Tony stands against the back wall of the auditorium with his hands stuffed in his khakis like he’s a hip, young substitute teach. Any attempts to get him to go sit down are met with an overly familiar guffaw. (C’mon, Mr. B, you know my legs don’t fit in those tiny chairs.)

He is still not entirely sure what the hell is going on and he’s definitely not as worried as he should be. Ms. Dorkins is alive and accounted for, after all.

Blessedly, he does have the good sense to wait until it seems like an okay place for a little levity before raising his hand nearly nine feet in the air. “Do y’all wanna chaperone prom?”