Page 67

“Well?” I demand. “What the fu—” Her eyebrows raise. “—dge shop is going on now?”

“There’s this boy at school.”

Every cell in my body goes into high alert. I sit on the couch. “Give me a name and I’ll burn his di—” Anotherlook. “—ll pickle.”

She laughs softly. “No, Scotty. Not that kind of boy. Like, aboyboy.” My face softens as hers goes pink. “And, I don’t know. My dad is . . . great . . . but . . . I don’t know if I can . . . I guess.” She blows out a breath. “Can you help?”

I surprise us both by screeching.

She winces, and I pull out my phone, grinning as I assemble the troops. “You bet your ass I can.”

“Which one is he?” Wanda asks between chomps of her gum from the back seat of the minivan.

“The one with the long hair.”

We all stare through the windshield toward the group of kids on the other side of the fence, all wearing weird short shorts and tank tops, bouncing around like they have springs in their shoes.

“Oooh!” June says from the driver’s seat. “He’s a cutie. A man bun, very on-trend.” She gives Wren a look in the back seat. “Bet Scotty could tell you some stories about watching your dad on the football field when she was your age.”

“Pass,” Wren says.

I give her a look as she watches him lift one leg to stretch his quads on the track. “Him being on cross country explains your inclination to run.”

She rolls her eyes.

Wanda looks at Wren’s chunky sweater. “Maybe start by showing some skin.”

In unison, Wren, June, and I shout, “No!”

“Yikes, okay, just a thought. The girls always bring me what I need,” Wanda says with a shimmy and arched brow. Even with the cooler fall temps, she leaves nothing to the imagination.

“What’s his name?” June asks.

“Luke.”

“Luke. Luuuuke. Lukey,” Wanda says, trying the name on. “I like it, honey.”

“Joo, Camp tell you what the schedule is? Any fundraisers or events going on at school?” June’s husband, Camp, is the athletic director of the high school, making him all-knowing in times such as these.

She shrugs. “The usual. Homecoming is November, just before Thanksgiving. I could get a cross country schedule from him . . .” She twirls a red curly strand of her hair around her finger, thinking. “Oh! Oh! Orchard Fest.”

I whip my head toward her. “At Ford’s parents’?” Just the thought makes my stomach flip. I haven’t been out to his family’s orchard since high school.

June nods enthusiastically. “Event of the season, and all the sports teams have booths to raise money. Pie eating or apple bobbing. Something like that. Anyway—that’s perfect. It’s casual enough not to be a big deal, but there’s music and a mood that makes it just a little bit romantic. Dancing.” She sways side toside. “It’s the first weekend in October—only a couple weeks away. That gives you time to talk to him at school.”

Wren looks out the windshield to the boys, now running short sprints, then back to us. “I don’t even know what to say . . .”

All at once:

“Start with hi.”

“Ask him to sit by you at lunch.”

“Scotty gave Camp a letter threatening to knee him in the nuts if he didn’t go out with me.”

Her eyes widen at our shouted advice.

I hold up a hand to silence the van. “Okay, do you have any classes with him?”