Last night I’d broken up with my boyfriend. In a banana costume no less.
I think about texting Otto to make sure he’s okay but reconsider. I shouldn’t open that line of communication. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear from me.
It wasn’t an awful breakup. In fact, none of my relationships—­flirtationships, situationships, whatever you want to call them—­have ended in a dramatic demise. They have, however, all ended because of me.
Well, except for one.
The thing is, I can sense impending disappointment like a dog sensing an earthquake right before it hits. And when I do, I get out before there’s lasting damage. Heartache isn’t an experiment worth repeating. It’s mentally taxing and extremely unfun. I’d rather be alone until I can chase another heart-­pattering high that will eventually peter out.
Anyway, feelings don’t fix problems. Look at my mother. My dad left, my brother is never around, and whenever shit hits the fan, who has to fix it?
Me.
I’d felt the familiar disappointment sink in last night. Otto drove us to Keith Whittle’s after-­party once the school’s Halloween dance came to a modest end at nine-thirty, but not before we stopped at the abandoned car wash off Clifford Avenue—­aka our usual hookup spot.
Otto’s BMW was tight quarters, but it was better than my nonexistent vehicle that provided exactly zero privacy.
I was straddling Otto in his back seat as he desperately tried to find the zipper for my banana costume. (Spoiler alert: No zipper. You literally had to peel that thing off me.)
“Why’d you have to wear this thing?” Otto mumbled, his lips vibrating against mine.
“Because I like it. It’s very a-­peeling on me.”
My pun went over his head. “No, it’s not. It’s really baggy.”
I flattened my palms over both sides of my head as if to cover its ears. “Shh, you’re going to hurt its feelings.”
He just stared at me. “Whose feelings?”
I theatrically looked up and sighed. My sense of humor was wasted on him.
“Never mind.” I pulled myself into the passenger’s seat, readjusting my bold outfit. “Let’s head out.”
Keith’s house was located right in the center of the Palisades suburban paradise, where the homes were more like modern villas than standard two-­stories. Keith had it all. Backyard basketball court. Ocean view. A pool. The dream.
We found liquor and mixers in the kitchen, and I made myself a drink before I went looking for my best friends. I found them dancing in the living room with some tipsy classmates. Tahlia was dressed as Winifred Sanderson, her orange hijab wrapped in a braided knot. And Marlowe, who’s unapologetically loud and trans, had acquired sunglasses identical to Lady Gaga circa 2008.
I joined them, warm and silly from the liquor, shamelessly incorporating bits of flossing and dabbing into my dance moves. Ironically, obviously.
Otto watched me from the kitchen with Duncan Rowe and Thomas Randkin, two of his football buddies. I didn’t exactly love Otto’s friends. All they talked about was televised sports and overpriced sneakers. Also? They thought making fun of people was a personality trait.
Duncan was dressed as Batman. His arm was wrapped around his longtime girlfriend—­and my ex–­best friend—­Lenora Kahue, who made the perfect Moana. Part of me wished I could compliment her choice of costume, but I knew she would only slight me. We caught eyes for a second before she flicked her gaze away, scoffing. I swallowed. It hurt more than I thought it would.
Still. I wasn’t going to let Lenora ruin my night.
“Otto, c’mon!” I called, fully tipsy now. I rubbed my hands up and down my banana bod in a movement that would make grandmothers everywhere clutch their pearls.
From across the room, Faith Tobinson snorted. She was dressed as an angel (for the third year in a row) along with my former friend Katie Delcavo, who went to Jesus camp with Faith the summer of eighth grade and then ditched me to be part of Faith’s Lord-­loving friend group.
Perhaps I wasn’t the greatest influence.
Duncan and Thomas laughed, but Lenora pretended not to notice. I didn’t care. I was having a good time. Marlowe encouraged me, twirling her blond hair as she shimmied her hips. 
All of a sudden, Otto’s hand was at my elbow, pulling me outside.
I did not enjoy being led around like some kind of leashed Pomeranian. I tugged out of his grip once we’d crossed into the backyard.
“What’s your problem?” I asked, annoyed.
