My lungs feel like they are about to explode, my breathing sounds like I’m an antique steam locomotive, and I’m regretting the day I thought Adam Swann was cute.

“Are … you … trying … to … give … me … a … heart … attack?” I say, wheezing, to his flannel-covered back.

He stops and turns, smiling at me, but I’m too out of breath to even enjoy the sight of his single dimple. “We’re almost there. I promise. Just a little bit longer.”

“You … said … that … before, you … liar.”

Adam laughs. “But this time I really mean it.” He reaches out his hand and takes mine. “You can do it, Stella. How about you take the lead?” He grins and winks at me. “Then I can push you if you need it.”

“Ha-ha,” I pant. “But … what … if … there’s a s-snake?”

“Stella, it’s in the forties, and most snakes are brumating.”

“Which means?”

“They’re chilling at their snake pads, rather than lying in wait to freak you out,” he says, kissing me lightly on the forehead. Then he touches his lips to mine. It leaves me even more breathless, and I lay my head on his chest.

“Is it really only a little bit longer?” I mumble into his jacket. “No lie?”

“No lie,” he says. “And I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

“Okay,” I say, pulling away. “But next time I get to pick the activity, and it’s going to involve a couch, an old movie, and no strenuous activity or potentially poisonous animals.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” he says.

I set off slowly, focusing on the ground in front of me rather than ahead on the trail because I’m not sure I entirely buy the snakes-are-chilling-at-their-snake-pads story. I’m so focused on just putting one foot in front of the other I don’t even notice that we’ve made it to the summit.

“We’re there,” Adam says.

I look up to a beautiful vista of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the lake in the valley below where we started our hike. “Wow. You weren’t kidding. It is worth it.”

He stands behind me and puts his arms around me, and I lean back against him. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Stella.”

I’ve been wrestling with the idea of truth and understanding how much of our perception of it can depend on who tells the story and how it’s told. I’m starting to realize how much of what I’ve taken for granted as true about life and my country is because of who got to tell the story.

I’ve also been figuring out who my true friends are, and what it means to be a friend. Realizing how important it is to speak out, but also how important it is to listen.

We walk over to a large boulder and sit. I snuggle into the warmth of Adam’s arm and pull a bag of trail mix out of my pocket. We munch in silence, enjoying each other’s company and the beauty of the day.

When we finish the trail mix, Adam takes my hand and strokes my knuckles with his thumb.

“Now that we’re here, can I confess something?” he says.

“Wait … did you lie to me about the snakes brumating? I knew it! Tell me there are no poisonous snakes around here!”

He laughs. “No, that’s the truth! Relax and enjoy the view.”

I pull away from his arm and face him.

“I guess the view isn’t so bad,” I say, smiling.

He smiles back, revealing that dangerous dimple. He’s still holding my hand, and he reaches to take the other one.

“This isn’t about snakes. It’s not really about us. Well, not exactly. It’s just that I want to be honest with you. Really honest.”

“O-kay,” I say, wondering what’s coming. “This sounds kind of ominous.”

“It’s not. At least I don’t think it is. It’s just … well, my dad’s the best in a lot of ways, and I’m grateful that he’s taught me so much about survivalist techniques and all, because I love the outdoors, and if the zombie apocalypse ever happens, you totally want me by your side because I know exactly how to keep us both alive but …”

He stops and looks away out over the horizon.

“But what?”

“I feel guilty for saying this, because he’s my dad, and I love him, but I don’t want to live my life the way he does, thinking the worst of everyone and everything, and always waiting for horrible things to happen,” Adam says, turning back and leaning his forehead against mine. “I’d rather spend my life fighting to prevent the worst things from happening. Even though I’m just one person, and who knows if I can really make a difference.”

“It’s like Farida said, we have to keep on fighting, because we have no other choice.”

He squeezes my fingers gently. “Stella, if I tell you something, will you promise you won’t hate me?”

“You’ve had plenty of reasons to hate me and you’ve managed not to, so it’s the least I can do,” I say.

“Good point. But this is a big one.” he says. “See, my dad’s a big fan of Mayor Abbott.”

He looks in my eyes searchingly, as if to gauge my reaction before he goes on. It’s hard to hide the fact that I’m a little rattled by this news, but I squeeze his hand to encourage him to continue.

“I can never bring you guys to my house. I’ve tried talking sense to him, but we just end up having huge fights. He believes what he believes and that’s the end of it.”

