At home, Mom finds me hanging upside down on the couch. “Baby, you look like a damn tomato with all that blood rushing to your head.”
“I’m trying to trigger my creative juices,” I tell her.
She sits down beside me. “By hanging upside down on my sofa? With your shoes on, I might add.”
I slither off the couch onto the floor as gracefully as I can, which turns out to be not at all. “I’m trying to figure out what to wear to prom. And you know I have a hard enough time finding clothes as it is.”
As the primary buyer of my wardrobe, she nods knowingly. “I’ll have a look-see around town and let you know what I come up with.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though the thought of my mom picking out my prom outfit is even more stressful than trying to fulfill my own vision.
When I tell Mom I’m heading up to Dad’s work site to do homework with Tucker, she insists on sending food. This time, though, I don’t make the mistake of hiking up the muddy hill myself, and instead call Dad to chauffeur me.
“Did somebody call an Uber?” he asks as I get in.
“Primo dad joke,” I tell him. “Like, you’re two steps away from wearing socks with sandals and only watching movies based off true stories.”
“Watch out,” he says. “One day you’ll be old too.”
“I may be old, but I’ll always be fabulous,” I tell him.
“Your grandmother’s genes are strong as hell, aren’t they?”
“They are,” I say. “But don’t let her find out. Hey, I meant to ask: How long has Tucker worked for you?”
He thinks for a moment as he parks in front of his on-site office. “Well, I don’t hire anyone under eighteen and he just came of age this year, so I guess a few months.”
I nod. “Did you know he spends a lot of time running his dad’s shop?”
He turns off his ignition. “I did. You know, Charlie, his dad, hasn’t had it so easy. He’s got a real problem with the bottle and lots of guilt to contend with. We went to school together, his dad and I did.” He pauses. “Sounds like you’ve taken a real shine to him.”
“Well, we got stuck doing this prom stuff together,” I explain.
“Doesn’t seem like a bad guy to get stuck with.” He winks and nudges my arm.
I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. “Did Mom put you up to this? We are definitely not having this conversation.”
“I’m just trying to bond with my son,” he says as I slam the passenger door behind me.
“Then take me shopping!” I tromp up the stairs andTucker is already waiting for me. He’s changed since this afternoon. Now he wears light-wash jeans that are forever stained with dirt, oil, and paint, with heavy work boots like the kind my dad has always worn and a faded Texas A&M T-shirt.
“I come bearing gifts of leftover casserole and homework,” I announce. “Indeed. I don’t know what it is, but I know there’s cheese.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he says as he takes the food from me and pops it in the microwave, which is pretty gross on the inside and has definitely seen its fair share of exploded lunches. He punches a few buttons and then turns back to me. “So, we have one project down and one to go. The faculty were super into it. And, of course, homework.”
“None of them were really into doing my customer service survey,” I tell him, tucking my chin into my shoulder, like I’m emotionally wounded.
“Oh, come on now.” He moves to the other side of the room where I am, leans up against the counter next to me so that our shoulders are brushing, and crosses one leg over the other. “It was less a survey and more you cornering staff members and asking them how likely they were to vote for either one of us on a scale of one to ten.”
“There was a very nice mint in it for them if they answered. Those white puffy soft ones.”
He patronizes me with a sliver of a smile and a nod. “Those mints do get me every time. But teachers want the day to be over more than students do,” he says. “We still have to plan our legacy project. This one’s gotta be huge,though,” he says. “Like, think viral.”
I groan. “I hate that it’s called a legacy project. It makes it sound like we’re dying.” I fall silent for a moment, trying to think of something. “I don’t know. I mean, we could build a bench. Or, like, get the broken vending machines fixed. Or paint some dumb mural with a bunch of kids holding hands around the world.”
He shakes his head. “What’s something that would have changed your whole experience at school? The kind of thing that would’ve helped you leave this place with close to zero regrets?”
The microwave dings before I can answer, which is good, because I don’t have an answer. I want to stand out. I want to fit in. But I’ve never done much of either. The only place I’ve ever felt like I’m right where I’m supposed to be is Clementine’s side. I’m not really leaving school with regrets, but I’m not leaving with many memories either. I’ve only got a few weeks left, and if I’m going to stand out or fit in, now is the time.
