“Me?” said Wynezra—propping herself up on the bed with her elbows. She almost looked amused. Almost.

“You’re better at talking to people than me.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Please?”

“Dude,” said Wynezra. “Don’t take it personally. Imogen has an older brother, and she loves him to death, but she would never confide in him about… you know… stuff like that.”

“Stuff like that?” I repeated.

“Sex stuff.”

I immediately wanted to ask Wynonna what sort of “sex stuff” Imogen had to confide. It was a screw turning slowly, drilling twist by twist into the center of my curiosity. But I refrained.

“Can you ask her when you’re… you?” I said.

Wynezra actually started laughing. “Seriously?”

“Maybe she just needs a female role model she can confide in,” I said. “She doesn’t have any sisters, and my mom’s always gone, and even if she wasn’t… well… there’s some trust issues. But you’re cool! You’re hip!”

“You did not just call me hip,” said Wynezra. She covered her face with her hands, barely suppressing the laughter. “What are you, seventy years old?”

“Please, Wynonna. She’s my little sister. I’m worried.”

“If you’re so worried,” said Wynezra, “why don’t you go talk to her? You’re the female right now. You’re cool, hip Wynonna, and you know your sister better than me. Go break the ice.”

“How?” I said, hysterically. “How does one break ice?”

“Just shoot the shit.”

“What does that even mean?”

Wynezra sighed. “Fine. When I’m me, if I happen to sit next to her in theater, or if I see her in the hall at school or whatever… I’ll talk to her.”

I was so ecstatic, I could have hugged her. But she was lying on my bed, and we were in each other’s body, and that probably would have been the weirdest possible thing I could do. So I didn’t.

I had ridden the Tangent Train far enough. It was time to get back to business.

“I talked to Holden,” I said.

That might have been the most inconsequential thing anyone had ever said in the history of inconsequence. Except that I was Wynonna.

Suddenly, the context was revolutionary.

Wynezra’s expression seemed to make that deductive leap as her face seemed to say “Who gives a fuck?” but then connected the dots and held that “fuck” like Christine Daaé from Phantom of the Opera. FuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUCCCKKKKK!

She sat upright, crawled to the foot of my bed, and perched on the edge like a gargoyle.

“What did you say?”

“Well,” I said, “I may have told him some untruths.”

I told Wynezra everything—from Holden “blushing,” to my attempted flirtation, to Holden’s accusation—all of which led up to the Great Untruth. That she and I had sex, and that’s why we were acting weird.

I told her that Holden agreed to talk to Imogen.