Wynonna and I exchanged locker combinations. There, taped to her locker door, I discovered her printed-out schedule. Wynonna put it there the very first day of school, and it hadn’t budged since, thank [insert Every Deity Known to Man and Womankind + Flying Spaghetti Monster].

That’s where my real problems began. Because reading Wynonna’s schedule was like cracking the Zodiac ciphers. Basically, it was the cell phone fiasco all over again.

Ditiagl Atrs & Pohotgarhpy

7:55–8:45 (Preiod 1)

Cialtin Kreiragn—Mdeia Lab

Aemrcian Sgin Lnagague

8:50–9:40 (Peirod 2)

Amnada Tomeoy—306

Boilogy

9:45–10:35 (Peroid 3)

Daune Anzazolne—207

Egnilsh

10:40–11:30 (Poired 4)

Cadncae Homles—215

Lucnh

11:35–12:20 (Preiod Lunch)

Gbolal Sduteis

12:25–1:15 (Peirod 5)

Annie Gruenwald—203

Preclauclus

1:20–2:10 (Pireod 6)

Jhon Mihceal—307

Seepch

2:15–3:05 (Peoird 7)

Aimn Lniedr—218

What.

The fuck.

Again, I was being real generous here, because some of these letters were backward, some were upside down, some were not even real letters. Either that, or we were borrowing from the Russian alphabet, with similar letters sprouting bizarre new appendages.

This was more than just drugs. Instead of speaking in tongues, she saw in tongues. The very words in front of her eyes were translated into the Adamic language or Alienese or whatever.

Fortunately, it was harder for Wynonna’s gift of tongues to screw up room numbers. Although this was probably less to do with the numbers themselves, and more to do with the fact that they weren’t strung together in long, hard-to-deal-with clumps.

First-period Media Lab was easy enough to figure out—Digital Arts & Photography. Fortunately, I didn’t really have to do anything. It was mostly just sitting in front of a computer, listening to Ms. Kerrigan talk about Photoshop and the fine line between artful enhancement and shameless desecration. From there, it was smooth sailing from class to class. All lectures, all day long. Given the circumstances, I was totally okay with this.

When the end-of-school bell rang, I wandered out of seventh-period Speech in a daze. Shuffled to Wynonna’s locker and packed Wynonna’s backpack. Before I could pull it on—or even shut the locker door—I was assaulted from behind by a gangly bundle of limbs.

“You’re doing Shakespeare!” Imogen squealed, approximately two inches from my left ear.

She hugged me from behind, pinning my limbs to my side. The physical touch alone would have been enough to paralyze me. But then there were her breasts, pressed precariously against the pressure points of my spine in the ancient Chinese art of dim mak—the touch of death.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.

She released me from her dim mak death hold—only to skip beside me and grab my hand.

Oh my god. Imogen was holding my hand.

Okay, I mean… it technically wasn’t my hand… BUT STILL.

“I had to get told by Principal Durden,” Imogen continued. “Even she was surprised you didn’t tell me.”

Deep breaths, Ezra. Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.