I walk faster, so he has to jog.

“Fine. I’m just… impressed.”

“It’s a good song.”

“It is a good song, a great song, by the White Stripes, which is now officially epic, thanks to you. My dad hates it, though. He only listens to country.”

I laugh. Finally, something we have in common.

“Yeah, my mom, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

It’s the first time I’ve mentioned Mom, and I can tell he’s waiting for me to say more. But he lets it go when I don’t. Instead, right before we get to the bleachers, he says, “The reason I played you that song… this was before I realized you were actually Tina Turner… is that I’m glad I met you. You’re my Suzy Lee, get it?”

I do not. He barely knows me. And it could either be super creepy or super sweet. But I think of all those lonely days, just me and Mom, and all the random schools where I never even got close to being friends with anybody, and I think, Yeah, I kind of do get it. Because it’d be nice to be someone’s person and you wouldn’t have to do anything other than just be you. I shake my head. Well is probably the kind of guy who has tons of friends, like the ones on the bleachers currently waving blue and silver pom-poms. Actual pom-poms. This is just Well being Well.

“Dude, check these out! Found them under the bleachers!” a kid who looks big enough to be an eighth grader yells from where he’s lying on his back on the bottom row, shaking pom-poms like maracas. He gives me an upside-down grin.

Well begins the introductions: “Lou, this is Tucker. Tucker is a gentle giant and would rather snuggle up with a casserole than do any kind of physical exercise. But he’s not bad in the props department, which is why we let him hang with us.”

“I’ll have you know I’m in training,” upside-down Tucker says, and pretends to bench-press his pom-poms.

“Yeah? For what? Cheerleading tryouts?” says Well, and grabs one of them. What’s the singular for pom-poms? Pom?

“No.” He sits up and tugs the ends of his curly blond hair behind his ears. It’s just long enough. “Hot-dog-eating contest at the end of October.”

“Really?” I say despite my shyness. I watched one of those at a county fair we were working two years ago. The winner ate sixty-three hot dogs in ten minutes.

“He does not lie,” says the girl sitting one row up from Tucker. I take a step back, closer to Well. Girls make me more nervous than guys. They are sneakier at teasing.