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“I guessed you were gay. I mean—”

“Was it the way I talk? Is it because…” I wave a hand around. “…my body language? My posture?”

“Your posture?” Free snorts so hard, I swear she’s going to spit up iced coffee. “Damn. You have photos on your Facebook wall with some boy.” Aha! So, this Facebook-stalking thing is a family trait. “He’s cute. He’s got RDF, though.”

“RDF?”

“Resting Douchebag Face.”

I almost fall out of my chair and brain myself on the table.

“Is he your boyfriend?” she asks.

“Ex.” I hate how my skin crawls when I talk about Dimi.

“Ah.” Free’s wearing that same expression. The relaxed one that says she doesn’t give a damn that we’re talking about me dating a boy, that I’m gay. She says, “Should probably delete those cozy Christmas photos in the matching-sweaters, then.”

She’s right. I hate all this attention on my old scars. “What about you?”

“What about me?” She’s deflecting, just like I do. Our similarities are showing in fluorescent colors.

“Come on,” I try, eyebrows wiggling, “There has to be someone.”

“Hell no!” Her scratchy outburst startles a young woman with glasses who’s hiding behind her laptop. Free doesn’t care. “I’m all about school.”

“So, no one?” It’s kind of hard to believe. Free is magnetic. She has an electric energy that could compel people to fall in love with her.

“No Tom, Dick, Harry, Caitlin, Jamar, Diego—”

“Caitlin?”Hello, puberty-voice!

Free tosses her head back, shaking that jungle of dark curls from her face. She points an eyebrow upward. “Remy, labeling sexuality is simply a way for closed-minded people to keep everyone in these neat, tidy boxes. Sorry, I’m not about to conform. I already have enough checkmarks on job applications. What happens in my bedroom isn’t going to be monitored too.”

I slump in my chair. My hand reaches for my cup. It’s empty. “Wow.” I breathe.

“I’m not saying I’m hooking up with Caitlin or Diego or whoever,” she clarifies. “I’m saying I’m in a relationship with school. A good relationship. I plan to be somebody.”

Be somebody. Those two words swirl in my brain. Free, like Brook, like Lucy, knows who she is, who she’ll be.

I watch Free play with her phone and the way she chews her straw: confident shoulders, reckless hair and a curvy mouth, and focused. I have no clue how to tell Free that she looks a lot like a somebody to me.

Silently, we agree our time is over. Free has to study. And, unfortunately, the Essay of Doom hasn’t written itself yet.

I grab my phone, zip my hoodie. She hauls on her backpack. Her head’s cocked; she’s watching me without being rude. More curious.

“Hey.” It’s the first time I’ve heard hesitation in her voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to know about—” Her pause is heavy. I know where she’s going with this, even if she hasn’t finished. “Just his name?”

“I already know his name.”

“You do?”

“Mystery Donor.”

Free’s laugh shakes every part of her. “Cute. It could use some work, though.”

“I like it.”

“Okay. Mystery Donor.”