Sheila, a short East Asian woman with round hips and rosy cheeks, takes her husband’s hand. “Everything you should need is right over there in that corner. We’ve got drinks in a cooler and we’d love to order y’all some pizza later.”

I gulp loudly. This is starting to feel very much like youth group, which is very much not my scene.

The minute they’re gone, I turn to Hannah. “This feels like a trap.”

She laughs and starts to hand out brooms and trash bags. “Don’t worry. They won’t spritz you with holy water.”

“Pastor Rich and Miss Sheila are way nicer than my pastor and his wife,” Bekah says. “One time I wore spaghetti straps to church and Pastor Troy asked his wife to give me an extra choir robe so I wouldn’t tempt any of the men during service.”

“That’s disgusting,” Clementine says and pretends to retch.

Hannah playfully rolls her eyes at Clem, because I guess when you’re lovesick, everything your significant other does is adorable. “Hey, where’s Tucker?” she asks, suddenly aware that our numbers are down.

“He texted and said he was running late. He should be here soon.” I take a look around to survey the work ahead of us. Scum-covered windows. Broken blinds. Grimy floors littered with trash and moldy books. It’s a mess so bad that you have to wipe away dirt to more dirt and so on and so on until finally you reach the decaying surface.

I take a broom and Clem a trash bag while Hannah and Bekah start on the windows. We turn on some music, and after a little while, Willowdean and Amanda show up with extra gloves in hand.

“Thanks for helping us out,” Hannah tells them.

“Any reason to escape my brothers for the night,” Amanda says.

Willowdean nods. “I don’t mind cleaning as long as it’s not my room. Or anything adjacent to my room.”

“That’s a mood I can get into,” I say.

We all fan out into different parts of the room. After a few minutes of working, Willowdean lets out a sigh.

Amanda puts an arm around her. “You could try talking to him again.”

Willowdean pulls a latex glove over her hand. “It’s kind of hard to talk to someone who’s not talking back to you.”

Hannah snaps her fingers in agreement.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “You’re mad because he invited you to prom?”