“Yep.”

“That you’re now hiding from under his bed while he eats gluten-free tofu-pigs-in a-blanket?”

“Correct.”

I can almost see her rolling her eyes. “You’re a weirdo, Cham, and he’s an asshat for telling you he has a surprise for you that’s actually about him. Can you and I just date? I’ll teach you how to code and never offer you the best night of your life unless I figure out a way to get Elvis back from the dead.”

“I do love me some Elvis.” I pick through a few crusty shirts under Gene’s bed, really hoping it’s Elmer’s glue on his sleeve and not… something else. “I guess the surprise is that we get to have a sleepover after his party Friday night?”

“Yeah, I got the text a few minutes ago. I can’t believe he invited the whole senior class. It’s gonna be wild.” I hear her unzip her backpack, which she always has stocked for various occasions, from the end of the world to impromptu parties. “We need a freaking break from homework and AP classes and college decisions and blah blah blah. I just want to shake my ass someplace where people can watch me.”

“Same, except where no one can watch me.” I bang my head on the wooden plank supporting Gene’s mattress as I crawl from under it to stare out the window forlorn-cat style. There’s a certain darkness to eight PM in suburbia, like does anyone really choose to end up here? I sigh. “Maybe he’ll ask me to prom Friday night with an arrangement of beer bottles and everyone watching.”

“Maybe,” she says doubtfully.

“Well, I guess I should get back to it,” I say, walking into Gene’s bathroom and pausing in front of the mirror.

“Godspeed, little one.”

“You always say that,” I complain, “and I never know what it means.” She’s already hung up.

After a long dinner, during which I pretend not to imagine what “after high school” looks like for me and Gene—beyond Senior Volunteer Trip to Nicaragua—he pulls me into the closet at the end of the hall.

“I wanted to do this all night,” he says, drawing me toward him and the rack of clothes. It smells a little bit like shoes and soggy umbrellas, and I fall against a cushion of puffy jackets as he kisses me. There’s a softness to his lips, and when our tongues touch, it’s like he’s licking the inside of my whole body. Our breathing gets faster. And then my phone goes off.

“Ugh,” I say, looking down at it and using one of the hooks in the closet to steady me. “My mom wants me home now.”

“No,” he says, grabbing me playfully. I groan into a large leather jacket to my right. We only have a few seconds left to cram our bodies into each other, so I pull him toward me. His fingers travel up my shirt. Every new place he touches makes it harder to breathe. Either that, or I’m slowly suffocating in this cowhide pocket.