Tucker runs his hands over his name embroidered on his chest. “This is pretty cool,” he admits.

“My grammy embroidered them with her machine.” A fashion sense like hers is not direct from the rack.

He nods. “Grammy gets five out of five stars. But you know this white is totally impractical, right?”

I flip my invisible hair. “I never said my vision was practical.”

The two of us head back out to the parking lot, where our trucks are parked side by side. I brought a few boxes of doughnuts and Mom put together a few thermoses of coffee, while Tucker brought every supply for changing oil we could possibly need.

“Does she have a name?” I ask.

“The truck?” He smiles. “Xena.”

“Xena? As in the warrior princess?”

“The one and only. What about you?”

“Beulah,” I say.

He nods with admiration. “Beulah and Xena. They make a good couple.”

Why does the idea of our trucks being in a long-term committed relationship make me want to puke but also twirl around the parking lot like Julie Andrews? “I don’t think I’ve ever seen campus this early in the morning,” I say, changing the subject.

“Oh, I have during football season. Kind of peaceful, right?”

I begin to set up a little coffee bar on the bed of my truck using a tablecloth Mom lent me.

Tucker pulls a pen and clipboard from his backpack.

“Smart.”

He sets up all the tools and oils he might need in the bed of his truck.

“So why’d you miss school Monday?”

“Work,” he says simply.

“What?” My dad is not an easy boss, but would never, and I mean never, let a high school student work through the day. He rarely even hires high school kids, because he doesn’t want to interfere with school.

“Not for your dad,” he clarifies. “At my, uh, dad’s shop.”

I nod. “Were you just helping out?” I wonder why he doesn’t only work for his dad. That seems like plenty to keep him busy.

“You could say that.”

“So you have two jobs?”

He laughs. “Only one that pays.”

“Do you mean your dad doesn’t pay you?”

I pour a cup of coffee for myself and hold one up to offer him.

“Dad’s shop is hanging on by a string and he doesn’t always get it together to open up the shop in the morning, so I’ve got to fill in sometimes. If we’re not open, we’re not making money, and if we’re not making money, we don’t have a roof over our heads. My job with your dad is how I pay for gas and food and basic stuff we need.”