Now that I knew I was dyslexic—or rather, that the body and mind I inhabited was dyslexic—I saw the signs everywhere. (Aside from the letters of the English alphabet being alive, and moving, and not entirely English anymore.) Several of Wynonna’s classes were smaller than average. They seemed designed to meet the needs of certain students in a low-profile manner. It was difficult to pin down exactly what those needs were, but it was clear they existed. I noticed teachers wander and check in on particular students. Sometimes repeatedly. If something didn’t seem to be working, it wasn’t uncommon for the teacher to squash the lesson like Play-Doh, and then reshape it into something else entirely.

In the case of Wynonna—who had the social niceties of barbed wire—the attention to her needs was in the structure. Her teachers kept their notes as verbal as possible—hence the lecture-y nature of yesterday. Today, however, was more discussion-oriented. Some teachers also incorporated an abundance of imagery. The one teacher who did lecture used a PowerPoint, and—now that I was paying attention—I couldn’t help but notice each slide was low on words and high on visual stimulation.

They were the sorts of classes where you didn’t recognize the effort until you looked for it. Suddenly, it was all you could see.

I sort of became lost in my observations. Before I knew it, the fourth-period bell rang, and I was staring down the barrel of the existential shotgun known as lunch period. Where the high school hierarchy separated like oil and water—the losers from the cool kids, the riffraff from the gods and goddesses, the Weirdos Who Are Not Okay from the People Who Wear Masks of Normalcy and Okayness.

Considering that I was Wynonna, I figured I ought to wear a particular mask of normalcy and okayness and sit with Imogen.

Except I couldn’t find her.

Not at her normal table, not in the lunch line, not anywhere. Amidst the rush of warm bodies, the roar of blurring conversations, and the clatter of trays and silverware, Imogen’s absence was loud. Blaring.

As if I wasn’t expecting this.

It was a throbbing scar in my memory. I could still see the shattered look on her face. She lost the role she longed for, and to who? Her best friend who didn’t want it. And yet, here was some facade of Wynonna, auditioning for Duke Orsino out of nowhere, quoting Romeo like it was The Princess Bride.

Shit! Like, in what universe would Wynonna have memorized lines from Romeo and Juliet? God, what was I thinking?

I wondered which was worse for Imogen: The betrayal? Or the creeping uncertainty that her best friend was not actually her best friend?