Mrs. Evans seems perfectly happy anytime she’s talking to Mama, but she’s never given me much love.

“Hi, Mrs. Evans.” I give her a half-ass wave.

She gives me a half-ass smile. “Tracy.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and that little dimple I always stick my pinkie in to tease him reminds me how our friendship is so controlled by who’s around us.

Dean moves away from the counter, toward what has always been our corner. Together. For, like, ever. Most of my letters crafted right there. His mom doesn’t move, blocking me from our nook, while he grabs his things.

I should’ve just stayed outside and waited for Dean to come out, but he’s always trying to get me and his mom to interact. It never works out right. I swear, since I turned sixteen last year, Mrs. Evans has acted like we’d never met before. Cold. Always asking if I came by to get my mama when she knows darn well I’m here for Dean. She also loves name-dropping girls who come by for Dean. Lately I’ve been avoiding the store when Mama tells me Mrs. Evans is around.

I want to say I’m being ridiculous. Snap out of it. The truth is, I don’t know how to be around Dean anymore.

“Ready?” Dean slings his backpack over his shoulder.

I nod, sensing Mrs. Evans’s judging eyes on me. So strange how a replica of Dean’s eyes can give me such an opposite feeling. It’s not in the way she acts about Daddy being gone; it’s just I know she don’t want to know me. The truth is, I don’t want her to know my story, either.

As soon as we step outside the store, I can breathe again.

Dean loosely places his hand on my shoulder as we walk toward his truck. When we arrive at school, we hop out and take the steps up to the front doors side by side.

“I’m working after school. Want to do some homework in the back?” Dean asks.

There’s nothing I’d rather do than stay at the store and hide behind a good book in the corner while Dean works. Watch him jump to help a customer, then slide right back to me and read over my shoulder. And on busy days, sneak up to the empty loft upstairs and play music, since his parents have never been able to rent it out.

“I need a ride back, but I can’t stick around,” I say.

Dean looks down. “She doesn’t mean to be like that, you know.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” I lie.

“You sure you won’t come, though?” Dean asks. “I can take you to where you need to go and wait.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”