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“Are you sad?”

Yep. I pat her hair down. “I’m good, Willow.”

“He’s fun.”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“You’re funner.”

I don’t have the heart to correct her. Instead, I wrap her in a hug, mash her face to my chest, and we giggle as if this is all we’re meant to do—Willow the Rockstar and me.

I settle on a plain white oxford and a forgotten scarlet varsity cardigan from the back of my closet with the suit’s gray slacks and pair of red-and-white checkered Vans. Dad shows up with a tie. He stands behind me, looping a perfect Windsor knot.

“It was your grandpa’s.”

My lips twitch upward.

It has a rainbow pattern. “It was his favorite,” Dad says, smiling with somber eyes. “Thought you’d like it.”

I admire my complete outfit. It’s a perfect mishmash of all these pieces that somehow fit together. “I love it.”

Rio and Lucy arrive just before eight, which is strange, since the dance starts soon. Not that I live far from Maplewood. But Mom insists we do the picture thing. It’s not as lame as people complain about. We master theCharlie’s Angelpose. Then theMean Girlsone. And a bunch of goofy ones too. This is only homecoming. I can’t imagine prom.

Lucy keeps shooting me looks. She’s blatantly admonishing me with her eyes.

“What?”

She sizes up my outfit. Whatever.Thisis me trying.

“Leave him alone,” says Rio. “At least there’s no way he’ll upstage us.”

It’s true. Lucy found a vintage strapless gold dress with a ballerina skirt during our shopping trip. Her hair’s knotted on her head; her cheekbones are softened by rose blush. And Rio’s a dream in the D.D. dress. Her hair is purple—deep and beautiful as the night’s sky blessed by wakening stars.

“If I’m going to do homecoming, I’m at least going to wear the opposing team’s colors,” she explains as we walk out the door. Leave it to Rio to be so terminally anti-Maplewood that she’d dye her hair the color of a rival high school.

Brook’s minivan is parked at the curb. A giant bowtie is tied to the front bumper. It’s so corny. It’s so Brook Henry.

“Nailed it, little dude.” He fist-bumps me when I crawl into the back. He’s wearing a rented tux. “Nice tie!”

I blush. “We’re gonna be late.”

“We won’t be late,” Lucy says while fiddling with Brook’s iPod. She puts on something soulful.

“We won’t be late,” Brook confirms, stealing the iPod back to switch to a country song.

They squint at each other, wink, then agree on old school Lauryn Hill.

“Wearelate,” I argue. I fasten my seat belt, slouching.

“Chill, Romeo,” says Rio. “We’re making a stop.”

“A stop?”

“Yes,” they say in unison.

“Fine. Whatever.” I pout, kicking the back of Brook’s seat. “But I refuse to endure the wrath of newly-elected Homecoming Princess Sara Awad for being tardy to this social-pariah celebration.”

Zombie Café on a Saturdayis sparsely populated. The writers are still pretending to craft new novels. The geek squads with their cappuccinos read graphic novels or watch anime on their laptops. The old man in an armchair has his decaf coffee and a newspaper. College kids with dead eyes have overpriced textbooks piled in front of them. But it’s still mostly empty, not that I’m complaining. I’ll take Zombie any hour when there’s a free corner table and Trixie behind the bar.