“Fair. Rome wasn’t built in a day and blah blah.” We’re quiet for a moment, and it is becoming quickly apparent how much we’re both missing our buffer, Clem. “What’d your grandma say about all of this?”

“¿Entonces ne te vas a poner un vestido?”

“Um, would it surprise you to know I got a D in Spanish?”

Hannah laughs and rubs her eyes. “Ds make degrees. She asked if this meant I wouldn’t be wearing a dress. I told her she’s lucky I’m even going to prom to begin with.”

“I’m pretty sure that if you ever wore a dress, it would only be because you accidentally put both your legs through one pant leg.”

She shrugs. “Fair.”

“So . . . your grandmother . . . I’ve never actually met her. Is she cool?”

“Like, as in hip, or with the gay?” she asks with a laugh. “She has high hopes that I’ll marry a girly girl so she at least has one granddaughter to dress up like a doll. Like Ellen and Portia, she says. So, yeah, she’s cool with it, but it’s been . . . a ride.”

Tucker Watson comes in with his hands balled into fists in his pockets. As he walks past me, he gives me a nod. “Hey.”

Was . . . did he just talk to . . . me? My stomach churns as I prepare myself for whatever awful thing he might say or do.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, pointing to the chair next to me where my bag sits.

“Uh, um . . . yeah. Yes,” I finally manage to say. He can barely look at me and now he wants to sit next to me. He’s probably one of the jerks who voted for me to be nominated in the first place.

“You can sit here,” Melissa Gutierrez says from behind me.

He looks at me for a long moment, like he’s daring me to say something. “Cool,” he says and then goes to sit with Melissa.

“Wow,” Hannah says. “That was some real gay energy.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, no. Guys like him are the reason I was even nominated to begin with. Besides, all my energy is gay energy.”

Mrs. Leonard, a petite Black woman with her hair perfectly curled to frame her face, stands at the front of the room and throws her best spirit fingers to get our attention. “One, two, three, eyes on me.”

“What are we in, preschool?” I mutter.

Hannah smiles. “I had her last year. She’s a hard-ass, but she’s perky about it. Hated her class. She was cool though. She wrote me a letter of recommendation for my college applications.”