“Can’t you just act normal?” he muttered.
I blinked at him. That’s when I understood. In front of his football buddies, Otto was embarrassed by me.
How had I not noticed it before? It wasn’t just this scenario. It was when I talked too animatedly about product design, my dream major. Or when I laughed too loudly at someone’s jokes. Or when I called his friends out for saying something sexist. When I got passionate, I got loud. Otto suppressed that. Rejected it.
My personality wasn’t for everyone, sure, but I knew your person was supposed to love the things that made you,you.
Otto and I had been together for a few weeks, but I realized we wouldn’t last much longer. We didn’t click.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
He snort-­laughed, his upper lip doing that weird curl thing. It used to be charming to me. Now it wasn’t. Otto told me to be normal when I was doing the most normal, cliché thing I could think of: participating in underage drinking and dancing at a high school party.
To him, I was doing it all wrong.
“You’re serious?” he finally said when my expression didn’t change.
“I’m sorry, Ottoman.” I tried to soften the blow by using the nickname I gave him, but I quickly realized that wasn’t the move. “I don’t think we’re meshing together in the ways we should be meshing.”
“Brynn, c’mon,” he pleaded. “We’ve been drinking. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
But I knew in my gut I’d feel the same way when I woke up. This wasn’t fun anymore, and I wasn’t going to be with someone who dimmed my light. “It won’t change how I feel now, though.”
He let out a hiss of air. “You know, people warned me this would happen. That you’re so fucking fickle in relationships.” He downed the rest of his beer. “Guess they were right.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot to my hairline. I mean, sure. It’s not exactly false information, but spewing it in such a vitriolic way to get a rise out of me was plain shitty.
“I’m letting that comment slide because you’re clearly upset, but I’m not going to stand here and apologize for knowing what’s best for me. You’re not it.” He opened his mouth, but I was already taking off. “Don’t follow me.”
I rejoined Marlowe and Tahlia where I’d left them in the living room. I tried to shake off his words, but it wasn’t as if I was immune to hurt. I wasn’t a soulless person. Every side of a breakup sucks.
We didn’t stay much longer after that. Mostly because I was sobering up and didn’t feel like dancing with Otto lurking around. It killed the vibe.
I’d woken up a little sad but not regretful. It was the right decision.
I down the rest of my Cocoa Pellets and rinse the bowl in the sink. As I’m drying my hands, my phone begins to blow up. Not just one text, but multiple texts roll through so quickly that I have to catch my iPhone before it vibrates off the counter to an untimely death.
Who the hell is texting me this early? 
When I navigate to my messages, I realize it’s my group chat with Marlowe and Tahlia. Before I can open it, another text from Marlowe arrives.
Marlowe: he’s a rancid scummy dingus weasel skid mark
I blink. What powerful poetry, but who is she talking about?
I scroll to the beginning of the messages, where the conversation starts.
Tahlia have you seen the video?
Marlowe please tell me you’re ok
Marlowe don’t panic, ok? I’m coming over now with tahlia to do damage control.
Panic sets in anyway. What are they talking about? What video? Oh god. Did I do something embarrassing last night? I don’t remember dancing on any coffee tables, though I’ve been known to do that. Who doesn’t love a good coffee table?
I keep reading, starting to sweat.
Tahlia: I’m so sorry Brynn
Tahlia: he’s going to get in so much trouble for this though
Tahlia: marls and I are in the sbux drive thru and then heading your way
Sorry for what? I send that exact thought to the group chat, but I don’t get a reply.
Hoping for clarity, I scroll through the rest of my incoming texts. They’re mostly from my classmates, but it’s the same meme every time. A screenshot from some reality cooking show where a contestant is trying to eat three pickles at once.
If this is some kind of sex joke, it’s lost on me.
A second later, Marlowe and Tahlia burst through my front door with a Venti Mocha Cookie Frappuccino, both wearing matching concerned expressions.
I look between them. “What’s going on?”
