“So, dear boy,” Grammy says while everyone either finishes up or decides to abandon ship on their plates, “where do you see life taking you after graduation?”

“Ugh.” Clem flops in her seat. “Grammy, you know that’s the actual worst question you can ask a high school senior, right?”

“I’m trying to get to know our mysterious guest,” Grammy says defensively.

Tucker waves his hands. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I, uh, don’t have much of a plan beyond taking care of my dad and taking care of his shop.”

The thought of him rotting in that dingy little garage makes me feel hopeless. I want to live in a world where Tucker can dream as big and ridiculously as he wants.

Grammy’s expression softens. “Is he ill?”

Dad clears his throat. “Mom, don’t pry.”

“He’s got a drinking problem, ma’am,” Tucker says as simply as he would say his dad has brown hair or is short or any other fact you can discern from a quick look at someone.

We all fall quiet. And it’s not because what Tucker has said is embarrassing or uncomfortable, but he says it in such a matter-of-fact, immovable way. Like it’s a thing that could never possibly change.

“My mother did as well,” Grammy says.

I perk up at that. I never knew that. I never met my great-grandmother, but I’ve heard so much about her that she’s always felt real and tangible to me, but no one ever told me she was an alcoholic. Judging by the confusion on Clem’s face, she didn’t know either.

When I look to Dad, he nods.

Grammy and Tucker share a quick look, like they’re in some kind of club.

This got heavy. Fast.

“Well,” says Clem, trying to change the mood, but she’s got nothing.

“I work for your son as well,” Tucker adds.

“Yes!” Dad says, charging in with the change-of-subject brigade. “He does indeed. One of my best guys.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tucker says.

For the rest of dinner, Tucker and I tell everyone all about our experiences on prom court, and everyone is excited, but Grammy glows with pride.

Mom makes fresh whipped cream and serves it with berries over the pound cake Tucker brought. When Cleo and Bernadette get home from bingo, they join us and tell us all about their latest adventures and even a few dirty jokes, until it’s getting dark enough that Grammy has to turn on the lights.

Tucker glances at his phone. “I better get going.”

“Prom court panel tomorrow,” I remind him. “Dress code is—”

“Sunday best,” he finishes, like the very detailed email from Mrs. Leonard said. Tomorrow, the entire prom court will sit on a panel in front of the whole senior class in an effort to make the voting process more than a popularity contest.

“I’ll walk you out,” I say.