Now Rebecca’s not just angry at Justin; she’s disappointed in me.

“Cute, Rhiannon. Real cute.”

Justin tries to level her with a look. “Rebecca, you weren’t there. And I can call someone a black bitch if she was black and acted like a bitch. That’s just a fact.”

“Bullshit! Her being black has nothing to do with your story, you asshole. And I’ll bet if she were telling her side of the story, she wouldn’t be a bitch, either.”

“So it’s okay all of a sudden to call me an asshole?”

“One, I’ve been calling you an asshole for years. And two, please note that I’m not calling you a white asshole—because even though I’m sure your whiteness adds to your sense of entitlement, I’m willing to let it slide so we can focus on the fact that you’re a universal asshole right now.”

“Okay,” I interrupt. “You’ve made your point. Enough.”

“Yeah, man,” Justin says to Ben. “Turn your girlfriend off, okay?”

I know he’s saying this to make Rebecca extra mad.

“She’s right,” Ben says. “You’re being an asshole.”

I feel bad because now Justin is feeling attacked, and even though his choice of words is wrong, the story he’s telling isn’t a lie. Ashley did come on to him. And even though she did it with my permission, he doesn’t know that. He thinks one of my friends tried to steal him from me—and that is being a bitch. A universal bitch.

“If you don’t change the subject right now, I am going to unleash the biggest fart this school has ever seen,” Steve tells us. “You have been warned.”

Rebecca pulls back and lets it look like she’s dropping the conversation. But from the way she looks at me, I know she’s filing it away for later.

In art class, she launches right into me.

“Why do you let him talk like that? How can you just sit there and let him shit all over everyone?”

“Rebecca, you have to understand—”

“No. Don’t defend him. I don’t know who this California friend of yours is, but maybe she’s the one you should be defending. Because if you think of her as some slutty black bitch, then you’re not all that great a friend to have.”

Wait. What? What are we fighting about?

“Rebecca, why are you mad? I don’t understand why you’re mad.”

“I’m mad because my best friend is dating an asshole. And no matter how many times I point it out to her, she looks at me like I’m the one saying the world is round, and she’s like, No no no—flat.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” I insist. “She was trying to trap him into doing something. He was right to be mad.”

“That must have been so hard on him, to have a hot girl flirt in his direction. I don’t know how he could stand it. Poor victim.”

“It wasn’t like that.” There’s no way I can explain.

“Well, in his version, it was. You know, the racist, sexist version he gave us in the hall? Or maybe you don’t even notice those parts anymore.”

“I do, but…that’s not him. That’s just him being mad.”

“Oh, like it doesn’t count if you’re pissed off? I wish there were an Olympic competition where you could show off all the contortions you do in order to justify your relationship with him.”

I hate it when she uses her smartness to contort things about me, to make me feel so dumb.

“Why do you have such a problem with me and Justin?” I challenge. “Why? It’s not like he hits me. It’s not like he abuses me. It’s not like he cheats on me. Why can’t you just accept that I see things in him that you might not see. And that you might not see them because you’re a bitch to him all the time.”

“So I get to be the bitch now? Fine. Then you, my friend, are the scary girl. He doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t abuse me. He doesn’t cheat on me. Can you hear yourself? If those are the standards you have—Hey, he hasn’t punched me, so everything must be okay!—that scares me. That makes me think that at some point you’ve used these justifications. Oh, it’s really bad right now, and he’s being awful…but at least he’s not hitting me. Have a little more respect for yourself than that, okay?”

We are in the middle of art class. We are supposed to be drawing a sleeping turtle that Mr. K has brought in. Other people can probably hear us.

“Can we please not have this conversation here?” I ask her. When it comes out of my mouth, it sounds a little like pleading.

Rebecca sighs. “I don’t know why I bother.” Then she shakes her head, correcting herself. “No, I do know. Because you are my friend, Rhiannon. And because it kills me to see you twist yourself around to be with him. I know you’re not really hearing me right now, but one day, these words might come in handy. They might help. Which is why I’m putting them out there. So they’ll be there when you need them, and you’ll know that I’m here when you need me.”

It’s perfectly said. Too perfectly said. I want to tell her that I already have one guidance counselor and don’t really need another. I want to tell her that I can tell she enjoys seeing me suffer, because if I’m the patient, then she gets to be the nurse, the doctor, the guardian angel. Part of me appreciates it, but mostly I resent it.

She returns to her drawing and I return to mine. The turtle wakes up and tries to run away. Mr. K catches it every time it attempts to escape. The first time this happens, the class laughs. The fourth time, it’s just inconvenient.