This someplace turned out to be a huge house in the Arbors, at the end of a cul-​de- sac. There were about fifty cars parked along the street, but Rogerson pulled right up in the driveway. “Come on,” he said, getting out of the car, and I followed him. i didn't know what exactly I'd been expecting. Nothing had been normal about our relationship so far, so it wasn't like I'd been looking forward to a movie, pizza, and sipping one Coke with two straws, like I'd be doing with Mike Evans. Still, i had expected something. I just didn't know what it was. When I stepped inside the house, I knew I'd walked into a Perkins Day party. Everyone looked like they'd just that instant jumped out of a J. Crew catalog, all crewnecks and cashmere and straight, white teeth. “This way,” Rogerson said, leading me past a trickling indoor fountain by the front door. He seemed to know his way around, and as we passed a group of girls sitting drinking wine coolers by the fountain, they all stared at me, with the same kind of slit-​eyed look I always saw women give Rina. That was new. “Hey, Rogerson,” some girl said as we passed, and Rogerson nodded his head but didn't say hello. “Who was that?” I asked, just to say something, as we walked through the living room where the carpet felt thick and spongy beneath my feet. There was a loud quarters game going in the next room at the dining room table, which was long, seating at least twenty people. I watched as a quarter bounced down its length, missing the glass by a mile, and everyone booed. “Nobody,” he said, walking up to a closed door off the living room and knocking twice before pushing it open. It was a study, with deep wood walls and red carpet, a huge desk sitting in front of several built-​in shelves, each of which was crowded with trophies, framed pictures, and diplomas. There was a tall blond guy sitting at the desk, a lighter in his hand, about to light a bowl. A girl with red curly hair wearing ripped jeans and a Perkins Day sweatshirt was sitting on the desk blotter, smoking a cigarette, a huge cut-​glass ashtray balanced on one leg. “Rogerson,” the blond guy said, setting the bowl down beside one of those miniature Zen gardens with the rocks and sand, and standing up. “Been waiting on you.”

“Yeah, well,” Rogerson said. “I'm here now.”

“Good,” the guy said. He had that classic All-​American look, blond, blue-​eyed, tall, creamy skin. “What you got for me?” Rogerson reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of pot, then held it up and shook it, evening out its contents. I don't know why this surprised me, but it did: He was serving cookies at Senior Days for “something,” but I'd imagined parking tickets or ten miles over the speed limit. He put the bag on the desk and slid it across to the blond guy, who picked it up and examined it, flicking the small green buds with his finger through the plastic. “How much?” he said. “Seventy-​five,” Rogerson told him. “And a pinch for me.” The guy nodded. “Okay,” he said. Then he looked at the redheaded girl, who stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and hopped off the desk, reaching into her back pocket for a wad of money, which she handed to him. He counted a few bills off, folded them, and slid them across the desk to Rogerson, who counted them quickly himself before sliding them into his own pocket. The guy sat back down, opened the Baggie, and started to pack the bowl. The redheaded girl looked at me, smiled, and said, “I'm Lauren.”

“Caitlin,” I said. “Hi.”

“Rogerson's so polite,” she said sarcastically, reaching out to poke him with her finger. As I looked more closely at the pictures on the shelves I could see she was in several of them: one in a soccer uniform with a ball in her lap, another in a long white dress, sitting on a green stretch of grass, her arms full of roses.

“Isn't he?”

“Sorry,” Rogerson said. “This is Caitlin. Caitlin, Lauren and Walter.”

“Hi,” Walter said to me, and I realized suddenly I recognized him from the Perkins football team, which had creamed us three weeks earlier at home. Lauren lit another cigarette, blowing smoke toward the picture of her holding the roses, while Walter packed the bowl and handed it to Rogerson, a lighter balanced on top of it. He took a hit and handed it to me. “No, thanks,” I said. “You sure?” he asked. “Yeah.” He shrugged. “She's a cheerleader,” he explained to Lauren as he handed her the bowl. She took a big hit and promptly started coughing, her face turning red. “She's got a reputation to protect.”

“And she's going out with you?” Lauren said, between hacks. “I know,” Rogerson said. “Must be the hair.”

“Must be,” Lauren said, picking up her pack of cigarettes and shaking one out into her hand. “ 'Cause we know it's not your charm.”

“Ha,” Rogerson said, his expression flat. “Ha, ha,” she said, and smiled at me. I smiled back, still not quite sure I was in on the joke. Later, after we'd left and gotten back into the car, I said, “So Walter plays for the football team, right? How long have you known him?” He looked at me and half-​smiled, then reached to shake a cigarette out of the pack wedged under the visor. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “you ask a lot of questions.”

“I do not,” I said indignantly. I didn't even know why he bothered to ask me out. It was like I wasn't even there. “You, like, haven't even talked to me since you picked me up.”

“Talked?” he said. The lighter popped out with a click and he reached forward to grab it.