So that’s why I’ve never been to Adam’s house or met his dad. I thought maybe he was too embarrassed because of all the stuff with my family, but I didn’t realize it was about his dad, too.

“Wow,” I say. “That must be hard. Especially if that’s not how you feel.”

“Stella, you know that’s not how I feel,” he says. “Since my mom died—well, my dad’s just gotten angrier at the world, and he’s taken to blaming all his problems on everyone else.”

He looks away and takes a deep breath before continuing.

“One night I got so upset I told him I was sick of listening to him and stormed out of the house. I went for a long walk in the woods and didn’t get back till almost midnight. Saw a great horned owl out hunting, which was pretty cool, but what I realized by the time I got back was that my dad was kind of a hypocrite.”

“How’s that?” I ask.

“After my mom died, he made his entire life—and did his best to make mine—about being self-sufficient, but meanwhile he’s blaming everyone else for his problems instead of looking in the mirror and facing them,” Adam says. “My dad’s got a lot of good qualities, but I don’t want to be him. Is that terrible?”

“No,” I say. “At least I hope not. I don’t want to be my parents, either. I mean, I hope I can take on their good traits, but I don’t want to be exactly like them. I want to be my own person. Example A: The military was the right decision for them, but I’m not sure if it’s the right choice for me.”

“I can see that,” he says.

“But then I worry if it’s because I’ve always felt like a coward in my family—a coward and a loser. Everyone else has served in the military. I’ve had it drilled into my head that we’re supposed to serve. Walkers are patriots. That’s what we do,” I explain. “And then when the graffiti happened and people started calling Rob a traitor, it made me wonder about what it means to serve, and what it means to be a patriot.”

Adam nods.

“And I wondered—do I have to be in the military to serve my country? Is that the only way to be a patriot? Can’t I serve in other ways?”

“Well, there’s the Peace Corps, AmeriCorps …”

“Yeah, but I’m thinking something else,” I say. “Journalism. Asking hard questions. Looking at how stories are told. At what stories are told. I’m going to take a journalism class and join the school paper. Try to report the things that happen at school besides just sports. See if this is the path for me instead of boot camp.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Adam says.

“You think? You don’t think it’s a cop-out? That I’m letting down my family?”

“It’s not a cop-out. What if you have other skills? Or if you just want to go in another direction? Is there some law that says we have to do exactly what our parents do and think exactly the same way they think?” Adam says. “I mean, we’re being encouraged to use critical-thinking skills, right? And doesn’t that mean that maybe, sometimes, we might come up with different answers?”

“Good point,” I say, so relieved I feel like I could float off this cliff and soar hawk-like down to the lake below. But instead, I lean over and give Adam a kiss.

“Did I ever tell you how awesome you are?”

“You might have,” he says. “But it’s something that can never be said enough as far as I’m concerned.”

“You’re awesome,” I repeat, curling into his side and looking up at the clear blue sky, decorated with a few puffy cumulus clouds.

I close my eyes, enjoying the feeling that for at least this moment, everything feels right in the world. I know that there are more battles to fight, that beyond this valley, this day, this moment, there are bad things we have to deal with. But for right now, I’m going to enjoy this time, this place, and being with this boy, because it will help to give me the strength for whatever lies ahead.

More of my election posters have been ripped down on Monday. Others have Traitor written across them in black marker. I take them to the office to show Principal Hart.

“It’s bad enough I’ve had to take my social media accounts private because of what’s going on with my brother,” I complain. “But now I can’t even have posters up around school without them being torn down or defaced?”

“I hear you, Stella. But unfortunately, the divisiveness of the state elections is trickling down to our school,” Principal Hart says. “Some parents and, I hate to say, even some of the faculty have suggested suspending elections in favor of having administration appoint class officers.”

“Suspend elections?” I exclaim. “But that’s … that’s so wrong! We’re allowed to elect our own officers!” I point to my posters. “Anyway, it’s too late. The ‘divisiveness’ is already here.”

“Exactly. That’s why I refused to entertain the notion, even though there was significant pressure from certain quarters,” he says. “Not only that, I still believe it’s our job to prepare you for citizenship, not just employment. If I gave in to pressure to suspend elections, what message would I be sending about the importance of democracy and using your vote when you graduate from high school?”

