“Are you in love with him?” “Yes!” Wait, what? “No!” I say, panic-stricken. “No, no, no—” But it’s too late. Sarah is up from her seat, slapping the desk with both palms like a drum. “Vindication!” she shouts, her hands like claws pointing at the ceiling. “Shut up,” I whisper, rubbing my forehead. “Please,” I beg pathetically. “Don’t.” “I was right,” she says, sitting back down. “Winnifred McNulty is in love.” “Sarah, I love him, but I’m not in love with him.” “Bullshit,” she spits, shaking her head.
