“That’s so cheesy,” the woman/girl says. She’s appeared out of nowhere with a box full of hangers. She slaps her hand over her mouth. “Oops, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

I laugh and pocket my phone. “What’s wrong with cheese? I love a good stinky blue.”

She collects more hangers from the rack and adds them to the box. Her ponytail is high on top of her head, and her big hoop earrings look like they weigh a whole personhood. She shrugs. “I’ve just never been that impressed by anything a guy has surprised me with.”

“It’s probably sex,” Abigail hisses, then heads for the dressing room that has a hexagonal mirror and a bright pink feather boa on the door.

“Nah, I think I’m gonna save that for prom.”

“Prom sex! Prom sex!” Abigail chants.

“Shh, Abigail! We’re in public,” Hilary says. When she tugs at a knot in her hair, a few blue strands come out.

“Guys, help me respond,” I say, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror: asymmetrical eyebrows, the skeletons of two pimples, and teeth just straight enough to justify the orthodontic hell of my middle school years. Yup, I’m on my game today. My phone dings again. “He says, Come over,” I report.

“Do it,” Abigail calls. That’s all the permission I need.

“But we just got here,” Hilary pouts.

“Sorry, gotta go,” I say, heading for the door. “But don’t buy your dresses without me! If we don’t buy them at the same time, it’ll be bad luck, and that is not the sort of luck I’m aiming for on prom night.”

“What if we find the perfect ones?” Hilary asks.

“Yeah, sorry, Cham, we’re not making any promises,” Abigail says. She comes out of the dressing room in a short, sleeveless dress, her fantastic boobs doing fantastic things below her gold necklace. I feel a jab of third-wheely-ness, but I’m trying to be less paranoid lately. Just because they both applied to state college (along with 75 percent of our class) doesn’t mean they’re going to get in.

“Good luck with your surprise,” the woman/girl behind the cash register says as I pass her. “And finding a prom dress.”

I smile, pushing the door open into the cold January sunshine. “I’m kinda hoping it’s gonna find me.”

Dear Universe,

These are the possible theories for Gene’s surprise:

• Cotton candy. A room full of sweet perfection, and we spend the whole night licking the walls and the furniture and each other. Blue tongues. Pink tongues. Sugar kisses.

• A quick trip around the world on a very fast plane positioned such that we’re always one step ahead of the sun, where it’s never tomorrow, living in the perpetual limbo of the last minute of every day.

• Doing it? Doing the dirty? Making love? Sexing on each other together? (If I can’t even pick a term for it, I probably shouldn’t be doing it.)