“Thanks for not doing that,” I say. “But what can I do about my posters? It takes time and money to make them, and if they keep being destroyed …”

“I’ll make an announcement later today,” Principal Hart says. “And it’ll be clear what the consequences are for tampering with election posters.”

“Thanks, Principal Hart,” I say. “It’s hard enough running right now as it is.”

“I know. I’m going to be taking flak from the school board for this decision. But ‘right is right and politics is politics,’ as my grandma used to say.”

I think about that saying for the rest of the day. Do the two have to be mutually exclusive?

We prepare dinner on trays that evening so we can watch Stephanie Nagy’s special report together.

My brother’s super quiet, sitting on the corner of the sofa with Peggy by his side, his knee bouncing constantly under his dinner tray so that I’m afraid his meat casserole is going to end up on the carpet.

I’m beginning to suspect Peggy isn’t just sitting by his side for supportive purposes; this time I think she might have an ulterior motive.

“Are you scared this is going to make it worse?” I ask Rob.

“I’d be crazy not to,” he says. “It’s hard to know who to trust anymore.” He gives a short, bitter laugh. “Heck, I thought I could trust the nation I served to have my back and look how well that worked out.”

I feel like I should remind him that there are people in the nation who still have his back—look at how the people from the Legion came over and helped to clean the graffiti off the house. But I get what he’s talking about. It’s the system. How long it’s taking Rob to get his appointment. It’s how the Powers That Be had no problems writing the checks to go to war, but suddenly there’s not enough money now that the soldiers who fought it need care.

But there are still individuals like Mayor Abbott. And Chris. And Wade and Jed. Not to mention all the people who believe Mayor Abbott. People who think my brother is some kind of violent person, even though they don’t know all the facts. They’re individuals, not “the system.”

So I just lay my head on his shoulder and say, “We’ve always got your back. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Yeah. I know,” he says. “Thanks.”

I think we’re having a moment, and I smile.

Then Rob says, “Now can you get your greasy head off my shoulder?”

World’s Shortest Moment Ever.

“I washed my hair this morning, loser!” I retort.

“Quiet, you two! The news is starting,” Mom says.

Dad turns up the volume.

Mayor Abbott’s face flashes on the screen as they cover his latest campaign event. Dad starts booing and the rest of us join him.

“I know I’m setting a bad example for you kids,” Dad says, “but after what that man’s done to Rob …”

“Stella, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that you shouldn’t act like Dad when Chris speaks at your school assembly,” Mom says, giving Dad warning look. “Don’t visit the sins of the father on the child.”

I refrain from rolling my eyes. “No, you don’t need to tell me,” I say.

But what I’m thinking is: Like he and his friends aren’t ‘visiting the sins’ of my brother on me? Or even worse, on Farida and her family?

Finally, the anchor says, “And now it’s time for Special Report with Stephanie Nagy. Tonight she reports on the plight of American veterans—and how lack of resources at the Department of Veterans Affairs has affected one local vet’s life in a very dramatic way …”

Stephanie starts off outside the local VA hospital, talking about problems with the VA system and long delays for people getting appointments, particularly for mental health care. She tells us that thirty veterans die by suicide out of 100,000 in their population compared to fourteen people out of 100,000 in the civilian population. Then she’s sitting in our living room, the one we’re all gathered in now, watching her, talking to Rob and my parents about the challenges we’ve faced as a family since he got back.

The cameraman zooms into a close-up on Rob’s face when she asks him what happened at the mall. He starts talking about Jason and then covers his face. Then they cut to an interview with Ashar and his parents. He talks about how Wade and Jed were harassing him, and repeats the awful things they were saying. “What country am I supposed to go back to? I was born right here in Virginia. I’m just as American as they are!” he says. “It’s gets real old real fast having to explain my skin color and my religion all the time. Why do some people think they’re more American than I am just because their skin is lighter than mine?”

Then it cuts to an exterior shot of Tigris, and Ms. Nagy talks about the cable news piece where Wade made what she calls a “spurious link” to a local Iraqi American family, proprietors of a successful restaurant in Argleton, because of Farida’s friendship with me. She interviews Mr. and Mrs. El-Rahim, and she looks as horrified as I felt when they show her some of the terrible comments on Yelp and Facebook.

Finally, there are short clips of Mr. Neustadt and Mr. McNeill from the American Legion talking about how disgusted they were when our house was covered in graffiti calling Rob a traitor, and why they came to help clean it off.

