Huh? It’s Saturday morning, and as far as I know, there are no special make-up classes for the kid who missed nine months of school.

He shrugs. “Don’t ask me. She told me to get you.” I thank him and close the door.

Maybe she’s figured out how to get me home! I’m so eager that my fingers shake as I put on my tracksuit. Yes, I have a tracksuit. I bought it as my weekend look and, yes, it’s women’s, but it’s all zippers, so who’s to say? It’s mostly black, which could make it unisex, but all the cutouts and bands slashing across the chest and one leg are in sherbet colors.

I don’t worry about closing the door quietly—only hunger will wake Ernie—and I am down the hall in like three seconds.

Ms. Silverthorn is wearing a red buffalo plaid blouse, with linebacker-worthy shoulder pads underneath, and the effect of the enormous pattern and bulked-up silhouette kind of diminishes her head. I want to do an intervention, but she’s not here for my opinion, and based on her face, I’d say she’s feeling the same way about my look. “I’m taking you shopping for prom. I hear you have a date.”

“Why would teachers know who’s going with who?” It never occurred to me that they would care. They have lives, right?

“A good teacher has her ear to the ground. I listen. Kids have no idea what I know.”

She’s parked out front, and as we get into her car, I see Gordo in an upstairs window frowning. I smile my biggest smile at him, and he flips me off. Total lovefest.

I’m dying over the name of the store she has brought me to, Rodolfo Men’s Rentals. Yes, please, I’ll take one boyfriend. Size? Mmm, let’s say, large. Do you carry the Cheng?

I’m less amused inside. If Sears gave birth to a funeral parlor, it would be Rodolfo. The sales floor is somehow both too dimly lit and devoid of character all at once. But I can see that my choices are terrible: deadly dull, the stuff of a straight guy’s prom fantasies. (Do straight guys fantasize about prom?)

The clothes are funereal too: rack after rack in black and gray. Either bright-colored tuxes are not yet a thing, or we’re between fun-tux eras. There’s no chance of me finding either look Leeza wants here.

I’m ready to give up when I see the sign on a small rack in the back corner. In signature swirling Rodolfo lettering, it says, “Vintage Selection.” A similarly tasteful but much smaller sign, reads “Sale Items. Not For Rent. No Returns.”