“Community college is a good option,” she says. I can tell she’s not lying, but she’s not telling the whole truth. It’s like she’s waiting for me to say some kind of magic phrase as a sign that it’s safe to let her guard down.

“Too bad there’s no college courses on drag,” I say with a laugh. In Clover City, you either go off to school or you’re stuck here forever.

Her face lights up. “Teachers aren’t supposed to say this, and this might be crossing a line, but . . . I wanted to say . . . college isn’t for everyone, Waylon. Or it doesn’t have to be. And . . . if you’re really serious about drag, I know some of the best queens in Texas. It’s not really ideal career counseling to encourage a student to pursue a career in drag, but it’s a real art form and I think you could really thrive. You know, right down the road, we have our very own—”

“Lee Way,” I finish for her. “She’s amazing.”

She pushes her glasses up into her hair and laughs. “Well, I’m glad to know we have similar taste. Lee is a dear friend. At least I haven’t had an awkward run-in with you at the Hideaway. Though, if I had, you wouldn’t be the first student or former student.”

“Oh, I’ve already had an awkward run-in of my own there,” I say, sounding much more experienced than I am.

“Listen, Waylon, I want you to know that I’m here for you. After graduation, too. Of course, if you need any letters of recommendation for school . . . or an introduction, just let me know.”

“Thank you,” I tell her with as much genuine gratitude as I can muster. It really does mean so much to me. She sees something in me, and if she sees something in me, maybe I can see something in me too. “And Ms. Jennings . . . you’re the shit.”

She chuckles. “Back atcha.”

Out in the parking lot, I head to my truck with an extra bounce in my step.

“There he is!” calls a voice.

I double back, glancing down the aisle of cars to see a whole ton of seniors hanging out in the beds of their pickup trucks. It’s not just any seniors, though. It’s decidedly popular senior guys, most of whom are football players.

“Pumpkin!” calls Bryce.

Patrick Thomas and another guy named Aaron echo him. “Pumpkin!”

Beside them, Tucker stands, leaning up against his brake light. He gives me a single nod.

Bryce lets out a gut-busting laugh. “You two freaks have the same shirt on,” he says, pointing at Patrick.

I look down and then to Patrick, and sure enough, we both have on the same bland polo shirt. Teal with a yellow stripe across the chest.

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, it’s like the supersized version of me.”