Then it cuts back to Rob. “I take the Marine Corps values seriously. Things like integrity, respecting human dignity, adhering to a higher standard of personal conduct, and leading by example. I thought that by intervening in the situation I was living up to those values. But I failed when I allowed myself to be provoked into losing control. I failed to maintain personal discipline. In my defense, I recognized I was struggling since I got back from my last deployment, and I was trying to get help before the incident happened. The problem for me, and so many vets like me, is that the wait to get an appointment for evaluation at the VA hospital is way too long. I’m still waiting for mine. The appointment didn’t come soon enough for my friend Jason, and as you can see, the delay has affected my life. Not just mine. I regret that I’ve let down the corps. I regret that I’ve let down my family and that a totally innocent family, our friends the El-Rahims, have been drawn into this, just because of their faith. That a kid just trying to earn some money at a part-time job was treated the way he was. That doesn’t seem to reflect the American values I put on a uniform for and risked my life to defend.” The last shot is of Mom and Dad sitting on either side of Rob. Dad says, “We raised our son to stand up for others. Why is this country breaking its promise to stand up for him?”

Rob exhales loudly as Ms. Nagy concludes with, “This is Stephanie Nagy for Channel Seven News,” like he’d been holding his breath the entire time.

Dad turns off the TV.

“She did a great job,” he says. “That should help turn things around.”

“I sure hope so,” Mom says.

“If people watched it,” Rob mutters.

“We’ll encourage them to watch it,” Mom says. “I’m going to send out the link to everyone I know and tell them to send it to everyone they know.”

“Your mother and her networks are on the case,” Dad says. “Mayor Abbott is going to learn he should never have messed with the Fightin’ Walkers.”

“I’m going to take Peggy out for a walk,” Rob says suddenly, getting up off the sofa. “I need some fresh air.”

Mom casts him a worried glance.

“I feel like some fresh air, too,” Dad says, catching Mom’s glance and acting like he really does need fresh air.

I’m pretty sure Rob sees through the charade, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll get the leash,” he says.

I wait till I hear the front door close behind them before asking Mom the burning question. “Do you think it’s going to be enough to change peoples’ minds about Rob?”

She takes long enough to answer that I feel panic struggle to take flight in my stomach.

“There’s no way we can change everyone’s mind, Stella,” Mom says, speaking in the soft voice she always used when I was a kid and had a bad dream and she was trying to tell me it wasn’t real. Except that this one is real. “But I do think this’ll help Rob in the court of public opinion. It was smart of Ms. Nagy to interview Ashar. He made Wade and Jed look like ignorant, badly behaved teens, parroting the words of their elders—and he provided context for that video clip Mayor Abbott used to make Rob look like he was being violent out of nowhere.”

“But will it be enough?” I ask. “Do you think the prosecutor is still going to press for prison?”

“Who knows if what we do is ever enough?” Mom says. “We have to stay true to ourselves and do the best we can. Sometimes the most we can do is make people think.”

The next day it seems like at least some kids saw the piece, whether on TV or online.

Haley and I haven’t spoken since the day after the mall incident when she took Wade’s word over mine. But she comes up to me at my locker first thing in the morning.

“Hey, Stella,” she says.

“Hey.”

“I … well, I saw your brother on the news in the piece about veterans last night,” she says.

I don’t say anything. I’m waiting to hear where she’s going with this.

“I just want to say … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just assumed Wade and Jed were telling the truth. I guess I … well, I’m sorry.”

“It was easier to go along with the crowd and believe them than to believe me, who you’ve known since kindergarten?”

“I wouldn’t have done that if Rob hadn’t acted so weird at the convenience store,” Haley protests. “I didn’t realize it might be PTSD or whatever. It just seemed so out there.”

I guess I can see where she’s coming from. But it still hurts.

“Anyway, I’m sorry,” she says. “I feel bad. I hope he feels better soon.”

“You and me both,” I say. “But thanks.”

I don’t know where this leaves our friendship. But her saying sorry is a step in the right direction. After all, Farida has forgiven me for making mistakes more times than I can count.

Tom Zweibel, who made the stupid crack about Rob when I was interviewing him for the election video, stops me in the hall.

“Hey, Stella. I saw that thing about your brother and, um … I just want to say he’s all right,” he says.

Am I supposed to thank him for that?

“I knew he was all right all along,” I tell Tom. “I’m glad you finally realized it.”

