He shrugs. “I wanted our project to be special,” he says. “I know changing oil sounds like a stupid idea, but there’s nothing people hate more than going in and having their car worked on. Especially teachers who only have weekends off. I thought we might stand out. Besides, I think you’ve got an actual shot at this thing.”

I laugh. “Is that some kind of joke?”

“Waylon,” he says. “I’m serious. You could win. I’m not saying, like, right now at this very moment, but if we win over some teachers and make waves with our legacy project, you could get some people behind you in a major way.”

I roll my eyes, but oh my God the Julie Andrews spinning feelings are kicking into overdrive. “This town is not ready for me to be their prom queen.”

“What do you mean when you say this town?”

“You know what I mean. These people. This place. Sure, there are handfuls of great people, but most of these people are small-minded losers.”

He leans on the hood of Mr. Higgins’s car—something I’m sure Mr. Higgins would not appreciate. “Maybe you should give people a chance to surprise you. Have you ever thought that maybe you’re using this town as an excuse to not put yourself out there?”

“What are you talking about?” Defensiveness builds in my voice. Goodbye, Julie Andrews.

“Maybe you should turn your volume up to ten and see if these people can handle you. Maybe you’re not giving them a fair shot at accepting you. Go full Waylon on this town. That’s how you win this thing. I saw you on Saturday night.”

“I’m full Waylon, thank you very much.” I dig my toe into the cracked pavement until a small bit of gravel loosens. “But what would that even look like? To go full Waylon.”

He shrugs. “Do the prom court panel in drag. Dress for school like you dressed at the Hideaway. You looked like a totally different person that night.”

My cheeks flush and my heart thuds against the wall of my chest.

I follow him to the next vehicle, which is a truck and doesn’t require a jack, so we both shimmy under, and this time I unscrew the nut and drain the oil.

I groan as the oil spills over my hand.

“That’s it,” he says. “Waylon Brewer getting messy.”

“Literally the opposite of everything I aspire to.”

As we’re standing up, I point to Mr. Higgins’s car. “Why do we men always name our cars and boats and inanimate objects after women? Beulah, Xena, Delilah.”

“Well, I can tell you what my mama would have said about that. She always said men made their objects women because the only thing we teach boys about girls is that they’re objects.”