Wendy slams the door of the truck and steps up onto the porch right as Angela exits the house. “Hey, Angela,” she says brightly. She’s apparently determined to be friendly with this other best friend of mine. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” says Angela.

“I’m so excited to go to Idaho Falls. I haven’t been there in forever.”

“Me neither.”

Tucker’s not leaving. He’s looking at my woods again. Against my better judgment, I step down off the porch and walk over to him.

“Shopping for prom dresses, huh?” he asks as I come up beside him.

“Um, kind of. Wendy needs shoes. Angela’s after accessories, since her mom’s making her dress. And I’m along for the ride, I guess.”

“You’re not going to prom?”

“No.” I glance away uncomfortably, back toward the house, where suddenly Wendy seems very into her awkward conversation with Angela.

“Why not?”

I give him a “why do you think?” glare.

“No one’s asked you?” He looks at me.

I shake my head. “Shocking, right?”

“Yeah, actually, it is.”

He rubs the back of his neck, then gazes at the woods. He clears his throat. For a second I get the crazy idea that he might be about to ask me to prom, and my heart does all kinds of stupid erratic leaps in my chest from sheer terror at the idea. Because I’d have to reject him right in front of Wendy and Angela, who are acting like they’re talking but I can tell they’re paying attention, and then he’d be humiliated. I have no real desire to see Tucker humiliated.

“Go stag,” he says instead. “That’s what I would do.”

I almost laugh with relief. “I guess.”

He turns and calls to Wendy. “I gotta take off. Come here a sec.”

“Clara’s going to take me home, so I won’t be needing your services anymore today, Jeeves,” says Wendy like he’s her chauffeur. He nods and takes her arm and draws her over to the side of the truck where he speaks in a low voice.

“I don’t know what prom shoes cost, but this might help,” he says.

“Tucker Avery,” Wendy says. “You know I can’t take that.”

“I don’t know anything.”

She snorts. “You’re sweet. But that’s rodeo money. I can’t take it.”

“I’ll get more.”

He must keep holding the money out to her, because then she says no more emphatically.

“Okay, fine,” he grumbles. He gives her a quick hug and gets in his truck, pulls around the circle, and stops, then rolls down the window to lean out.

“Have fun in Idaho. Don’t provoke any potato farmers,” he says.

“Right. Because that would be bad.”

“Oh, and, Carrots . . .”

“Yes?”

“If you end up going to prom, save me a dance, okay?”

Before I have time to process this request, he drives away.

“Men,” Angela says from beside me.

“I thought that was nice,” says Wendy.

I sigh, flustered. “Let’s just go.”

Suddenly Wendy gasps. She pulls a fifty-dollar bill out of her sweatshirt pocket.

“That little stink,” she says, smiling.

The second I lay eyes on the dress, I’m in love with it. If I were going to prom, this would be it. The one. Sometimes you just know with dresses. They call to you. This one’s Greek inspired, strapless with an empire waist and a swath of fabric that comes up the front and over one shoulder. It’s a deep blue, a little brighter than navy.

“Okay,” says Angela after I’ve been staring at it on the rack for five minutes. “You have to try it on.”

“What? No. I’m not going to prom.”

“Who cares? Hey, Maggie, Wendy!” Angela calls across the department store to Wendy, who’s in the shoe department with my mom looking through the clearance heels. “Come see this dress for Clara.”

They drop everything and come to see the dress. And gasp when they see it. And insist I try it on.

“But I’m not going to prom,” I protest from the dressing room as I pull my shirt over my head.

“You don’t need a date,” says Angela from the other side of the door. “You could go stag, you know.”

“Right. Stag to prom. So I can stand around and watch everybody else dance. Sounds fantastic.”

“Well, we know one person who will dance with you,” says Wendy faintly.

“He did just break up with his girlfriend, you know,” Mom says.

“Tucker?” Wendy asks, confused.

“Christian,” Mom answers.

My heart misses a beat, and when Wendy and Angela don’t respond, I open the dressing room door and stick my head out. “How’d you hear about Christian breaking up with Kay?”

She and Angela exchange a look. I only left them alone together for like five minutes this morning and Angela had obviously already presented her “Christian and Clara are soul mates” hypothesis. I wonder what Mom thinks of that.

“If I were Christian you wouldn’t catch me anywhere near the dance,” says Wendy. “It’d be like a snake pit for him.”

That’s true. This last week at school Christian seemed off—nothing too noticeable, but I watch him a lot, so I noticed. He didn’t crack any of his usual jokes in Brit History. He didn’t take notes during class. And then he was absent two days in a row, which never happens. Late, yes, but Christian’s never absent. I guess he must be pretty upset about Kay.

I slip the dress over my head. It fits. Like it was made for me. So unfair.

“Come on, let’s see it,” orders Angela. I go out and stand in front of the big mirror.

“I wish my hair wasn’t orange,” I say, brushing an unruly strand out of my face.

“You should buy it,” says Angela.

“But I’m not going to prom,” I repeat.

“You should go to prom just so you can wear that dress,” says Wendy.

“Totally,” agrees Angela.

“You are so beautiful,” Mom says, and then to my total shock she digs around in her purse for a tissue and blots at her eyes. Then she says, “I’m buying it. If you don’t go to prom this year, you can wear it next year. It really is perfect, Clara. It makes your eyes this stunning cornflower blue.”

There’s no reasoning with them. So fifteen minutes later we’re walking out of the department store with the dress hanging over my arm. That’s when we split up, divide and conquer, Mom calls it. Angela and I check out the bling stores, and Mom and Wendy head toward shoes, since there’s nothing on heaven and earth my mother loves so much as new shoes. We agree to meet back at the mall entrance in an hour.

I’m in a weird mood. I find it ironic that Angela and Wendy are both going to prom and the only thing we’ve bought so far on this trip is a dress for me. And I’m not going. I’m also irritated because I can’t wear real earrings because piercing my ears doesn’t work—they heal too fast. I don’t like any of the non-pierced earrings I see. I want something dangly and dramatic for this dance I’m not going to.

I’m feeling queasy and light-headed all of a sudden, so Angela and I stop at Pretzel Time and each get a cinnamon pretzel, hoping some food in my stomach will help. The mall’s crowded and there’s nowhere to sit, so we lean against the wall and eat our pretzels, watching the people stream in and out of Barnes & Noble.

“Are you mad at me?” Angela asks.

“What? No.”

“You haven’t said two words to me since breakfast.”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to talk angel stuff, remember? You promised.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“Just tone it down a notch or four with my mom, okay? What with the staring and the questions and everything.”

“Am I staring?” She blushes.

“You look like a Kewpie doll.”

“Sorry,” she says again. “She’s the only Dimidius I’ve ever met. I want to know what she’s like.”

“I told you. She’s like one part hip thirty-something, one part tranquil angelic being, and one part crotchety old lady.”

“I don’t see the old lady part.”

“Trust me, it’s there. And you’re like one part crazy teenager, one part angelic being, and one part private detective.”