Oh my god. Was she going to fight me?

Not that I would ever “fight back” against Imogen. However, I immediately found myself statistically analyzing who would win in a fight between Wynonna and Imogen. Wynonna was the safer bet—she had a sturdier build, like Lagertha on Vikings—but Imogen was taller, with a longer, more wiry armspan.

Imogen plowed into me, coiling herself around me in a fierce hug.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled in my hair. “I’m sorry about everything.”

My arms floundered awkwardly at my side until—finally—they returned Imogen’s hug. And then I patted her on the back, like an idiot.

Imogen pulled away, smiling, and extended a gentlemanly elbow. “May I escort the lady to her next class?”

I blushed and took her arm. Just the touch of my palm against her small bicep kind of knocked the wind out of me.

“I only have one question,” said Imogen. “Do you like Ezra?”

Boy, what a question. I had to keep the end game in mind here: Wynonna/Holden and Imogen/me. I had to keep the Wynonna Directive clear. But I also had to make myself look good.

“Ezra’s great,” I said. “Maybe if I wasn’t totally into Holden? But no. It was a rebound. Or a psychological rebound, I guess.”

Imogen gave a relieved sigh, like the world suddenly made sense. “Okay. That’s what I figured.”

“But Ezra’s great.”

“I’m sure he is!”

“If I get a date with Holden to prom, you should… you know… for convenience’s sake…”

“Go to prom with Ezra?” said Imogen. She laughed, like that was the funniest thing she’d heard all week. Then, in a low, deliberately stupid voice, she said, “Oh, okay.”

I cringed internally. Time to change the subject.

“I’m going to talk to Ziggy,” I said. “Tell him I don’t want to be Viola.”

Imogen jerked away from me. “No! I want you to be Viola!”

“But—”

“No buts.” She shook her head furiously. “I hate myself for being upset that you got the role. I think it’s fantastic that you got it. You deserve it.”

“But I don’t want it.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure that has nothing to do with me being a selfish, lousy, no-good friend about it.”

“What? No. I didn’t even audition for the role.”

“Wynonna.” Imogen grabbed me by the shoulders and looked at me intensely. “I want you to be Viola.”

“You do know I’m dyslexic,” I said, “don’t you?”

It wasn’t exactly a rhetorical question. I was genuinely curious if she knew.

“Don’t be stupid, dummy,” said Imogen. “You’re a smart, capable, courageous girl who can do anything she sets her mind to. I mean, those Romeo lines, my god! You had those puppies memorized.”

“But, Imogen—”