“Me too,” says Lamar, and Matt agrees, and so forth down the line until every football player’s doing it except for Jack, and Miguel, who hasn’t ordered yet. But he mumbles that he’ll have it too, even though he hates Maggie’s hash browns and thinks her cheese grits are a microaggression against all people of color and anyone else with working taste buds. I feel mildly betrayed on Jack’s behalf, but if she feels the same, it’s impossible to tell, because you can’t meet someone’s eyes who refuses to lift them from the table.

Talk shifts to Robbie then, and though Miguel easily joins in—or at least he makes it look easy, though it’s probably killing him—I can’t even bring myself to fake interest. It’s bad enough that I brought Jack here; to skip out on “Remember that time Robbie” and “It was hilarious when Robbie” Hour would be a sin worse than dropping a top girl on her butt. I do my best to give context to Jack every now and again, but it’s clear as she pushes food around on her plate while barely eating any that she’s checked out.

Finally, once I’ve shoveled my food down my throat without really tasting it, I declare I’ve gotta go home.

“It’s not even one thirty!” Cara whines, as if her parents wouldn’t absolutely flip if they knew she was out right now. No one sneaks out of the house with the agility of our best flyer. “Don’t be a party pooper. Your mom never cares when you stay out late.”

“My mom might not, but my trig homework does,” I reply with a sad face. “I gotta get up early to do some makeup work.”

Now it’s Miguel’s turn to dig into my thigh. I’m stealing one of his best patented excuses for when he needs to get away for a date he doesn’t want anyone to know about. I don’t say anything to him, though—just leave money on the table and ask Jack if she wants a ride, like she’s not obviously dying to get out of here. She agrees as if the idea only just occurred to her, and we head out even while Cara yells, “Boo, you whore,” at my back.

This time, we don’t exchange any words on the ride home, but when I pull up in front of her building, I say, “Okay, that did kind of suck. I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “I should’ve known it’d be as bad as I thought. Or I guess maybe it wasn’t as bad—nobody spit in my food.”

“Progress!” I cheer, and she snorts. “Though I couldn’t help but notice you ate ketchup with your eggs, which is so much worse than spit.”

“Don’t you dare blaspheme my favorite vegetable.”

“Ketchup?”