“Yes, ma’am,” Elijah answers. “Thank you for the ride.”

“And thank you for singing with me!” She waves her arm out the window as she drives away.

“You’re helping me with ticket duty, right?” Camille asks.

“That’s why we’re early.” I smile at her.

I straighten the collar of my shirt and turn to look at Elijah. His collar is still popped, and he’s managed to keep his khakis tight-rolled better than my jeans. On his feet are a pair of my old docksiders and no socks. He looks like a high school kid straight out of one of those movies they play on cable on Saturday mornings. The ones Birdie always claims were my father’s favorites.

We stay outside with Camille until the tallest and loudest pickup truck I’ve ever seen pulls into the parking lot. Bucky jumps down from the driver’s seat and a handful of football players spill out of the passenger door. Bucky enthusiastically volunteers to help Camille at the ticket table, and Elijah and I follow Nate and Darien inside. The gym has been transformed into a spectacle of neon and black lights. Everyone is literally glowing. A loud song with a heavy bass line is playing on the speakers, and a big group of kids are bouncing around in the middle of the gym floor under a huge spinning disco ball.

“Wow, the Guardettes sure know how to put on a party,” Elijah says, taking in the room.

Nate and Darien spot a group of cheerleaders near one of the speakers and leave Elijah and me alone near the door.

“Do you want me to ask the DJ to play some Barry Manilow?” I joke, elbowing him playfully.

“Knock it off,” he says, an embarrassed smile on his full lips. “My uncle Jacob used to play Barry Manilow all the time. We lived with him for a little while when we first moved to Houston.” His smile fades just a little bit.

I want to ask him about his time in Houston. I want to know where he was, what he was doing.

I want to ask him what made his smile fade just then.

Instead, I study the way the bottom of his nose curves gently into his top lip. My eyes travel up his face. The juxtaposition of his sad eyes under the spinning disco ball and neon flashing colors makes it very hard for me to keep looking at him.

“You want something to eat?” I ask.

He nods, and we wander over to the food table together.

“Ugh, look what the cat dragged in. Watch your wallets,” I hear someone say as we squeeze by a group of marching-band kids on our way to the chip bowl. The rest of the group titters behind their hands.

“Who said that?” I turn and face them.

They all look at me silently, eyebrows raised. No one admits to anything.