Micah Deluca came out sophomore year. He was standing by his locker, talking to a blond with a crooked smile and one fake tooth, feigning interest to stare at his biceps. The blond's name was Dylan Arnholt, and Micah had better things to do, but he was always polite and politer to handsome boys. Perhaps that was telling enough, but there was something effeminate about Micah: his straight dark hair, the impish curve of his pink mouth, the way he held his hips, his meticulously shined Doc Martens and tight bleached jeans. Everyone suspected he was gay, but no one knew until Dylan asked pointblank, "So, are you a fag?"

"Do you mean to ask if I suck dick? Or are you asking if I'm going to suck yours?" Micah had black-brown eyes, round and large in proportion to his otherwise understated features. They held light in white shapes, bright and penetrating. "Because the answer to one of those questions is yes and the other is no."

Stunned, Dylan left him with a bloody nose and a swollen eye, screaming something so obscene it was lost to repetitive gossip and exaggeration. Noel Edenfield watched from down the hall and whispered, "Damn," beneath the commotion of students rushing to see the fight that never ensued. Micah walked away and calmly informed a teacher of his injuries while Noel repeated, "Damn."