Clem’s eyes bug out, telling me to shut up.

For some reason, I think Mom and Dad wouldn’t actually flip out too much if they knew about last night’s party, but I guess I’d rather not have to find out. Honestly, we’re so close to full-fledged adulthood that it feels like we’re going through the parent/child motions.

“Waylon, let me see this suit of yours,” Grammy says.

I whimper. “Do I have to try it on?”

“I’ll pin you in it later this week, but at least come show me what I’m working with.”

I follow Grammy to the end of the hallway where she, Bernadette, and Cleo share a crafting room.

After I unzip the garment bag, Grammy’s brow furrows and she holds her chin in her hand.

“Boring,” she declares, diagnosing the tux.

I sigh, and shut the door so Mom won’t hear. “Thank you.”

“Do you even want to wear a suit?” she asks.

I think about that for a moment. I think I might really love being Pumpkin, but for prom night, I really just want to be me. With a sprinkle of Pumpkin. “I think so. But I guess I pictured . . . have you ever had this idea of something in your head and you want to make the thing in real life match the idea in your head so badly?”

“Pumpkin, I’ve never worn a piece of clothing straight from the rack in my life. What you’re talking about is my calling.”

“I don’t know what exactly it should look like, but right now it feels like I’m wearing a curtain. A drab curtain. I want this suit to speak for me. I want people to see this suit and know exactly what I’m about.”

She throws an arm around my shoulder. “Well, baby, that’s a tall order, but Grammy is on the case.”

She lays the suit out on her sewing table and begins to inspect every seam and stitch.

The doorbell rings and in unison from half a house apart, Grammy and Mom call, “Can someone get that?”

“On it,” I say, leaving Grammy with my suit.

I limp over to the front door, and open it to find—“Tucker,” I say breathlessly. “Is everything okay? What are you doing here?”

Tucker holds a store-bought pound cake in one hand and pushes his hair back with the other. “Uh . . .”

Last night, soon after my death drop, Tucker went home to check on his dad, and every other thought since then has been dedicated to trying to decide if I should text him. (The other thoughts were primarily about my groin muscles and disappointing tuxedo.)

“You made it!” Mom says as she rushes me from behind and pulls Tucker inside. She takes the pound cake from his hand. “Oh, now this will be lovely with some fresh berries and cream. Come, come, come. We were just about to eat.”

“Your mom wasn’t kidding about not letting me skip out on another invitation,” he whispers. “She blew up my phone all morning.”

I follow the two of them through the kitchen into the dining room, where we all sit down. I motion to the chair beside me for Tucker to sit in. Meanwhile, actual fireworks are going off in my stomach. Tucker is here. At family dinner. By invitation of my mother!

“Grammy, this is Tucker,” I tell her.

She grins. Today she’s wearing a red-and-white gingham romper that comes down to her knees. The collar is lined in rhinestones and she wears matching sparkly red sneakers.

“I can see where Waylon gets his good taste from,” Tucker says. “Thank you for your help with our coveralls.”

Grammy lets out a girlish giggle. “Oh, now, Waylon, this boy is good. A real charmer. You should—”

And right as she’s about to say something I’m sure will embarrass me, Dad comes in with a tray of burgers and hot dogs. “Tuck!” he says. “So glad you could make it.”

“I’m glad too, for the record,” Clem says. “Though I would have invited Hannah had I known that we were inviting . . . people.”

“Hannah is always welcome, dear,” Mom says. “But I wanted to invite Tucker since he and Waylon are working so closely together on prom court and as a thank-you for working on my car.”

I want to tell her she could have at least told me, but I don’t want to risk Tucker feeling awkward.

“Well, you’re welcome,” Tucker says quietly, blush creeping up his neck.

The burgers and hot dogs are overdone, which is pretty on par for Dad’s lackluster grilling skills, but Mom’s mac and cheese is good enough to elicit an audible groan from Tucker.

“Secret’s in the mustard powder,” she says before he can even manage to compliment her.

“So, dear boy,” Grammy says while everyone either finishes up or decides to abandon ship on their plates, “where do you see life taking you after graduation?”

“Ugh.” Clem flops in her seat. “Grammy, you know that’s the actual worst question you can ask a high school senior, right?”

“I’m trying to get to know our mysterious guest,” Grammy says defensively.

Tucker waves his hands. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I, uh, don’t have much of a plan beyond taking care of my dad and taking care of his shop.”

The thought of him rotting in that dingy little garage makes me feel hopeless. I want to live in a world where Tucker can dream as big and ridiculously as he wants.

Grammy’s expression softens. “Is he ill?”

Dad clears his throat. “Mom, don’t pry.”

“He’s got a drinking problem, ma’am,” Tucker says as simply as he would say his dad has brown hair or is short or any other fact you can discern from a quick look at someone.

We all fall quiet. And it’s not because what Tucker has said is embarrassing or uncomfortable, but he says it in such a matter-of-fact, immovable way. Like it’s a thing that could never possibly change.

“My mother did as well,” Grammy says.

I perk up at that. I never knew that. I never met my great-grandmother, but I’ve heard so much about her that she’s always felt real and tangible to me, but no one ever told me she was an alcoholic. Judging by the confusion on Clem’s face, she didn’t know either.

When I look to Dad, he nods.

Grammy and Tucker share a quick look, like they’re in some kind of club.

This got heavy. Fast.

“Well,” says Clem, trying to change the mood, but she’s got nothing.

“I work for your son as well,” Tucker adds.

“Yes!” Dad says, charging in with the change-of-subject brigade. “He does indeed. One of my best guys.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tucker says.

For the rest of dinner, Tucker and I tell everyone all about our experiences on prom court, and everyone is excited, but Grammy glows with pride.

Mom makes fresh whipped cream and serves it with berries over the pound cake Tucker brought. When Cleo and Bernadette get home from bingo, they join us and tell us all about their latest adventures and even a few dirty jokes, until it’s getting dark enough that Grammy has to turn on the lights.

Tucker glances at his phone. “I better get going.”

“Prom court panel tomorrow,” I remind him. “Dress code is—”

“Sunday best,” he finishes, like the very detailed email from Mrs. Leonard said. Tomorrow, the entire prom court will sit on a panel in front of the whole senior class in an effort to make the voting process more than a popularity contest.