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I backtrack. I speed-walk to my car. Maybe Rio’s free. We could drive to downtown Decatur, get hot chocolates and stroll around. Be anti-homecoming together. I’m only halfway to the parking lot when I hear, “And Homecoming Prince is… Jayden Blue!”

Perfect. Jayden deserves it. It feels like a victory for both of us. I turn right, then left and collide with someone.

Aerosol cans clatter against the cement. They roll aimlessly between our feet. I stumble out an apology to whoever I crashed into.

It’s Darcy—pink-faced, wide-blue-eyed, perfect-blonde-ponytail Darcy. And she’s scowling at me.

“Sorry.”

“Whatever.”

I squint at the cans. Spray paint. Darcy’s fingers are red and pink and black. Her hoodie is a mural of colors too. She’s breathing heavily, and her backpack hangs off one shoulder, opened. A tattered copy ofAlice in Wonderlandpeeks out.

“Holy shit. You’re—”

“Could you just, like,move. Go away.”

“Darcy, you’re—”

“I’m not,” she screeches, then flushes when an older couple passing by gawks at us. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But I do. The panic in her moon-sized eyes says we both know I do.

Darcy Jamison is the Mad Tagger.

She bends down to pick up the cans. She’s scrambling, hands shaking. I help. When her eyes meet mine, I ask, “Why?”

She sighs, then sits on the cold ground. Knees to her chest, she wraps her arms around herself. Her jeans are worn at the knees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Darcy in jeans. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Darcy sit on the ground. She looks so small.

“Because,” she closes her eyes, “everyone labels you a Jesus freak because you went to Christian summer camp as a kid, because praying before every meal makes you a religious dictator. Those same girls who played dolls with you as a kid whisper behind your back now.”

Her damp eyelashes begin to flutter. I consider touching her arm, maybe her shoulder. Then I think about Ian, about his halmeoni teaching him to always ask for consent before touching anyone and I don’t. But I scoot closer, so she knows I’m there, so she can borrow some of my warmth.

“Because, one day, your little brother comes into your bedroom crying. All the kids at school tell him his sister loves God and no one else.” She exhales shakily. “He thinks I hate him because…”

Our elbows brush. Darcy tucks her chin. I nudge her shoe to tell her to continue. I think she needs to say it, say everything.

“Because he’s demisexual. He thinks I hate him because he’s demisexual and not straight. ‘Not what God wants’ is what those kids told him.” She giggles, but it’s wounded. “But I don’t care that Cody’s demi. He’s my brother.”

Cody. Not Silver.

Her nose twitches. “Despite what everyone tries to preach, God loves Cody for Cody. You can still believe in a higher power and not be heterosexual. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“I know,” I whisper.

I know Aunt Sandra loves me. I know I can be me and still have faith in something greater.I know, I know, I know.

“But why?”

Darcy’s eyes finally blink open. They’re fiery blue. “I’m tired of living like every label they give us matters. I’m not a label. Cody’s not a label either.”

Wow! Darcy freaking Jamison—straight A’s and perfect hair and a rule-breaking legend.

Darcy cocks her head. “I treated you like crap because I was too afraid to admit I was jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of you. You live your life loud and proud. You’re always yourself. You don’t give a shit.”