Tom flushes. “Yeah, well … That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Okay. Noted.”

As I walk to class, I wonder if it would have killed him to say “I’m sorry.” Two little words, which when said with sincerity, go a long way. If he’d said “I’m sorry,” maybe I’d have been less snarky in return.

I see Charity Hernandez and Sierra Foster outside the door to my class.

“Hey! When’s the first basketball game of the season?” I ask before I go in. “I want to make sure I come.”

“The Monday after Thanksgiving,” Sierra says. “Awesome that you remembered.”

“Yeah. Oh, hey, I saw that thing about your brother,” Charity adds. “He’s good people.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I like him.”

“What Mayor Abbott is saying about him is just wrong,” Sierra says.

“Ugh. I know,” I say. “It wasn’t anything like Mayor Abbott tells it.”

“How can he get away with saying all that fake stuff on the news?” Charity asks. “There should be a law or something.”

“There is a law,” I say. “It’s called the First Amendment. It means he gets to say whatever he wants, even if it’s not true.”

“Yeah, but on the news?” Charity says. “Aren’t they supposed to say if it’s true or not?”

“Exactly,” Sierra chimes in. “You know, isn’t that their job? To fact-check or whatever?”

“Right?” I say.

“And it was so unreal that Farida got dragged into it,” Sierra says.

“I know—have you posted a good review on the Tigris Facebook and Yelp pages yet?” I ask. “I’m trying to get people to do that to drown out all the awful stuff.”

“I saw that,” Charity says. “My mom ordered takeout from there for dinner yesterday.”

“I wrote a good review on Facebook and Yelp, and I sent the link to all my friends,” Sierra says.

“Great, thanks.”

But as I walk away, I feel kind of hypocritical because I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do about the video for my election speech. It’s not that I’m planning to totally lie about things, but like the America News Channel, I’ve been playing around with selective editing.

“You wouldn’t know anything about some secret Facebook group that’s encouraging people to eat at Tigris and leave positive reviews, would you?” Farida asks me at lunch.

“Facebook group? What? Me?” I say, attempting to deny all knowledge.

“Don’t ever try out for drama,” Ken says. “You’re a terrible actress.”

I make an exaggerated pouty face.

“I’m actually going to agree with Kenny on this,” Farida says. “Stop the press!” She hugs me. “But thanks. It’s still pretty stressful at home, but Dad says there’s already been a pickup in takeout orders. And the Yelp reviews are more positive than negative again.”

“I told you I’d try harder,” I say.

“When the phone started ringing so much more all of a sudden, we couldn’t figure out if it was a sudden rush because people saw Mom and Dad interviewed on Stephanie Nagy’s special report. Business had been slow since the thing on the America News Channel,” Farida says. “My parents have been pretty worried. Then Jenny Moss’s family came in for dinner and she told me about the secret group.”

“Which is apparently no longer a secret,” Adam says. “By the way, how’s the video coming along?”

I hesitate, because even though my gut’s been telling me one thing, I still don’t know if I should do the opposite to give me a better chance of winning.

“Okay,” I say. “It’s a ton of work to edit. Thankfully, I have the amazing and talented Ken to help.”

“It’ll be worth it when you win,” Farida says.

“Well, actually … I want to ask your opinion about something.”

Ken flashes me a warning look. I know he doesn’t want to share the rough version of the Win at All Costs video we’ve created with Farida or anyone else just yet, but I’m done with keeping stuff from my best friend.

“It’s just … well, the whole situation with Rob made me think about how the way things are presented can change what we think about them. So Ken and I started experimenting with different ways of editing the interviews we did, and … okay, let me just show you.”

I’ve copied the two draft versions onto my phone—the WaAC (Win at All Costs) version and the TILII (Tell It Like It Is) version.

I don’t give any explanation. I just play them both.

“See how number one is much more positive?” Ken says.

“No way,” Farida says. “It’s totally manipulative. I mean, you cut out all the things we agreed should be included. I thought the whole point was that you understood people want to be heard. It’s denying our voice. We’re supposed to be representing all students, not just pretending everything is perfect.”

This is exactly what I was afraid of.

“Number one is more upbeat and persuasive,” Ken argues. “It’ll appeal to more people. We want to win, don’t we?”

“It’ll appeal to more of the same people who would vote for Chris is what you’re saying without actually using the words,” Farida says, her words clipped with anger.