Marlowe bites her lower lip. We’ve been friends since she moved from San Diego to attend Greenlough at the start of sophomore year. After my fallout with Lenora, we gravitated toward each other, spending weeks bonding during movie nights and homework sessions. It was around that time when she opened up about her transition, explaining she was certain of her gender identity by the time she was eleven.
She’s my most caring and empathetic friend, and the way she’s looking at me now is turning my stomach to ice.
“You haven’t seen?” Tahlia asks, a note of surprise in her voice.
Tahlia is the most analytical out of the three of us. She’s Muslim American, a proud hijabi, and pansexual. Her grandparents immigrated here from Lebanon in the ’70s, and while Tahlia loves that all her family is in California, she’s always wanted to live in Boston or New York, where there are seasons. We grew closer sophomore year when the three of us had US History together, which eventually led to us eating lunch together, forming what is now our inseparable union.
Marlowe and Tahlia exchange apprehensive glances. Why are they so hesitant?
I suck in an anxious breath. “I swear if you don’t tell me—­”
“Someone sent a clip of Duncan Rowe getting a blowie to the entire senior class this morning. Everyone thinks it’s you because the other person in the video was wearing a banana costume,” Tahlia says in one breath, like ripping off a Band-­Aid. She immediately follows this by handing me the Frappuccino.
The drink is slick with condensation. I nearly lose my grip due to my current state of shock. My heart drops. Other than spotting him in the kitchen at Keith’s, I had zero interaction with Duncan Rowe last night. And I’m not trying to be messy. He’s in a committed relationship with my ex-­BFF. I am very aware of this.
But if it wasn’t me, then who? Because as far as I know, I was the only one dressed as a banana at Keith’s party last night. Apparently what I imagined would be hee-­hee-­ha-­ha funny was fated to be phallic in a way I hadnot intended.
“The video was spread around on Snapchat,” Marlowe explains, her green eyes full of sympathy. 
I quickly check Snapchat, but there aren’t any unopened messages. Whoever is circulating the video didn’t send it to me.
“It’s not like anyone can save it, right?” Tahlia says. “But I swear, this will blow over—­”
Marlowe gives her an incredulous look. “Blow over?”
“Poor word choice,” Tahlia amends. “It’ll pass. And obviously we know it wasn’t you— ­ Duncan knows it wasn’t you. So, you know, he can clear it up.”
I’m overheating. I want to crawl out of my skin and make this whole situation somebody else’s problem. Why would someone do this? Because of the way I’d handled things with Otto? As far as breakups go, it wasn’t bad. Only—­he was a little upset, wasn’t he? But not enough to actively ruin my life.
“You both opened the video?”
They nod, giving me compassionate stares.
“We didn’t know what it was when it came through,” Tahlia explains.
“It looked like it was taken through a crack in the door, and it was only, like, five seconds,” Marlowe continues. “Nobody knows the user behind the Snapchat account. It’s already deactivated. You could see the banana suit but not the face of the person inside of it.”
I open the lid to my Starbucks cup and scoop up a heaping amount of whipped cream with two of my fingers. I do this until it’s gone, pacing back and forth.
Who would think it’s okay to share something like that? As—­what? Some kind of blackmail against Duncan? Did he do something to piss someone off? It doesn’t make sense. If he’s happy with Lenora, he wouldn’t want this to get out. So maybe he doesn’t know who sent it.
I stop pacing. “You guys know it wasn’t me.”
“Duh,” Marlowe says.
“But it’s weird.” Tahlia looks at me. “Who else had the same costume as you?”
That’s when it hits me.
Most students were at the Halloween dance, and a majority of the senior class came to Keith’s after-­party. They saw me in that costume. They know Lenora and I aren’t friends anymore. Why she’s spent so long hating me.
I’m going to look like the guilty party.
I set my drink down. How many of my classmates received that video? Have opened that video? They’ll believe it’s me. And if word about my breakup with Otto has gotten around, they’ll assume I ended things and hooked up with my ex–­best friend’s boyfriend the same night.
I feel sick. This is a colossal nightmare.
Until my name is cleared, I’m screwed. Ruined. I will absolutely be the most hated person at school.
A dozen more pings chime from my phone in rapid succession.
Scratch that. I already am.