I can’t help but grin at him. That’s a private joke between the two of us. I was texting him once that I love ice cream, but I mistyped it and I wrote “I lope ice cream.” You would think my phone would auto correct that, but it didn’t. And then it became a joke. I lope french fries. I lope foot rubs. And then a couple of weeks ago, he blurted out:

I lope you, Brooke.

He doesn’t love me. Obviously not. I mean, we’re only seventeen and we’ve only been dating three months. But he lopes me. And that’s almost better than love.

“I lope you too,” I say.

Shane laughs, and he releases my shoulder to let me leave the car. As I slam the door to the Chevy, the whole car shakes. Shane’s car is a piece of junk. He literally got it at the junkyard and used his skills from auto mechanics class to rebuild the engine and get the damn thing running. He painted it, and it looks halfway decent now, but I’m always a little worried it’s just going to die in the middle of the road and I’ll have to walk back to civilization in what will almost certainly be incredibly uncomfortable shoes because that’s just my luck.

But Shane can’t afford a new car. Or even a used car. Even though he works every weekend at the pizza parlor, the only car he can afford is one that he bought from the junkyard.

And now you know why my parents will never approve of him. Because according to them, much like his car, Shane is “trash.”

Shane rolls down the passenger side window of the car. “See you tonight, Brooke! Seven-thirty!”

“Seven-thirty,” I repeat obediently.

After that confirmation, Shane’s car zooms away, making a lot more noise than a car rightfully should because his muffler is also from the junkyard. I watch the Chevy disappear around the corner because I’m just that kind of infatuated with him. The kind where I have to watch him disappear into the distance. It’s sickening, I know.

“So what are you doing at seven-thirty, Brooke?”

I come toppling down from my cloud of love (I mean, lope) at the sound of the voice from behind me. I didn’t notice that Shane had parked dangerously close to the Reese household, which he’s usually careful not to do. Tim Reese is standing on the front lawn, raking up the last of the leaves from the fall.

Tim. Damn.

“Nothing,” I say.