It came from everywhere—the obvious places, but even my own bedroom. “We should buy you new shoes for the dance,” my mother said. My suit was back from the seamstress and she’d realized it was still incomplete. “I don’t need shoes,” I said, wedging the suit into the back of my closet, where I could better pretend it didn’t exist. Plastic hangers clattered to the floor. “I can wear my church shoes.” “But those aren’t very fancy. Don’t you want to look nice? People are going all-out for this.” She was sitting on the end of my bed, cradling her chin with one hand while her elbow rested on her knee. She was looking at me as though I were the most mysterious thing in the universe. “Who cares if I look nice?,” I said, shutting the closet door and letting my hand slide damply off the knob. “Can I go outside?” She sighed, pressed her knuckles to her lips. “You’re going to have a lousy time at this dance, Oliver. Do you know why? Because you’ve already decided to have a lousy time.”
