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219 pages, Kindle Edition
First published February 8, 2014
“Sherlock and high school are like… oil and water, to borrow a cliché. Like a wolf in a cage made out of feathers. Do you see what I’m saying?”
”I’ve been kind of lost since you opened your mouth actually.”




“It’s not working out between us, Irene,” he says loudly. “I’m afraid I’m dumping you.”
And he sits back down.
As if I’d let him off that easy.
I stand up, the sound of my chair scraping back nearly deafening in the silence. “Like hell you’re breaking up with me, Sherlock Holmes.”
I take my seat again.
“Um…perhaps if we could save this for later…” whispers a petrified Mrs. Fields, frozen with her marker halfway to the whiteboard.
The classroom is a dead quiet sea of stares.
Sherlock is glowering at me. I smile back sweetly and he gets up again. “It’s not you, it’s me,” he says.
Did he read a handbook on how to break with someone? Probably. What a dork. I get up again too. “It’s not either. It’s both of us. Which is still a thing, because we’re not breaking up.”
“Personal matters…are for outside the classroom,” Mrs. Fields squeaks. Nobody listens to her. I think the classroom is about to combust.
Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I’m gay.”
Breaking out the big guns, then. I volley back: “Not according to last night, you’re not.”
One terrified giggle escapes someone in the front row.
“Stop it, Irene,” he says under his breath, turning up his death glare as high as it will go.
I grin. I’m winning. Today, I don’t mind the stares. They’re for a good cause. “What about yesterday, when you said you couldn’t live without me?”
“Irene,” he hisses.
“And the day before that, when you said you wanted to get marr—”
“Point made,” he growls, throwing himself back into his chair like he’s hoping it’ll break.
“That’s what I thought,” I say, smiling widely. “Babycakes.”
And I take my seat.
Was right. Death wish. Subconscious or conscious, not sure. Today: drove highly erratically, but subject agreed to get back in car.
Also interesting: has passed point by which most people either stop speaking to me or attempt to cause me bodily harm. Doesn’t need to respond when I speak. Why does she respond? Pities me? Childhood reinforcement to respond when spoken to? Will investigate.
Sherlock makes a tragic face. I kick him under the table.
“What?” he whispers. “I’m appealing to her motherly instinct by widening my eyes to evoke the aesthetic of an infant and projecting an aura of vulnerability so that she’ll feel obligated to take me in.”
“It’s mostly just creepy,” I whisper back.
“I can hear you both, you know,” says Mom.
We freeze.
“She must have inherited those traits from you, as well as her large earlobes.”
I whip out my phone. She’s self-conscious about the earlobes.
He glances down at the phone screen and looks up again. “And by large I mean absolutely miniscule. I would need a microscope to see those. Truly tiny.”
“I told you he’s not in love with me.”
“I don’t understand that either.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I don’t see how anyone could not be in love with you.”
“…Hey, I know—if you’re serious about this date thing, we’ll make it for both our birthdays.”
“If you’re meaning we do things each of us wants to do, I’ve been fancying a trip to the morgue to collect data on—“
“No.”








