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something feels vaguely familiar about this prom business. I have an eerie feeling this is going to be another night you’ll never forget.”
    “Maybe. But probably not in the way you think.”
    And, as so often happened in our friendship, we were both right.

2
    OAK TERRACE RETIREMENT Home was located a mile outside downtown San Celina on a twisting two-lane highway leading to Morro Bay. Its five salmon-colored mission-style buildings were perched on a small rise, flanked by alfalfa fields on one side and scrubby range land dotted with white-faced yearlings on the other. It offered a top-of-thestagecoach view to anyone sitting in the English rose garden in front of the administration building, a popular spot for pipe smokers and marathon talkers.
    By the time I arrived at two o’clock, Ramon and his classmates had been decorating for a little over an hour. They were in the process of transforming the normally staid decor of the retirement home’s combination recreation hall/ dining room into a party setting with kelly-green and screaming-pink streamers and matching helium-filled balloons. The decorations’ connection to the Civil War was tenuous at best, but the bright colors certainly gave the room a more cheerful and festive look. I handed the bags of McDonald’s apple pies and french fries I’d bought for the students to the nearest warm body and grabbed the work-assignment clipboard. In a far comer, Ramon grappled with two white and gold papier-mâché columns borrowed from Cal Poly’s drama department.
    “The leaning tower of Tara,” he joked when I walked up. I tugged at the long, thick ponytail bisecting the back of his moth-eaten green and black Pendleton wool shirt. The hair and the thrift-shop clothing he prefers drives his five conservatively bent older brothers and his native Mexican father insane, which, of course, is why he does it.
    Every time he let go of the left-hand column, it leaned precariously forward, as if pushed by the north wind. One bump from an out-of-control wheelchair and it would fall like a redwood tree marked for picnic benches.
    We were attempting to re-create the porch of Scarlett’s beloved mansion in the corner of the brown-tiled room next to the white brick fireplace. The two columns, left over from the drama department’s somewhat ill-received adaptation of I , Claudius , along with two white wicker chairs, a painted backdrop of a fancy front door and a dubious likeness of Rhett and Scarlett, made up our souvenir photograph spot.
    “Maybe we could attach it to the wall from behind with some fishing line and thumbtacks?” I suggested.
    “Fresh idea. Hang on to it.” He released the column and I grabbed the teetering pillar. “I’ll go find the janitor. Maybe he has some.” He bounded off toward the exit before a protest could squeak past my lips. Standing there with a clipboard in one hand and Tara in the other, I fervently hoped he wouldn’t be waylaid by one of the many chattering female students twisting crepe-paper streamers and setting out napkins and paper cups. Ramon, the youngest of Elvia’s six brothers, was the most easygoing of the Aragon boys, which made him fun, but not always dependable.
    “Hey, Miz H., smile,” a crackly, tenor voice called from my left. A bright flash temporarily blinded me.
    “Todd Simmons, you’d better not be wasting film.” I blinked and gave my head a small shake, trying to clear away the exploding stars. When my vision cleared, Todd stood in front of me, his normally serious pale blue eyes half closed in amusement.
    “Just testing the flash.” He aimed the camera again, but only shot me a wry smile. I couldn’t help smiling back. It was hard to get mad at Ramon’s best friend. He was a quiet, good-natured young man with a slim, sturdy surfer’s build and skin the exact shade of Dove’s homemade toffee. He’d inherited all the best features from both his Asian and Caucasian background. His shoulder-length, dark brown