My mother, now distracted with Cass's Lamont Whipper sightings, had eased off on her own involvement in my cheerleading: something that almost would have bothered me, had I really taken the time to think about it. It was so easy, again, for Cass to take center stage. But it made lying that much easier. It became a given that I rode around with him for all his errands almost every night. It was like he just needed me there, even if I was sitting in the car chewing my pencil and working trigonometry proofs while he talked business and divided up bags inside various houses. If I did want to go home early or spend an evening at home, he'd always drive by my house at least once, slowing down and just idling, engine rumbling, until I went outside to talk to him. “Just come here for a second,” he'd say, rolling down his window and cutting off the engine as I came down the walk. “I'll even let you listen to that stupid music you like so much.”

“Rogerson,” I'd tell him, “I told you I have got to study. You don't understand.”

“I do, too,” he'd say, opening the car door and holding out his hand. Even if it was dark I could tell when his eyes were sleepy, half-​stoned, which always made him mushier than normal. “One second. I just want to talk.“ ”Yeah, right,“ I'd say. ”I'm serious.“ And then he'd smile at me, strict honest face. ”You trust me, right?” This was his line. It was what always led to me giving in, regardless of the issue, and coming two or three steps closer to give him my hand. Which would, of course, lead to him pulling me inside the car and kissing me, which always made me somehow forget about studying the dates for the Italian Renaissance, or the periodic table, or Macbeth, entirely. There were some nights, though, when something was wrong. He wouldn't talk and just wanted to lean into me, putting his head on my chest while I ran my fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. I always wondered if his dad had hurt him again. But like most things with Rogerson, I was usually given half the puzzle or just one clue, never enough to piece together the full story. This is what I did know. That he was quiet and never spoke without thinking.

That he drove like a maniac. That the only time I saw the small simmering of temper behind his cool demeanor was when someone was late or not where they said they'd be. That he liked his brother, tolerated his mother, and never mentioned his father at all. And that whenever I pressed him for details about any of these things, he would sidestep me so gracefully that I could never find a polite way to ask again. Still, there was something so strange and tender about those nights when I just sat with him in the car, my arms around him, wondering what had happened at home that brought him here, needing me so much. It reminded me of how I'd felt when Cass and I shared our room, the peace of mind that comes from knowing someone is so close while you sleep that the worst of the monsters and nightmares can't get to you.

Rogerson and I would stay that way until my father flicked on the outside light, bright and yellow and startling in my eyes. Then I'd wake him up, kiss him good night, and he'd drive off, drowsy, while I went back to my own bed feeling warm and content. I'd close my eyes, alone in my room, remembering him breathing and wonder who he saw, or found, in dreamland.

Rogerson's depth of knowledge continually surprised me. It seemed like there was literally nothing he didn't know. One day, he was changing the oil in his car and I was sitting on a lawn chair in his garage, doing my homework. The Biscoe garage was jam-​packed with stuff. His mother was apparently addicted to shopping, and there were boxes upon boxes, unopened, of laundry detergent, Tupperware, canned goods. In the back, where Mr. Biscoe kept his fishing supplies, was a graveyard of barely used exercise equipment, including a treadmill, a bike, and some strange contraption that looked like skis attached to a trampoline. Whenever Rogerson worked on his car I could spend hours just walking around, poking behind boxes, excavating things. But today I was trying to cram American history, as well as complaining out loud about my teacher, Mr. Alores, who gave trivia quizzes each Friday for extra credit. He didn't teach the material on them; you either knew it or you didn't, and lately I'd been falling into the latter category. “I mean, it's so ridiculous,” I said to Rogerson, or rather to Rogerson's legs, which was all I could see of him poking out from under the car. “How am I supposed to know this crap?”

“It can't be that hard,” he said. “Yeah, right. Okay.” I pulled out my last quizI'd gotten a zero and unfolded it. “Here. Number 4. The Victoria was the name of the first ship to what?”

“Hand me that wrench by your foot,” he said, and I kicked it under the car to him. "Thanks.

Circumnavigate the globe.“ ”Do what?“ I said. ”The Victoria. It was the first ship to circumnavigate the globe. Magellan. Returned 1522. Right?“ I glanced down at my sheet, where Mr. Alores had written the correct answer in his clear, block-​style printing. ”Yeah. That's right.“ Something clanked, hard, under the car. ”Shit,“ he said. ”Damn screw's practically rusted on.“ I glanced back down at my quiz. ”Rogerson.“ ”Yeah.“ ”Who was the first person to climb Mount Everest?“ ”Sir Edmund Hillary. 1953.“ He pushed out from under the car and stood up, walking over to his toolbox. ”

The Ojibwa Indians are better known as what?“ He picked up a screwdriver, examined it, and dropped it back in the box. ”Chippewa,“ he said. I could not believe this. ”The cluster of stars called Pleiades can be found in which constellation?“ He crouched down, sliding back under the car. ”The Seven Sisters,“ he said. I looked down at my sheet. ”Taurus,“ he added, his voice muffled. ”Also known as.“ Right again. I put the sheet down. ”Rogerson. How in the world do you know all this stuff?“ I walked over and knelt down on the floor, peering under the car while he drained the oil into a pan resting on his stomach. ”It's, like, amazing.“ ”I don't know,“ he said. ”Come on. Nobody just knows stuff like the thyroid is located behind the breastbone. It's insane.“ ”Thymus,“ he said. ”What?“ ”The thymus is behind the breastbone,“ he explained, shifting the oil pan. ”Not the thyroid.“ ”Whatever,“ I said. ”You're like a genius or something.“ He smiled at this. ”Nah. I was just really into history and science as a kid. And my grandfather was a trivia addict. He bought me books for practically every birthday and then tested me.“ He shrugged. ”It's no big deal.“ But it was. There were momentswhen Jeopardy came on, in the car during radio trivia challenges, or for practically any question I couldn't answer in any subjectthat Rogerson simply amazed me. I started to seek out facts, just to stump him, but it never worked. He was that sharp. “In physics,” I sprung on him as we sat in the Taco Bell drive-​through, ”what does the capital letter W stand for?”