Whoever said that the Midwest is small clearly never had to cyber-stalk all the “Conners” in the greater Dust Bowl area.

Colleen is at the foot of my bed, scrolling through Twitter. I’m turned on my side, moving through all the profiles I can find on Instagram, trash can close by. The awful, never-ending sun is coming through my window and making me even more nauseous. It’s the day before senior year, the Sunday of all Sundays.

“Wait,” Colleen says, then takes a hard choke of water from a glass. She’s been complaining all morning about how her asthma makes her more susceptible to hangover symptoms, to which I’ve declared bulllshit.

“Did you find him?” I ask, immediately moving past another white Conner on Insta. We’ve been hard at work since we woke up, woozy, sick, and filled with regret. Not that I even know what I would say to this guy if I found the right social media. Hey, your tongue worked really well with mine, you want to keep doing that?

“Wait—no. Wrong hair,” she says, and I let out a sigh.

“This is useless, Colleen. Another year without romance. I should just be thankful I got to have some meaningless kiss.”

“It was so totally more than that,” Colleen says.

“How would you know? You were in the bathroom the whole time.”

“Whatever! I read vibes really well!”

I groan and lay flat on my back, watching my ceiling fan turn and turn.

“Doesn’t even matter,” I say. “This time next year, it will be ‘exit stage left.’ Goodbye dust and corn and the constant smell of onions.”

“You’re going to miss it in New York,” Colleen says, “I know it. You’ll be making your little outfits in college and then suddenly stop and think: wow, I really took those tornadoes for granted.”

“And the day I admit that is the day they’ll find my body in the Hudson River.” I throw my phone away and let out another groan, because my gut feels like it’s clenching a fist. “Conner will remain a mystery man.”

Colleen switches out her water for some lukewarm yellow Gatorade. Watching her chug it makes me feel even sicker. “Maybe for the best,” she says. “We’re going to have a lot to focus on. Applications, school work, the play.”

“Bring it on,” I say feebly. Colleen nods slowly, then lets out a tiny belch. 

“We’re ready for anything,” she says, then dry heaves into the trash can.

#

After Colleen leaves late in the day, I head down to the living room. My mom is on the couch, rifling through her new sewing magazines.

“There you are,” she says. “I thought I heard Colleen slip out earlier. You two sure stayed up late.”

“We had a lot to catch up on,” I say, and try to change the subject before she can really start the cross-examination. “You ready for sewing circle?”

Every Sunday, my mom and I pull out huge chests of fabric, drawers full of rags and ribbons, and boxes stuffed with buttons and tiny trinkets and start on some grand new outfit design. We’ve been doing it since third grade, when I would watch my mom sew in awe. She was always helping out the community theater with costumes, gorgeous outfits with blinding bedazzlements, so shiny and beautiful I couldn’t help but notice. It amazed me to see the graceful, careful way her fingers weaved fabric through the humming sewing machine, pulling out a complete garment like a scarf from a magician’s sleeve. I’ve been obsessed with fashion ever since. There is nothing else so transformational in the world—not that any other people my age can appreciate that fact.

I follow my mom upstairs, and we sit down in the sewing room, moving aside hangers of dresses and pants and spiky coats to get to our stations.

“What are you working on today?” Mom asks.

“The long-sleeve. Extra-extra long. The material is working my fingers out. You?”

“Ballroom dress. Need about fifty more pounds of tulle to fill it out.”

“Godspeed.”

We both get to work. I pull out some plaid patches to add to the sleeves of my shirt.

“So…” my mom says as she works the sewing machine. “We’ve barely crossed paths this weekend. What did you get up to?”

“You know,” I say. “Stayed low-key. Colleen and I never do anything too interesting.”

“No boys?”

I pause, wondering whether I can tell her about Conner, our brief meeting on the dance floor. But no—there will be too many questions, and it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.

“No boys,” I say. “What about your boy?”

My mom gets a flushed look on her face. The needle gets caught in the fabric, and she hurries to try and fix it.

“I saw Ben again,” she says. Ben. The shadowy figure I’m always hearing about in whispers: Ben and I had dinner, Ben and I walked at the park, Ben and I—and still I don’t even know what this guy looks like.

“I think things are getting…more serious,” she says. “I think it might be time for you two to meet soon.” My throat tightens, but I force a smile. It’s been a long time since my mom has dated and seemed this happy about it. 

“That is serious. He’s not…pressuring you, is he?”

My mom laughs. “Stop it, Dean.”

“Seriously! Don’t let your first time be in a pick-up truck, and if he says he ‘forgot’ to buy condoms—”

“Dean,” she repeats, still smiling, and she bunches up the sheer blue tulle in the machine. “You should know by now that I’m a lady. And that he’s a gentleman.”

I nod and smile too, but of course I don’t know that. I don’t know anything about the guy. He could be Ted Bundy. He could wear Birkenstocks.

But all I know is, if he tries to come between me and my mom, I've learned a few creative ways to use shearing scissors.