Around six o’clock, Mom shows up with take-out boxes full of tacos.

“Wow,” she says. “You can’t miss this wall. That’s for sure.”

“Is it cheesy?” I ask her. Originally, I assumed we’d paint the wall white, or maybe even yellow if I was feeling a little wild, but the rainbow really screams we’re here and we’re queer! I’ve spent so long wearing fugly cargo shorts and boring polos that rainbows are really speaking to me lately. It’s more than a flag or a symbol to me now. It’s a message. One that says I’m unafraid.

She leans against my shoulder and pulls me to her. “You say cheesy like it’s a bad thing.”

“So it’s cheesy.” I let out a full-body groan.

“It’s earnest,” she says. “Not everything has to be sarcastic or edgy. It’s okay to be vulnerable and sincere.”

It is viciously unfair how easy it is for parents to read their kids sometimes. There are days when I think my mom is clueless. Like she’s from another planet. But then she goes and says the kind of thing that strikes me right down to the core, reminding me that she’s not so unaware after all.

“Vulnerable-shmulnerable,” I say. “I’m working on it.” I say it as a joke, but the thing is, I don’t think I’m joking. Maybe it’s why finding out Tucker was going to prom with Melissa cut so deep. Before him, the only person I’d ever let in close enough to hurt me was Clem . . . and maybe Lucas, too. Until this whole nomination thing, I would have laughed in the face of anyone who told me I was even going to prom. The fact that I’d be so invested in who Tucker Watson was taking as a date? Perhaps the funniest joke of all time.

But here I am. Painting a wall that I hope will inspire someone—anyone—and feeling so raw that my whole body seems to be on the constant verge of a breakdown.

“Will y’all be much longer?” Mom asks.

“We’ve got to be out of here by eight o’clock,” I tell her.

She taps my nose with her index finger. “I’ll see you at home. Check your shoes for paint. Lord knows you won’t be tracking that stuff into my house.”

After a brief taco break, we attack the wall once more to cover up any spots we might have missed, and when we’re done, Kyle sends a few freshmen to recycle the take-out containers while the rest of us clean paintbrushes and gather up the remaining supplies. Once we’re finished, Corey raises their hand.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Maybe we should get here early to write out truths? To show everyone else how it’s done before the whole student body gets here.”