My head almost makes a 360-degree movement. My mom studies him carefully too, the only sound being the gentle hum of the projector pretending to mind its own business, when really it’s hanging on our every word.

“What do you mean, Dad?” I ask carefully.

He settles into his wheelchair. “They can’t fix it, this Parkinson’s or whatever, but I still get up and have coffee and get on with it.”

He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “You can’t waste time thinking about the bad stuff. It’s depressing.”

I don’t know what to do with myself so I stand to get a hairbrush. My mom sits down against the wheel of my dad’s chair and rests her head on his knee.

“Careful you don’t rip your hair out,” he says as the teeth of the brush tear through the knots in my hair.

I give up and put my hairbrush back on the dresser. “I just can’t take everyone being all pumped about Nicaragua now that my summer’s looking like a sinkhole.”

“You’re young and you should go dance,” my dad says. “Come here, we can turn the go-my-man into the go-my-girl.”

He chugs his arms and hums a mix of a couple of Elvis songs. I hum along unenthusiastically and do a few arm chugs myself. The mirror confirms that I look like an old-fashioned, clinically depressed train.

My dad laughs so hard he chokes, and my mom slaps him on the back. “You know you can always stand around the punch table,” he offers. “You don’t have to dance.”

I shake my head. I want them to leave so I can sort out my senior year time capsule. Or throw it away. “Thanks, Dad,” I say, moving toward the door with the hope that they’ll take the hint. “But I’d rather stay here and cut my toenails.”

“You’ll regret it forever if you don’t go.”

“Come on,” my mom encourages. “Forget about your English grade and Nicaragua and college and marriage and kids and midlife crises and retirement homes and nursing homes and crematoriums. Just go enjoy your last night before you graduate from high school!”

I look over at my closet and try another way to get them off my back. “Even if I wanted to go, I don’t have a dress.”

“I happened to see one that reminded me of you,” my mom says, hopping up. “It was in the window of Willa’s Closet, and I got it on my way home.” She disappears into the hallway and comes back holding up a short bright blue dress with layers and layers of shiny ruffles. “Ta-da!”

“Wow, Mom,” I say slowly. “That is a really, really unique dress. Thanks so much.” I take it from her and hold it up to myself in the mirror. Honestly, it’s like I’m being eaten by an eighties-themed pastry.

“Oh, it’s perfect,” she says, clapping her hands. “We’ll leave so you can put it on.”

Upon squeezing myself into the most unfortunate piece of fabric that’s ever been on my body, I poke my head out of my room. I hear my parents’ voices downstairs. “It’s really beautiful and I appreciate it, but I’m still not going,” I yell. “Prom is just a dance. I can dance anywhere, anytime.”