“Me too,” he says. “I’m sorry I have to explain to everyone I know that I’m not a homophobe just because I used to be friends with you.”
Your throat turns to sandpaper. “Used to be?”
“You know I got like a five-minute lecture from Mr. Cain the other day, just to make sure I wouldbehave myselfbecause my stand mate is trans?”
Cooper plays second violin in the orchestra. He’s really good. He’s been playing since fifth grade.
“I didn’t mean it,” you say again. “It’s not like I said—”
You don’t finish that sentence, though, because even as the words tumble out of your mouth you know they’re messed up. Cooper knows, too. His lower lip trembles. He runs a hand over his fade.
You’ve never saidthatword (ror nor), not even when Cooper did as you sang along to Lil Nas X. Cooper’s allowed to and you’re not. It’s not like you even want to say that word. You’veneverwanted to. Never even thought about it. You’re not racist.
And you’re not a homophobe, either.
“I didn’t mean it,” you say again, because what else is there? “It was a mistake.”
“I thought I knew you,” Cooper says, and your stomach drops into your feet when he blinks and a teardrop sparkles in the corner of his eye.
He does know you, better than your own family. You’ve been friends since forever.
You try to say something, anything, but your voice doesn’t work. You don’t think you’ve ever made Cooper cry before.
“I can’t be around you,” he says, soft but final, and then he’s moving past you. Away from you. Trailing some new woodsy, smoky fragrance he must’ve found at Sephora with Tyler. Without you.
You and Cooper went to kindergarten together.
You’ve been to his house more times than you can count.
He was the one you told when you got a crush on Julia Vostock back in seventh grade.
You were the one who went with him to his grandpa’s funeral.
And now it’s all gone?
Just like that?
Maybe your friendship wasn’t as strong as you thought, if he can throw it all away over one single word.
One word that doesn’t even affect him.
One word you didn’t even mean.
Your throat tightens. Your stomach churns. Not with nerves but with anger. How can Cooper just drop you like that? Not even give you a chance to explain?
You’ve only known Brody for a day, and he was cooler about this whole thing than your best friend in the whole world.
Former best friend.
Screw him anyway.
Brody’s with you your second day of ISS, but your third day, he goes back to class, leaving you alone. And bored. Now it’s just you, the awkward silence stretching between you and Ms. Anderson as she types away on her computer, answering emails or writing reports or doing spreadsheets or whatever it is teachers do when they’re not teaching.
But today, when you finish your work and get up to find another boring old book to read, she stops you.
“Huh?” You flinch, imagining your mom correcting you again. “Sorry, what?”
“I’d like you to do one more thing today,” she says. That might be the longest sentence she’s said to you. Mostly it’s just been variations of “No talking.”
