The microwave dings before I can answer, which is good, because I don’t have an answer. I want to stand out. I want to fit in. But I’ve never done much of either. The only place I’ve ever felt like I’m right where I’m supposed to be is Clementine’s side. I’m not really leaving school with regrets, but I’m not leaving with many memories either. I’ve only got a few weeks left, and if I’m going to stand out or fit in, now is the time.

I let my mind wander to my own personal Fancy-but-Not-Too-Fancy Utopia. A place where beautiful gowns and sweatpants are equally revered. Perfect climate control so that I never walk into a room feeling like a sweaty mess. A place where no one looks at you like you need to eat a salad when you choose to eat a burger and a place where anyone can hold hands or kiss or not do any of those things without anyone else caring. That’s a laundry list of things, but if I could start anywhere, where would my utopia begin?

“Really luxurious bathrooms,” I finally say as he’s shoveling the casserole onto two different dishes. “Like with fainting couches and mints and free tampons and shit for people who need them and really fancy soap.”

He laughs, really laughs, his head shaking as he chokes on a bit of casserole. My stomach jumps a little at the sound of it and all I want to do is make him laugh again. “Okay, yes, a fancy bathroom to poop in would be fantastic, but I’m talking about something that would change everything for you.”

“You underestimate the power of luxury,” I tell him, as the irony of this dingy little trailer really sinks in.

He has another bite of the casserole and lets out a delicious sigh that gives me chills. Then he points his fork at me. “Try again.”

It takes a minute for my brain to work, because his sigh is on a constant loop. I clear my throat and force myself to think. “Honestly, if I could just be me. That’s it. That would change everything. If I could just be the version of myself that exists in my head, but in real life all the time, that would have made high school better. Maybe then I would have run for prom queen because I wanted to and not because some knuckle-dragging Neanderthal nominated me.”

“Full Waylon,” he says knowingly, like he can perfectly imagine exactly what form that might take. “But if you think about it, everyone feels like that. Don’t you see it everywhere you look?”

“Oh, come on,” I say, a little outraged by his inability to see what I see. “People like Melissa and Bryce and Bekah and even Mitch and Callie—those people always get to be themselves without getting eaten alive.”