Nobody tells me that we’re supposed to match, and a week later, Junior shows up at my front door in a powder blue tux and a corsage in a clear plastic box with a rubber band for my wrist. Nobody is around except Aaron, who monopolizes him with football talk. He and Junior are deep into the early career of Vince Lombardi when Scot pulls in. Scot is excited about Junior’s car, a 1974 Plymouth Duster. We all troop back outside to talk about it.

“I learned to drive on these cars,” Scot says, pumping Junior’s hand. “Automatic ?”

“Manual.”

“What’s it got under the hood?”

“Three sixty.”

Scot whistles. “No kidding. That’s a monster.”

“It was my grandfather’s,” Junior says. “He died about a month after he got it customized.”

Scot shakes his head about the tragedy of it all. “It’s always the way.”

The conversation segues back to football, and I leave them in the driveway. I put the corsage in the fridge and poke around the kitchen for something to cook. I find a lump of meat in the freezer, nuke it, and open cans for chili.

“Serena.” Aaron is standing behind me, looking concerned. “Does your boyfriend, like, know how to read?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. And he’s in twelfth grade. Of course he knows how to read.”

“He was showing us something from his Vince Lombardi book, and he didn’t get it right. He mixed up words like sacrifice and success.” But he kept acting like he was reading it. He was faking. I could tell.”

“Vince Lombardi’s a god to him, Aaron. He knows that book so well he has it memorized. He doesn’t need to read it.”

“But he’s taking ninth grade math for the fourth time! He’s in my class!” Aaron looks like he’s on the verge of tears.

“I know. He has to pass it, or he can’t get a football scholarship.”

“You have to help him, Serena.”

“Why don’t you? You’re good at math.” I take off my apron and hand him a small stack of bowls. At that moment, Scot and Junior come in, still talking football, so Aaron just scowls at me, grabs the bowls, and takes them into the living room. By eight o’clock, the chili is gone, the beer is gone, and all the males are in front of the basketball playoffs. I strap the corsage back on, which consists of one dyed-blue carnation and a silk butterfly on a spring. It’s eight thirty by the time we’re back in Junior’s grandpa’s Plymouth Duster heading for the prom. I drive. The beers have wiped him out, so the conversation isn’t exactly sparkling.

“Hey, Junior,” I say into the darkness.

“Hmmm.” His head is rolling around.

“Can you read?” I ask.

“I get by,” he mumbles as he falls back asleep.