—let alone ask her out. And then there’s the issue of her actually saying yes. But you know her. You know how to talk to her.”

“This sounds like blackmail,” said Wynezra. “What’s in it for me?”

“I know how to talk to Holden.”