“Um, straight people. Nothing will change until straight people do.”

She nods at this but turns the subject back to prom. “Maybe what I need to change first is my boyfriend.” She doesn’t laugh when she says it, turning the car off and stepping out.

It’s a good thing she can’t see my face because I am having a bite-size panic attack right now as I realize what I have done. I have planted the seed in her mind that her boyfriend is crappy, which he is, but if she follows through, and he doesn’t stay her boyfriend now, maybe he won’t someday be her husband, and if he’s not her husband …

Holy Marty McFly. I’ve Back-to-the-Futured myself.

You tell me: if you knew your dad was a self-absorbed, immature baby who would eventually leave your mom, wouldn’t you want to spare her? I mean, it’s hard to root for that couple, right? But I like existing. That’s hardly a surprise when your life is as good as mine. I mean, maybe if I was miserable, I’d be more open to a venue change to the afterlife. But if you don’t have a life to start with, there’s no afterlife. There’s a void. There’s nothing. The thought of just blinking out of existence makes me gasp. Loudly.

Ma Elena turns around. “Are you hyperventilating?”

Girl, yes. I’m doing what Nix calls “clutching my pearls,” which is funny because no one under a hundred even wears pearls anymore, but if I did have a string, that’s what I’d be doing. I have one hand on my breastbone like I’m trying to still my heart.

I try to pull it together. I need to change the subject.

“I want to ask Chaz to prom.”

Her eyes get huge. “Oh. Wow. No …”

“I mean it. And I want to find a cute way to do it.” My heart rate returns to normal. Having a task is so my thing—it feels good.

“He’ll say no, you know.”

“Why?” Seriously, who else is going to ask, right?

“I keep telling you: He’s First Church. He can’t say yes even if he is, for sure, like you.”

“Trust me, he is. But knowing that he could turn me down doesn’t make me want to ask him any less. It’ll make him feel good just that I did. You know?”

“Maybe.” She doesn’t say more as we get to the celestial aisle of Confetti Fun City. We are surrounded by suns, moons, paper planet series, rocket ships, and aliens. Ma Elena rifles through racks of plastic stars to find the right shape, netting a handful the size of dessert plates. I’m sure there’s a “but” coming, and I wait.