“What?” I said. And scanned the vicinity for privacy—Mom was looking for her purse, Dad was on the phone—then dropped my voice to a whisper. “Mom and Dad are going on a date?”

Willow smiled, knowingly. “Well, it’s more like Dad’s going on a date with me, and Mom’s going on a date with me, too, and they’ll be with each other by association. But yeah. I guess Mom and Dad are kind of going on a date.”

She winked.

“Okay, Holden!” said Mom. “You ready to get these shoes? If you get Ezra to wear his pair, your pair is on me.”

“Seriously?” said Holden. “Heck yeah!”

“Can I come, too?” said Willow.

“Oh god,” said Mom. “If you must.” She smiled, teasingly. “Ezzy? Do you want to pick out your own shoes, or are you leaving this valuable decision in the hands of your mother, your BFF, and your little sister?”

I sighed—barely suppressing my happiness. “Fine.”

It was more than fine.

The four of us were on our way out the door when Dad abruptly ended his call. Stopped us in the entryway.

“Sorry,” he said. “I hope it’s okay, but I just rented you guys a limo for prom. The driver will be here to pick you boys up at six. I hope that’s early enough to pick up your dates and get to prom in time.”

Holden and I raised our hands and looked at each other like we were about to scream the highest notes our limited teenage vocal cords were capable of, puberty be damned.

But we didn’t. Last second, we played it cool.

“Cool,” I said.

“Awesome,” said Holden.

But we were screaming on the inside.

My parents were kinda sorta amazing. When they tried.

We arrived at Imogen’s house at 6:15 p.m. sharp. We were right on schedule. Dressed to kill—but a metaphysical killing, with our dashing good looks as the murder weapon.

The door opened.

Suddenly, my and Holden’s “dashing good looks” were equivalent to bird poop on the front steps of the Taj Mahal.

Imogen’s gown was long and narrow and sweeping and white, touching the diamond texture of her glittering heels. She was statuesque, like a tree in winter, immortalized in snow. Her hair was straightened, a sandy waterfall, flowing down the heart-shaped curves of her face. Her makeup was minimalist and breathtaking.

Wynonna’s dress was short and daring, strapless and electric blue. Lacy and crystallized on the top, rumpled and layered on the bottom, like the petals of a flower, pluming at the dawn of spring. Her legs were carved and powerful, showcased in cage-strap heels. Her makeup was bold, existential art that said, “I am here.”

Her hair was cut.