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I’m speechless. I’ve never heard Darcy swear. Not even a “damn.”

She blinks at me. “That was a lot, right?”

“Word vomit,” I say, face happily scrunched. I shake my head. “That was… perfect.”

Our elbows are pressed together. People step around us, staring and whispering, but I don’t care. I’m used to it.

“Darcy Jamison,” I whisper. “The Mad Tagger.”

“Yeah. Surprise!”

“Now what?”

She puffs out her cheeks. “I’m done. Finished my last one.”

“Really? Can I see it?”

Darcy turns this sweet, cotton-candy pink from cheeks to neck. We stand, and she leads me down a path behind the stadium, across a half-finished sidewalk, and over the crosswalk that leads to Maplewood’s student parking lot. And there it is. It’s massive—a giant mural stretching over at least ten parking spaces. In huge red and black letters: “Popularity = ‘It is better to be feared than loved.’” And, in pink lettering so small I have to squint: “His name is Cody.”

I turn to her, mouth open. Chilly wind sweeps blonde hair loose; strands blow across her cheeks and her chapped lips. She’s happy. Darcy looks free.

“You’re not scared they’ll know?” I say.

She shakes her head. “Cody should be free to be himself. No labels.”

I nod. That little piece of me that wants to grab her hand, for support, remains. But I don’t. We stand closer, though. We stand together against whatever labels they’ve tried to tag us with.

“I won’t say a word,” I tell her.

Gratitude passes over her face. Rio’s going to kill me if she finds out. That’s okay. This is one more secret I can carry. For Cody.

Darcy tucks her hair back into place; her self-conscious smile is directed at me. “Is it bad?”

“No,” I say. “It’s perfect. Darcy, you’re perfect.”

27

By Saturday evening, my lifeis a disaster.

Okay. That’s an exaggeration. But I’d rather jump headfirst into a pool of ice than pick out something to wear to the homecoming dance. I don’t have many options. Formal wear isn’t my thing. I own a battleship-gray suit from two Christmases ago, courtesy of Aunt Sandra. There’s also, this cool navy button-up with white polka dots from a date with Dimi for our five-month anniversary. We went to the Cheesecake Factory. My parents paid. I should’ve donated the shirt to charity. Maybe I can get away with a sweater? A dope red one with a gray beanie. All school spirit.

“What about this one?” I hold up a pastel blue button-up. The zigzag pattern on the fabric shines in the right lighting.

Willow shrugs. It’s her response to every option. But it’s better than Clover’s snoring and Bert’s empty stare. They’re my panel of judges for this fashion shitshow. I rifle though my closet and drawers. Honestly, why can’t jeans and a T-shirt without stains be the official attire for all high school events?

“You’re going to a dance?” Willow asks.

“Uh huh.” I tug out a plum sweater. Seriously, what the hell was I thinking with this one?

“With that boy?”

I whip around. Willow’s blinking at me, head tilted. I raise an eyebrow. “What boy?”

She’s sitting on my bed in a Wonder Woman T-shirt and Superman socks pulled up to her knees. These days, Willow’s making strong fashion declarations about her allegiance in the Marvel vs. DC debate. I don’t know if I approve.

She loops a tie from Mount Clothing Rejection around her neck. Then she wrecks her strawberry blonde hair with tiny hands. It sticks up everywhere. And I get it. She’s supposed to be Spike Spiegel. She’s supposed to be Ian.

I cross the room to her and sit down. My neck and ears are hot.Willow knows I have a thing for Ian. I kiss her forehead and loosen the tie so it doesn’t choke her. I say, “No, I’m not” with a small voice.