At our first meeting, the interested members of the senior class meet at the shop to go through the motions of consensus, even though Rack has already decided what the float is going to be. Her vision is to make a rocket with the slogan Colchis Shoots for the Stars, and she doesn’t expect any dissent. A healthy fraction of the senior class is there. Scot’s shop is a big empty space with the iron arch for lifting motors still in place. Old license plates are nailed to the wall, along with calendars using semiclad females to sell fan belts and car wax and oil filters. There are old automobile seats around the edge to sit on. The pool table is pushed against the back wall with plywood panels and a tarp over it. On it, a foam board model of Versailles is laid out, complete with the missing manor homes.

“What a great place,” Junior Davis says, walking around the shop. “This should definitely be a bar. Colchis needs a bar with a pool table, because I don’t drink.”

Rack takes center stage. “Okay, let’s get started,” she says. She whips out her poster. Her rocket is quite impressive-looking, with purple and gold lettering down the side and a lot of stars and planets dancing around on springs.

“The rocket needs to be about twelve feet high,” she says.

“That’s not big enough,” says Junior. This, for some reason, strikes all the guys as profoundly funny.

“It’s not violent enough, either,” says Tony Beech. Tony smokes pot and captains the badminton team, usually on the same day. “How about something like Hunt the Cougars to Extinction and Then Skin Them and Mount Their Heads on Spikes?” This suggestion proves popular.

“It’s not very sustainable, though,” I put in. “Aren’t cougars an endangered species?”

“It’s not real, Serena.” Junior claps his hand on my shoulder. “It’s only a game. Just a bunch of guys with a football.”

“Can we stop wasting time, please?” Rack cuts in. “Can we have a vote on Colchis Shoots for the Stars?”

“How about Bomb the Cougars?” Lars Madsen asks Junior.

“No,” Tony says. “Not Bomb. Bomb sucks.” Dozens of dissenting opinions are fielded.

“How about Crush?”

“How about Kill?”

“What do you think their floats will say?”

“Lick the Rockets!”

“Lick my rocket!”

“Is Junior going to be the model for the missile?”

“It’s not a missile!” shouts Rack over all the voices. “It’s a rocket!”

“I can’t be the model,” says Junior. “The trailer’s too small.” Again, all the boys double over laughing.

“How about Castrate?” asks Angel, lighting two cigarettes and giving one to Grimshaw.

Junior howls and covers his crotch.

“How about Excellence, Perfection, Teamwork, Success?” My idea gets booed. “Sorry. Just a thought.”