Ken stills, looking stunned. “Wait. What are you saying? You’re not calling me a racist, are you?”

Farida is quiet for just one second too long for him before she says, “No, I’m—”

“Seriously, Farida?” Ken explodes. “We’re friends. How can you think that?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she says. “It’s just that—”

But he doesn’t let her finish.

“Forget it. You can be campaign manager on your own. I’m outta here,” he says, getting up and storming out of the cafeteria.

Farida turns to Adam and me, with wide, stricken eyes.

“I was just trying to think of the best words to tell him how I felt,” she said. “It’s always hard to have these conversations.”

“I totally get that,” I say. And it sucks that Farida is always put in the position of having to explain it. “Can you tell me? I honestly want to know.”

“Are you sure?” Farida asks. “One-hundred-percent sure?”

“Yes. That’s why I asked.”

She glances over at Adam, who nods, as if confirming that he’s witness to my answer before she speaks.

“Stella, obviously I want you to win. I was the one who encouraged you to run in the first place.”

“I know,” I say.

“But that first video is dishonest,” she says. “And that hurts. Especially after everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. It’s portraying things to make it seem like we all think everything’s great here. You cut out all the parts where we talked about the real problems we experience every day at Argleton High.”

I nod. “But that’s the way it works in the real world. I mean, look at Rob. Even at school, people just believed Jed’s story. So I thought—isn’t it better to play the game the way it’s done and win, so we can actually get things accomplished?”

“But don’t you see,” she says. “You’ve just bought into the same system that’s excluded and ignored our voices in the first place.”

“I know, but once I’m elected, I’ll—”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” Farida says. “Do you even hear yourself? Did you even listen the other day when I tried to explain about all the everyday crap I put up with that you don’t even notice? That you’ve been able to ignore for all the years we’ve been friends? Didn’t you hear what Ashar said on TV?”

She picks up her tray with the remains of her lunch and gets up.

“Wait, Farida, don’t go, I—”

“I thought you were finally starting to get it, like actually get it. But maybe you just won’t. Ever.” She grips the edges of her tray and a look of defeat crosses her face. “I’ve lost my appetite,” she says, and walks away.

I’ve lost mine, too, knowing that my best friend thinks I’m part of the problem, and realizing that no matter how good my intentions are, it looks like she’s right.

“Great,” I say to Adam. “I’ve gone from two campaign managers to zero in one lunch period.”

He doesn’t say anything but just looks at me, and I don’t feel good about what I see in his eyes.

“You’re mad at me, too.”

“Not mad, exactly,” he says quietly. “More … disappointed.”

“I’m disappointing everyone right now,” I say with a sigh. “And the election hasn’t even happened yet.”

“Let me ask you a question,” Adam says. “Why do you think I like you? I mean, like like you.”

Talk about an awkward question. I’m not sure how to answer, so I fall back on humor. “My good looks and sharp wit?”

“There is that,” he allows, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But dig a little deeper.”

“I can’t read your mind. And clearly I’m not even that good at hearing when people tell me things,” I say. “But maybe you can try?”

He takes my hand under the table, and despite being miserable in the crowded cafeteria, it reminds me of being on the cliff with the valley below, when everything still seemed possible.

“Most people look at me and see a freak,” he says. “I’m the kid of the weird survivalist guy who lives in the woods and believes in every conspiracy theory out there.”

I look down at our clasped hands, feeling guilty. I don’t know if I would have gone so far as freak, but it’s fair to say that I always assumed Adam was a little weird, like his dad. It didn’t help that he was so quiet. It’s only been this year that I’ve gotten to know him better and realized he’s so much more than that.

“It’s okay,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I know you probably thought that, too. But you looked beyond it to the real me, something most people don’t bother to do.”

“So I’m not a total disappointment to you?” I ask.

“The reason why I like you is because you want to change things. And because you’re smart and funny, and you’re not afraid to say what you think,” Adam says. “One of my favorite things in the world is watching you put Chris in his place.”

I smile. “True confession: I kind of enjoy doing that.”

“So why are you trying to play it safe all of a sudden with that video? I don’t get it.”

Sometimes you don’t need to be told the answer. You just need someone to ask you the right question.

What has trying to play it safe done for me? It’s upset my best friend, making her feel like I haven’t been listening, and made me feel bad about myself because I wasn’t listening to what I knew was right.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “But I definitely know what I’ve got to do now. It’s going to be a long night.”