“Rogerson, darling,” Mrs. Biscoe said, reaching over to smooth her hand over his hair. “Did you apologize to your father?”

“Yep,” he said, still chewing. “Man, those triangle things are good, Mom.”

She looked at me. “Phyllo,” she explained, as if proving a point, before letting her hand drop onto his shoulder. “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

“We're gonna go out back, okay?” Rogerson said, as his mother took another sip of wine, distracted. The kitchen was so noisy, full of voices and clanging, oven doors slamming shut, but she didn't seem to hear any of it. “Yes, okay,” she said, snapping to and standing up straighter to fluff that one bit of her bangs again. “But stay close. Right?”

“Right,” Rogerson said, reaching for my hand and winding his tightly around it before leading me through a group of caterers to a door across the room. When I looked back I could see Mrs. Biscoe standing in front of the swinging kitchen door, framed for a second against the movement and color of the party. The door swung out behind her and for a moment it was like everything froze and she was just there, suspended. Then the door started to swing back and she stepped through, disappearing like a dove in a magician's handkerchief.

Rogerson took me back to the pool house, where he lived. His room was probably the neatest I'd ever seen in my life. It looked like you could run a white-​gloved fingertip over any surface and never find one fleck of dust, with everything having a place and an order, from the CDs stacked alphabetically on the shelves over his bed to the way the towels were folded in the bathroom. It was the kind of place where you were conscious not to disrupt the neat vacuum lines on the carpet ot the perfectly plumped pillowssitting at exactly forty-​five-​degree angleson the couch. I would have assumed it was a maid's doing, but the first thing Rogerson did when we walked in was bend down to fix the base of a coatrack by the door so that its stand fit squarely in the middle of a tile there. This was all his.

I went to use the bathroommarveling at the shiny chrome sink and fixtures, the sharp cleanliness of the mirrorand when I came out someone was knocking at the door. “Hold on,” Rogerson said, starting back across the room, but the door was already opening and Rogerson's fatherthe older man I'd seen at the center of the party, telling jokes came in. He was wearing a golf sweater with a little gold insignia on it and dress pants and loafers. He couldn't see me.

“I told you to be here at seven o'clock,” he said to Rogerson, crossing the room with smooth strides. His face was pinkly red, flushed. Rogerson glanced at me, quickly, and the look on his face strange and unsteady made me step back instinctively into the darkness of the bathroom, my hand resting on the cool countertop there. “Dad,” he said. “I”

“Look at me when I'm talking to you!” Mr. Biscoe said, and right as he crossed my line of vision, his face now beet-​red, he suddenly reached out and hit Rogerson, hard, across the temple. Rogerson's neck snapped back reflexively, and he lifted a hand to shield himself. “When I say you are to be somewhere, you are there. Understood?” Rogerson, hand over his face, nodded. I felt my stomach turning. I wasn't even sure I was breathing. “Are we clear?” Mr. Biscoe bellowed. I could see one vein, taut, sticking up in his neck. “Look at me.”

“Yes,” Rogerson said, and his father reached over, irritated, and snatched his hand away from his face, gripping his wrist. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good,” his father said. “Then we're clear.” He dropped Roger-​son's wrist, then reached up to hook a finger around his own collar, adjusting it, before turning back toward the door. I kept my eyes on the tiled bathroom floor, studying the colors: black and white, over and over, like a chessboard. I stayed still until I heard the door slam, and Rogerson stumbled backward to the bed, sitting down and spreading his fingers over the side of his face. I walked out of the bathroom and went to sit beside him, but he wouldn't look at me. “Rogerson,” I said, turning to face him. “Let me see.”

“Don't touch me,” he said in a low voice. “I'm fine.” His eyes were so dark, the place where he'd been hit flushed and red. “Please,” I said. “Come on.”

“Don't,” he said, but when I reached over and put my hand over his he didn't shake me off. “Don't touch me.”

“Rogerson,” I said, slowly pulling his hand away. I could feel his pulse beating at his temple under my forefinger, the skin red and hot there. “Don't touch me,” he said, so softly this time, and I took my finger and traced his eyebrow where he'd taken the brunt of the hit, the same way Cass had done to me so many times, her face changing as she saw again what she'd done. “Don't.”

“Shh,” I said. “Don't touch me,” he whispered. “Don't.” But he was already leaning in, as my own hand worked to cover the hurt, his eyes closing as his forehead hit my chest and my finger traced the spot again and again that I knew so well.

ROGERSON

Chapter 7

I never told anyone what happened at Rogerson's. But from then on, we were together. We didn't talk about it: It was just understood. In that one moment I'd seen some part of him that he kept hidden from the rest of the worldbehind his cool face, his bored manner, his hair. I'd edged in past it all, and now I found my own place there. The next Monday, after cheerleading practice, I walked outside to find Rogerson parked in front of the gym. He was leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette, waiting for me. I hadn't asked him to pick me up. But there he was.