Page 19 of As You Walk On

The urge to reply with a paragraph-long clapback about Jay’s misogynistic comment and that Jaylachose him secondhandbecause Marcus Whitman was already in a relationship at the time delays me an extra minute. I toss my phone on the bed to focus on selecting a shirt to pair with my light denim jeans. The key to tonight’s fit is adding little details so Christian sees an upgraded version of the Brook-Oak Theo.

I choose a blackStar Wars: The Last JediT-shirt, the signature title font in blood red. Dad and Granny introduced me to the franchise when I was younger. I was indifferent about the original trilogy—we don’t discuss the prequels—but the second I saw Finn on-screen in the newer films, a Black character who was as important as the others, I was hooked. Mad love to Lando Calrissian, but Finn made me feel like I could single-handedly destroy an empire.

I wish Granny had been around to see him on-screen.

The shirt goes perfectly with my Air Jordan 12 Retros. Tiny diamond studs in my ears. But the real gems are my neon green socks with strawberries on them.

I can’t remember the origin of my love for patterned socks. A stocking stuffer from Granny possibly? Anyway, I own over thirtypairs now. Argyle to Nike swooshes toBob’s Burgersones.

At 5:10 p.m., Dad yells, “TJ! There’s a suspicious blue SUV outside our house with two boys inside!” from downstairs.

“On the way!” I shout back, continuing to curl-sponge my twists in the bathroom mirror.

“Darren has that ‘I’ve been kidnapped’ face on.”

“Okay, okay!” I rush through a final rotation on my hair before gargling a capful of mouthwash. I check my reflection. Brook-Oak parties are a funny thing. At least the few I’ve been to. We pretend it’s all about the dancing and drinking games and casual hookups. Being ourselves without adults judging our every move.

In reality, it’s a fashion competition.

No one wants to stick out for any reason, let alone your wardrobe. The key is to blend in with your name-brand-wearing, summer-vacations-at-the-beach peers. I don’t intentionally try to be like those kids. I simply don’t want to fall into that other category.

“TJ!”

I sprint back into my room for my phone and overnight backpack.

“Wait!” Dad stops me as I yank open the front door. He tugs out his wallet. “Take some money. I know Jess will happily order in for you guys, but I don’t want her paying for you. She doesn’t need to...”

He trails off as he stuffs two twenty-dollar bills in my hand.

I wait for him to say he doesn’t want anyone feeling obligated to take care of Miles Wright’s son. He doesn’t want Mr.Scott’s pity money, even though Jay would never let it come off that way.Sometimes, I think the reason Dad found this house in the South End rather than one in the West End where he grew up was to show everyone from Brook-Oak he’s good. He’s made it.

Is that the point, though? Proving your success to everyone else rather than doing it for yourself?

“Thanks,” I mumble as he pecks a kiss to my temple.

“Be good. No trouble,” he cautions as I jog out the door. “I love you, TJ!”

“Love you too, Dad!”

•••

The interior of Jay’s BMW X3 is more or less what you’d expect from the seventeen-year-old son of a health-care consultant and a lawyer: all-black leather, climate-control system with pollen filter, touch screen navigation, and an overpriced sound system currently vibrating Drake through my bones. I adjust the volume on “Passionfruit,” catching Jay’s side-eye in my periphery. He worships Drake like a god.

“So you made us wait for...that,” Darren comments from the back seat.

Our eyes meet in the rearview.

“What?”

Darren pops his head between the driver’s and passenger seat. “You look... respectable. Not at all basic.”

“Oh, screw you,” I say with a chuckle. “Tell me, D, are they still offering generous employee discounts at the J.Crew you work at?”

Darren’s wardrobe has two dimensions: activewear or fitted,collared shirts with black skinny jeans. There’s no happy middle ground. Either option is always completed with a clean pair of high-tops.

His muscles are almost bursting out of today’s red, white, and navy polo shirt.

He gasps, fake scandalized. “Shut up!”

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