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.

I let my mind wander to my own personal Fancy-but-Not-Too-Fancy Utopia. A place where beautiful gowns and sweatpants are equally revered. Perfect climate control so that I never walk into a room feeling like a sweaty mess. A place where no one looks at you like you need to eat a salad when you choose to eat a burger and a place where anyone can hold hands or kiss or not do any of those things without anyone else caring. That’s a laundry list of things, but if I could start anywhere, where would my utopia begin?

“Really luxurious bathrooms,” I finally say as he’s shoveling the casserole onto two different dishes. “Like with fainting couches and mints and free tampons and shit for people who need them and really fancy soap.”

He laughs, really laughs, his head shaking as he chokes on a bit of casserole. My stomach jumps a little at the sound of it and all I want to do is make him laugh again. “Okay, yes, a fancy bathroom to poop in would be fantastic, but I’m talking about something that would change everything for you.”

“You underestimate the power of luxury,” I tell him, as the irony of this dingy little trailer really sinks in.

He has another bite of the casserole and lets out a delicious sigh that gives me chills. Then he points his fork at me. “Try again.”

It takes a minute for my brain to work, because his sigh is on a constant loop. I clear my throat and force myself to think. “Honestly, if I could just be me. That’s it. That would change everything. If I could just be the version of myself that exists in my head, but in real life all the time, that would have made high school better. Maybe then I would have run for prom queen because I wanted to and not because some knuckle-dragging Neanderthal nominated me.”

“Full Waylon,” he says knowingly, like he can perfectly imagine exactly what form that might take. “But if you think about it, everyone feels like that. Don’t you see it everywhere you look?”

“Oh, come on,” I say, a little outraged by his inability to see what I see. “People like Melissa and Bryce and Bekah and even Mitch and Callie—those people always get to be themselves without getting eaten alive.”

“I’m not saying the stakes aren’t high for you—they are, but take Bekah, for instance. She’s more than a baton-twirling blonde.”

I shrug and drag my fork through my food. “Bekah and I are not the same. Bekah is hot. I’m a fat gay guy who has a female alter ego.”

He takes a huge bite of food and keeps talking—which is somehow gross and adorable. Who have I become? “First—maybe there’s more to Pumpkin than you think. Maybe spending more time as Pumpkin might help you feel more like . . . you.”

It’s the first time I’ve really heard someone talk about Pumpkin like she was a legitimate thing and more than a silly nickname from Grammy. Like I could actually build a life around being Pumpkin by night and Waylon by day. And like maybe in order to fully be Waylon, I need to let myself be Pumpkin.

“And B of all . . .” He looks down at his near-empty plate. “You’re pretty hot yourself,” he says softly.

That should make me blush. I should feel a fluttering in my chest. I should be asking him a zillion questions right now. But the truth is his words make my stomach turn, and I lose my appetite faster than I can push my food away.

I’ve tried not to spend too much time thinking about the differences between me and Tucker, but this morning when I saw us both in the mirror in our matching outfits, it was more apparent than ever. We’re both tall, except he’s broad and trim where my shoulders seem to slope down like I’m some kind of penguin, and my gut pooches out to complete the whole look like I’m not just a penguin. I’m a penguin with a beer belly. I try not to think too much about my body, and the fact that I can’t confront that part of myself embarrasses me. It makes me feel weak, but honestly, I don’t even like to look too long at what’s underneath my clothes. So hearing Tucker call me hot doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel uncomfortable and patronized. At least with Lucas, there was less talking and more fumbling in the dark.

“We need to start on this homework,” I say quickly, and pull Mr. Higgins’s folder from my backpack.

He clears his throat, his cheeks flushed. “Right.”

For the next hour, we fill out worksheets, I share my leftovers with Tucker, and he makes us awful break room coffee. And slowly my brain forgets about the extreme discomfort I felt at the sound of someone calling me hot. Everything that’s been a source of pain or worry for me over the last few weeks falls away until it doesn’t matter, because Tucker Watson and I are sitting across from each other with only a narrow table between us. If this table wasn’t here, all I would see is his thigh laced between mine and the inside of his foot resting against mine. It’s a silent, unacknowledged touch that makes everything inside of me roar to life.

Twenty-One

Ms. Jennings holds her hands up, fingers stretched out, triumph written all over her face as we hold the final note of our graduation medley. She snaps her hands shut, and we stop in unison. With a teary-eyed grin, she nods. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

“Ms. Jennings,” Kyle says, “can you please go to college with us?”

“You pretty much look young enough to be a senior in college, anyway,” Alex chimes in.

“Suck-ups,” I mutter.

“But it’s true,” Clem whispers as she peels a piece of purple nail polish from her thumbnail. “She looks young enough to be in our class.”

The bell rings and the thrum of noise in the hallway is immediate. “Okay,” says Ms. Jennings over the commotion, “I’ll see you all next week. And Waylon, if you could stay behind for a moment, that’d be great.”

“Ooooh!” Clem pokes at my side. “Someone’s in trouble.”

I roll my eyes and toss the keys her way as she joins Hannah in the hallway. “This teacher’s pet would never. I’ll meet y’all at the truck.”

I hover at Ms. Jennings’s desk as the last student scoots off to lunch. Being asked to stay behind after class by a teacher will forever make me anxious.

She closes the door behind her and turns to me. “It’s been a big couple weeks for you, huh?”

She’s talking about prom, but the video too, which I’m sure she saw. “That’s an understatement.”

She nods, her lips twitching into a sad smile. “That thing people say about high school being the best years of your life? It’s a lie.”

“I’d hoped that was the case.”