J could smell the hostility, the pretense, the utter fakeness of it all before they even climbed the last set of stairs. He was going to this party for Melissa, though she knew he’d hate it, though she’d have friends to talk to and J would stand there in the corner like a plastic tree, sucking at a beer, steaming in his too-many shirts and humiliation. The stairs were already sticky with spilled drinks, and reggaeton thumped through the door.

“Come on, J, you have to go with me. Daniel’s gonna be there,” Melissa had whined to him earlier that day at school. They were sharing a Diet Coke in the school’s emergency stairwell. The place was littered with cigarette butts and graffiti; every few days, some student dismantled the alarm, looking to sneak off and smoke. Daniel was Melissa’s latest crush, a quiet guy who played chess with the old men in Washington Square Park and who always had a Strand book bag over one shoulder. J thought he was pretentious.

“I hate parties,” J had said. “And I hate everyone at this school.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Melissa had answered, tapping the brim of J’s cap. She leaned her head on J’s shoulder. “What happened now?”

“Got called a dyke again.” It had happened a thousand times before. Dyke, aggressive, AG, butch. Whatever the names, none of them fit. He’d considered the possibility briefly, when he first realized he was in love with Melissa a few years back, but he’d never felt like a lesbian.

“Oh, sweetie,” Melissa said, lifting her head from J’s shoulder and trying to meet...