Read Tag Along for Free Online Page B

the cop and through the parking lot to a big pickup truck with a cab on it.
    We get in and he starts the engine.
    â€œWhere now?” he asks me.
    â€œI guess we could start by getting my clothes back,” I say.

ROEMI
    For a month, all I’ve been able to think about is putting on my thoughtfully arranged ensemble and being the center of attention, but after I leave the house and walk several blocks in patent leather shoes, I wonder if I should have changed into jeans and Adidas. It’s difficult to be inconspicuous when you’re wearing a tuxedo with purple-satin accents. Even on prom night. After several cars honk, and someone throws a balled-up fast-food bag at me, I begin to wish I’d just stayed home.
    You might find this surprising, but downtown Granite Ridge isn’t the most inspiring place in the world. Even so, as I trudge along the sidewalk I do my best to feel like a heartbroken hero in a melodramatic Italian movie. Unfortunately, you can only hear the latest Bieber single blasting out of car windows so many times before the foreign-film fantasy bursts.
    I walk all the way to Bizzby’s, the 1950s-style diner that opened on the strip a year ago. Even though it’s part of a chain, Bizzby’s is definitely my favorite place in town. With its pastel colors and curvy windows, it’s the closest thing to a Hollywood movie set that you’re going to find around here. It has a big neon sign across the front, and they keep the place clean and shiny. They even make the servers wear diner uniforms and name tags with fake fifties names on them, like Peg and Chet.
    I grab a seat at the counter, on one of the cushion-topped chrome stools, and do a couple of obligatory spins. A scowling twentysomething hipster wearing an apron and a little paper hat walks over and holds out a menu. I wave it off and glance at his name tag.
    â€œNo need, Biff. I already know what I want. Gimme an extra-large double-fudge Hurricane shake, and hey, what the hell, toss in a couple extra squirts of chocolate sauce.”
    It’s probably a bad idea. Milkshakes almost always make me want to puke, but I know I have to man up and throw caution to the wind. My dad wouldn’t hesitate to tuck into that milkshake. He’d probably down it in one go and then slam the glass down on the counter and tell Biff to pour him another one.
    While I wait for my drink, I put my head in my hands and try to figure out what exactly went wrong with John.
    I’ve been telling him for weeks how great the prom is going to be, and I thought he was as excited as me. None of this makes sense, and after the big deal I made about the whole thing, I feel like a total chump.
    Biff puts my milkshake down on the counter and I settle up, then head back out into the night.
    I don’t feel like going home yet. I find myself wandering down back streets, lost in my thoughts. Sure, lately John had started mentioning that he was kind of scared of going to the prom, but I thought I’d done an awesome job of selling it as a sort of baby step on the journey of coming out. He was clear from the start that nobody else knew he was gay, but everyone has to come out sometime, right?
    I turn a corner and I’m suddenly face to face with my old elementary school. It looks so tiny now, compared to when I was small. I walk onto the playground and sit in a swing to finish my milkshake. When we were kids, the world was well defined and easy to wrap your head around. The rules of the playground were straightforward. You knew who the bullies were, you knew where the teachers on duty stood, you knew which girls were willing to play American Idol every day at recess. None of this confused love-connection crap.
    A shiver runs down my spine. At first I think it might be an ice-cream headache starting, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I turn around slowly and realize that there are two small faces peering at me from