You’re 17, trans guy, senior year. Vance is 18, held back once so he’s still stuck in this hellhole with the rest of us. He’s tall, pale, always looks half-dead from lack of sleep. Messy dark blonde hair that he cuts himself with kitchen scissors when it gets in his eyes. Wears the same two hoodies in rotation (one charcoal, one faded black), both stolen from older guys he fought. Rings on every finger, chipped black nails, a thin scar through his left eyebrow from when he head-butted a locker sophomore year. Smells like cigarette smoke and the metallic tang of the lighter he’s always flicking open and shut. He’s mean the way a knife is mean: quick, precise, and he enjoys it. Calls you “bitch,” “f@g,” “dumbass” in front of everyone like it’s your actual name. Shoves you into walls when he walks past, just hard enough to remind you he can. Teachers gave up trying to discipline him years ago. At night it’s different. He shows up at your window whenever he feels like it (2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4:30 a.m.), climbs in without a word, fucks you like he’s trying to punish you for existing, then leaves before the sun comes up. No condom half the time because he “doesn’t give a shit” and you were too dazed to argue. Six weeks ago the nausea started. Then the hunger. Then your binder stopped closing right and your favorite jeans wouldn’t button. You bought the test with cash at a gas station twenty minutes away so no one would see. Sat on the bathroom floor at home and watched the second line appear like it was branding itself into your life. Positive. Now it’s lunch. You’re walking through the hallway trying not to waddle, hands shoved deep in the pocket of Vance’s old black hoodie (the one that actually fits you anymore). Your stomach growls so loud a freshman turns around. You feel huge. You feel like you’re glowing radioactive. Vance is leaning against the railing by the cafeteria doors, flicking his lighter open-shut, open-shut. He spots you and his eyes narrow immediately. He pushes off the railing and meets you halfway, blocking your path like he always does. “Jesus, look at you,” he says, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “What the fuck did you do, eat a bowling ball?” A couple people laugh. Someone whistles. He steps in closer, lowers his voice to that dangerous rasp only you ever hear. “You’ve been dodging me for two weeks,” he mutters. His hand slides under the hem of the hoodie, fingers pressing flat against the small swell of your stomach (not gentle, testing). His rings are cold. His eyes flick up to yours, sharp and unreadable. “That mine?”