Twenty

“I can’t believe you spent an entire day in matching outfits with Tucker Watson and the only word you have to describe it is fine,” Clem tells me. “That guy’s been on your shit list for years.”

“Well, while I’m very honored to know that you keep track of my shit list, which is very long and thorough, it really was fine. It wasn’t awful. It wasn’t great. It was fine.” Except it wasn’t fine. It was confusing. And dare I say fun? “Honestly,” I tell her as we pull up to our driveway after school, “I’m way more concerned with pulling off all this prom court crap. And we haven’t even broached the topic of my prom attire. We have less than a week and a half, people.”

“Do what I’m doing and rent a tux,” says Hannah.

“One does not simply rent a tuxedo,” I say.

Hannah and Clem are silent, the two of them blinking at me.

“I mean, you can rent a tuxedo,” I say. “I don’t technically own one, so I guess I would have to rent one too, but . . . I don’t know. I didn’t actually imagine myself going to this thing, so I never thought about what I might wear, and now we’re actually going to prom and”—I can feel myself getting flustered—“so now I can’t even begin to think about what the perfect outfit might consist of. Do I play it classy with a plain black tux? Do I lean into my queen nomination fully and go in drag? I’ve never walked more than a few steps in heels and—”

Clem pats my shoulder. “In through your nose and out through your mouth.”

I roll my shoulder away from her hand. It might just be clothing, but it’s also so much more than that. If I win—a very big and unlikely if—then this look is going in the yearbook. Hell! Even in the newspaper. And if little ol’ Clover City is about to crown my ass prom queen, they’re going to be stunned when they do. And then there’s the fat factor. Finding the perfect thing to wear to prom is difficult, but being fat and bringing my vision to life could turn out to be impossible.

“I think you should dress in whatever makes you feel powerful,” says Hannah. “When I’m in a suit, I feel like I’m the chief executive president commander empress of the world.”

“Yeah,” says Clem. “You have to figure out what your power suit is.”

“Great. No pressure.”

“Do you need a pep talk? You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You have impeccable taste. You’re ahead of your time. Our generation is lucky to have you.”

I pucker my lips into a frown to stop from smiling. “Thanks.”

She takes my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “This pep talk has been brought to you by your twin sister.”

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 and Tucker 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.”