Chad spoke, albeit timidly. “I’m sorry. I…” Tucker turned around to see him pull his sleeves down over his hands, put his covered palms on the purple shag on the floor of the van, and hoist himself up. Chad spent an inordinate of time afterward brushing his sleeves off with his bare hands, which, to Tucker, made the whole sleeve thing seem like a waste of time and effort. “Um…Mrs. Cornell, um…she asked if I wanted to sing a solo at graduation,” Chad said.
Tucker turned from the record player. “Seriously, man?”
“Yeah.”
“Far out! Except you sit right next to me in chorus, man, and when we have to do the ‘Do-re-me’ charts one by one, even I can barely hear ya.”
“I know. She said maybe you could, um, help me get over my stage fright.”
“She did?”
“Can you?”