I pretended to become absorbed in the show while I waited for them to leave. When they did-Shannon disappeared after half an hour, then Pete lumbered into the kitchenette-I grabbed the third pamphlet and darted back to my room. Women who identify themselves as lesbians are sexually attracted to and fall in love with other women, the pamphlet said. Their sexual feelings toward women are normal and appropriate for them. These feelings emerge during childhood or adolescence and continue into adulthood. There were questions you could ask yourself: When I dream or fantasize sexually, is it about boys or girls? Have I ever had a crush on or been in love with a girl or a woman? Do I feel different from other girls?

I tried to imagine kissing Gates: We would be standing, facing one another, and then I would step forward. I might have to get on tiptoe, because of her height. I’d tilt my head so our noses didn’t smash and press my mouth against hers. Her lips would be dry and soft; when I parted mine, she’d part hers, too, and our tongues would slip against each other.

The scenario neither disgusted nor excited me. But maybe this was because I was trying not to be excited. I continued to read the pamphlet: The first time I touched my girlfriend’s breasts, it felt like the most natural thing in the world-Tina, 17. I thought, Tina, 17, where are you now? Are you still seventeen, or are you an adult? Do your neighbors or coworkers know your secret? I could picture her in Arizona, say, or Oregon, but I doubted she lived in New England. As far as I knew, there were no gay people at Ault. In fact, I had met a gay person only once in my life and that had been at home-he was our neighbor’s son, a guy in his thirties who’d moved to Atlanta to work as a flight attendant.

I imagined placing my fingers on the mound of Gates’s breast. And then what? Would I clutch it? Move it around? The image was absurd. But if I didn’t want to touch her, I wasn’t sure what I did want. I stuffed the pamphlet in my coat pocket, out of sight, and wished I hadn’t taken it.

When I returned to the room in the early evening, Dede was sitting on her bed, clipping her fingernails. She jumped up when she saw me. “Where have you been? I have something to show you.” She pulled my arm, leading me back out of the room. We stopped in front of the giant trash can in the hall, and the same stench from our room filled the air. “Look,” Dede said and pointed. Dry, stringy wax lay on top of newspapers, an empty potato chip bag, and the remains of a potted plant. The wax was yellowy-orange and perhaps a foot long. “It’s squid,” Dede said. “Dried squid. That’s what stinks. It was in Sin-Jun’s closet. Isn’t that the grossest thing you’ve ever seen?” Dede seemed happy, no longer desperate. “I asked Sin-Jun if I could look around, and she said fine, and I found it. I told you that’s all I was looking for.”

“It’s food?” I asked and when Dede nodded, I said, “Where’s Sin-Jun now?”

“On the phone with her mom, I think. She feels bad, but she should because it’s disgusting.”

“Did you tell her you were looking through her dresser earlier?”

“Lee, you need to get a grip about that. If you try to turn me in, you’ll just embarrass yourself. Why don’t you wait and see if Sin-Jun complains that anything is missing? If she doesn’t, I think that clears my name.”

“Nothing will be missing,” I said. “I’m sure you put it back.” Oddly, now that I was starting to believe Dede was innocent, I felt more free to accuse her.

“Okay, Nancy Drew.” She leaned in. “Let me tell you something. You don’t need to be such a freak. It’s your own fault. If you didn’t do stuff like this, maybe we could be friends.”

“Gosh, Dede.” I made my voice earnest, like a girl’s from a 1950s sitcom. “Could we really?” It felt good to be unpleasant; I was relieved to find I still had an aptitude for it, underneath my Ault-induced meekness and sentimentality.

Dede shook her head. “I feel sorry for you.”

She went down the hall, fingernail clippers in hand, and I presumed she’d gone to discuss my freakishness with Aspeth. I hung up my coat and lay on my bed, on top of the covers. Then I remembered the pamphlet in my coat pocket. I retrieved it, and when I saw the idiotic title-Am I gay?–a bitterness rose in me. No, you’re not gay, I thought. You’re a pamphlet. I wanted to burn it.

I heard the doorknob turn, and I pulled open the top drawer of my desk and shoved the pamphlet inside. I assumed Dede was back with fresh insults, but it was only Sin-Jun.

“I so sorry about squid,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“I was bad roommate.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

“You’re not here today,” she said.

“I was in the infirmary.”

“You have sick?”

“Sort of. Yeah.”

“I make tea for you.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “But thanks.”

“No tea?”

“Not now.”

She seemed disappointed, and I thought that I should have accepted the offer, but the moment had passed.

It was in Spanish class, just after lunch, that I remembered. Terror passed through me. The pamphlet was in my desk, in the top drawer-the most obvious place imaginable! The thief would be looking for cash, but how much more interesting, how damning, this would be.

Twenty minutes were left in class. I tried to calm myself with math: If nineteen of us lived in Broussard’s, and if four thefts had occurred over the last six weeks, then the likelihood was slim, it was infinitesimal, that one would occur between now and the end of sports practice, when I could get back to the dorm. But already one of the thefts had been in my room. And anyway, how could I rely on numbers, their cold impartiality? What did numbers care if everyone at Ault thought I was a lesbian?

Fifteen minutes were left in class, then ten, eight, five, four, two. When the bell rang, I bolted from the schoolhouse. I would be late to biology class next period, if I didn’t miss it altogether, but having my name reported to the dean seemed a small price to pay for hiding the pamphlet.

Hurrying across campus, outside when most everyone else was in class, I thought of the day I’d left Ancient History and felt a tenderness toward my earlier self. Things actually hadn’t been so bad then. At least, they hadn’t been so complicated.

I cut through the courtyard, past the empty granite benches where I’d met Gates. It was a windy, overcast day, and when I opened the door to Broussard’s, the handle was cold.

This is the part I think about the most often: the timing of it. Sometimes I wonder about the accidents that happen to a person-car crashes, falling tree branches, fires in the night-and I wonder, were they avoidable or were they destined? Once they’ve decided to occur, will the bad coincidences of your life seek you out, their shape changing, their consequences staying the same? Or maybe their shape doesn’t even change; maybe they hold form, waiting for you as patiently as turtles.

Little emerged from our room just as I was about to enter. It was as if she had anticipated my arrival and was opening the door for me, except that once it was open, she did not step aside deferentially, and we almost collided.

We stood there for so long without speaking that I thought we might not speak at all. But that kind of silence would happen only in a movie; in real life, it’s so hard not to clutter the significant moments by talking.

“Their families are loaded,” she finally said. “They don’t need the money.”

“But it’s theirs. It’s not yours.”

“Yeah, and I see how they throw it around. They don’t like dinner, they order pizza. Cross-country warm-ups cost seventy dollars? No problem.”

“But stealing is wrong.”

“You’re gonna act like you don’t understand? Don’t even try to pretend you’re one of them.”