he knows it. And somehow, I take a little bit of pleasure in witnessing this. Not because I like to see Tucker suffer, but because seeing the most difficult corners of his life makes me feel closer to him. It makes me want to keep him close.
“Maybe one day, Tuck’ll turn this place into something,” he says. “My castle.” He gestures around to the run-down garage, with its broken gas pumps and cracked windows. Tucker catches his elbow before he trips.
I lean across the seat, toward the open passenger window, and give Duke a well-deserved scratch on the head. “All due respect, Mr. Watson, but I think Tucker is meant for much, much bigger things.”
Mr. Watson lets out a short, acerbic laugh.
I know that this guy is probably just fine when he’s sober, but I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to punch someone else’s dad like I do right now.
Tucker smiles tightly, pulling his dad toward the door. “Come on, Duke. Inside.” He looks up to me, and I can see the million thoughts passing just behind his eyes about what me meeting his dad might mean to him. Uncertainty. Discomfort. And even a little bit of relief. “Thanks for the ride,” he tells me.
“Anytime.”
Twenty-Four
On Saturday night, me, Hannah, Clem, Alex, and Kyle are all gathered around Kyle’s family’s dining room table.
Kyle looks over a clipboard. “Alex, baby, you did one last sweep for breakables? Did you get my mom’s framed photo of Nana on her wedding day? The one in the hallway bathroom.”
“Yes, for the tenth time,” Alex says. “Can I please start making those blue frozen drink thingies I found on Pinterest?”
Kyle sighs. “I don’t want us to blow through our ice supply too quickly. Once it’s out, it’s out.”
“We could run to the store,” says Hannah, her voice flat and bored.
“Not if you’ve even had a drop of alcohol,” says Kyle. “So if you plan on being the party mom, that’s on you.”
Clem reaches under the table to squeeze Hannah’s hand in an attempt to diffuse obvious irritation.
I raise my hand, which I can immediately tell Kyle greatly appreciates by the way he nods at me.
“Yes, Waylon.”
“Um, who exactly did you invite to this party?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says Alex. “You’ve been very cagey with the invite list.”
Kyle clears his throat. “Well, I invited the Prism Club. And the choir.”
The only thing that cuts the silence is the whirring of the ceiling fan in the living room.
“Do you know how much booze I got?” I manage to say. “There’s enough alcohol in your shed to get a small country hammered.”
“I wanted it to be a special night,” Kyle says. “A party for us. Not them.”
For the first time since I’ve known him, I can see Alex’s blood begin to boil. “But we don’t want it to be us versus them. We want to be them! And throwing a badass party is a step in the right direction.” He lets out a frustrated shriek and storms out.
This ship is sinking fast. I look to Hannah. She nods, instinctively.
“We could call the rest of the prom court,” I offer.
The doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” says Alex. “Our one single guest has arrived!”
“Do whatever you want,” says Kyle as he pushes back from the table. “It’s probably the pizza guy,” he calls to Alex. And then to us, or maybe to no one, he says, “I try to do one adventurous, wild thing and plan a memorable night for us to tell our kids about, but no, it’s not enough. I didn’t invite the right people. Well, fine, Waylon. Invite them. Invite the jocks and the cheerleaders and the popular kids and the stoners. Sue me for wanting to have a party with people who actually like and respect me.”
Clem looks to Hannah and shakes her head while Hannah is very clearly biting her tongue.
Kyle marches off to the door to help Alex with the pizza.
“Should I break it to him that like and respect are both very strong words?” Hannah asks once the coast is clear.
“You two are awful,” says Clem.
“This party is going to be less exciting than an overnight sleep study,” I say.
“I said you were awful,” Clem says. “I didn’t say you shouldn’t call your prom squad.”
I step out to the backyard, where Kyle’s pool glitters under a canopy of string lights, and hold my phone to my ear. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“Waylon?” asks Tucker, shouting into the receiver over the sound of a jackhammer in