“Don’t try to pry any details from Imogen about who it is,” she said. “Believe me, you’ll be opening a can of worms you don’t want to open.”

I nodded dismissively. “Yeah, sure. So we’re doing this Shakespeare thing, right?”

Wynezra sighed. “If I have to.”

At that moment, the bathroom door opened. In walked a girl whom I didn’t recognize. I gave a startled jump—then remembered that I was a girl. The girl who walked in, meanwhile, jumped at the sight of Ezra Slevin—especially the disgruntled I-hate-Shakespeare look on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving,” said Wynezra, and she walked out.

My first item of business as Wynonna Jones was to kiss some serious Allegra Durden ass.

“You’re what?” said Principal Durden. Her elbows were propped up on her desk, fingers interlocked, eyes peering over the knot of fingers.

“Sorry,” I repeated. “I’m sorry.”

Principal Durden continued to stare at me like this was some Invasion of the Body Snatchers scenario. Which it kind of was.

“What do you want?” she said.

“I want to do the Shakespeare thing,” I said. “I don’t want to be banned from prom.”

If Principal Durden’s eyes narrowed any further, they’d be sealed shut.

“Please?” I said.

“So… what?” said Principal Durden. She unraveled her knot of fingers and leaned back in her swivel chair. “Did some hunky boy come along and change your mind?”

No, I thought, but I might be taking your son to prom, so CAN IT, PRINCIPAL DURDEN!

I smiled politely. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

Principal Durden gave a perplexed sigh. Then she reached into her desk and pulled out the Twelfth Night pamphlet. Handed it to me.

“You’ll be there?” said Principal Durden. “On time? For the whole thing? Your teacher will tell me if you’re not. Don’t think that because this class is off campus, the rules are more lax. If anything, they’re stricter.”

“You can trust me, Principal Durden,” I said. I offered a winning smile as evidence. “I’m a new person today.”

She didn’t seem to believe that for a second—but she gave a stiff nod regardless. I stood up and started to walk out.

“Wynonna?” she said.

I turned around. “Yeah?”

She was looking directly at my blue toenails, visible through my fishnet leggings.

“Part of our shoe policy is… you have to wear them.”

I sighed.

The key to walking in heels was to walk slowly. Also, to pray silently to Every Deity Known to Mankind. (Or Womankind, as the case may have been.) I even made room in my prayers for the Flying Spaghetti Monster. As an “atheist schmuck,” I was taking a leap of faith in the form of the shotgun effect.

Turned out, heels were the least of my problems.