Seventies fashion isn’t my thing—but the ’60s hold some promise. There’s a crushed velvet tux, but it’s chocolate brown, and I cannot see myself wearing it. There’s a Motown-feeling number that’s cute but apparently was designed for an emaciated giant.

And then … Oh my god. This. It’s a shawl-collar smoking jacket, black and teal brocade with black velvet trim. I know exactly what to do. Mom and I watched all those ’80s movies with Molly Ringwald, and this is as close to a Duckie jacket as I’ve ever seen. (Pretty in Pink is so great and kinda messed up all at once, like we’re supposed to root for Andie to fall in love with Duckie, the best friend, but he’s a little obsessive and doesn’t respect her agency so much. Even so, he’s adorable, and his prom look is fierce. Everyone else shows up having shopped at somewhere like Rodolfo’s, but he’s in a smoking jacket, tux shirt, and bolo tie.) I can wear this jacket and be ahead of the curve but not crazily out of time and still match Leeza.

When I step outside the dressing room to show Ms. Silverthorn, her entire comment is, “I’ve seen stranger.” We rent a tux shirt and pants, which I order in a size smaller than the tailor would like. He throws in a bowtie for free as a prom promotion, but there’s no chance of it ever leaving its little plastic tomb.

I drag Ms. Silverthorn to Claire’s and find the biggest, most ’80s pin I can. A fake onyx orb surrounded by fake silver filigree fanning out in the four cardinal directions, like a really gay compass. It’s more brooch than bolo, twin strands of silvery chain forming half-moons. (Sorry, Duckie.) Leeza will die.

We’re back in the car before Ms. Silverthorn says anything. “Is that sort of outfit okay where you came from?”

“What?”

She is quiet, eyes on the road for a moment. “There are some questions I haven’t asked, but I’m thinking maybe I should.”

Got it. “You want to know if I’m gay? One hundred percent.”

She blinks. “The future must be different if you can just say that so easily.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, you have no idea!”

She doesn’t respond right away, and I’m dying to know what’s on her mind. It would be very sci-fi and paradoxy if it was me coming out in the 1980s that made her so open to kids like me in the 2010s. “So, I guess this is pretty new territory for you …?”

She seems to be speaking to herself. “You’re not the first student to tell me. Something about me being an English teacher must make it okay.”

“Or something about you. You’re the definition of welcoming.”