“They didn’t have your name on them,” Layla replied. “But help yourself.”

Rosie walked over and took one, holding it out to her friends. When both of them shook their heads, she tore off a piece and dunked it in Mac’s hummus, then took a bite.

“Ugh,” Irv said.

“It’s actually not so bad,” Layla told him.

“You’ve tried that?”

“Desperate times, desperate measures.”

The brunette stepped out from behind Rosie, sticking her hand out to Mac. “I’m Lucy. And you are?”

“My brother,” Rosie said flatly as they shook. “He’s seventeen.”

“I love seventeen,” Lucy said, smiling.

“I’m Layla,” Layla said, offering her own hand. “I’m sixteen.”

Lucy shook, with visibly less enthusiasm. “Hi.”

The girl with the abs, for whatever reason, was not introduced, nor were the rest of us. I reached over to the box of Kwackers Mac was holding to take another one, and he moved it closer to me. This time, I was well aware that Layla, and everyone else, was watching.

“So we’re in your room tonight, just so you know,” Rosie told Layla, dipping the other half of her Pop-Tart in the frosting.

“What?” Layla asked.

“Mom said it was okay,” Rosie told her as the song wound down in the other room. There was a burst of laughter, some scattered applause.

“It’s not her room. And I have Sydney here.”

“You know I basically sleep in a closet. There’s not enough space for all three of us.”

“Where are we supposed to sleep?”

“The couch? I don’t know.”

“They’ll be out here all night, though.”

“Rosie!” Mr. Chatham called out from the living room. “Come back in here, gal, and sing us another one. For your dear old dad.”

Mac sighed. Irv said, “How many beers has he had?”

“Not as many as he will.” He got up, then held the box out to me one last time. I shook my head as Rosie turned, leaving the room with the blonde following. Lucy, however, lingered in the doorway, watching Mac as he reached up to put the Kwackers back in his cabinet. It was a stretch, and his shirt inched up, exposing his belt and a strip of his stomach. “You guys can take my room. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“And he’s a gentleman, too,” Lucy said.

“Down, girl,” Layla said. Lucy, either not hearing this or ignoring it, finally left. She was walking entirely too slowly, as far as I was concerned.

“Ugh,” Layla said as Rosie began singing again. “Those Mariposa girls are all so gross, I swear. If all those little girls who buy tickets only knew.”

“They’re not all bad,” Mac said, shutting the cabinet.

Layla rolled her eyes, but said nothing as Rosie’s voice, which had been quiet at first, began to soar, filling the living room and then our ears. This song had a quicker pace, more of something you’d dance to. Mrs. Chatham, in her chair, was flushed and smiling, tapping her foot, as the woman playing the violin closed her eyes, the bow slashing back and forth across the strings. It seemed amazing to me that one night could hold so much, from a merry-go-round to a Pop-Tart with frosting to the most beautiful singing I’d ever heard. I thought of my own house, across town. Perched on a hill, all lights off except those in use, with just my parents and myself bumping around its large space.

Rosie’s voice was rising now, the violin player going even faster. Someone was stamping his feet, and my own cheeks felt hot. It was amazing to feel so at home in a place I’d only just come to. The night was not even close to over yet. Still, I could think of nothing but how I so very much did not want it to end.

* * *

“Just so you know,” Layla said, stretching a sheet across the bed, “this was not what I had in mind when I invited you over.”

It was about two hours later, and we were in Mac’s room. After listening to the music for a while, we’d gone out to the garage, where Layla had roused Eric, then made him walk a few laps around the house to sober up before Irv drove him home.

“It’s been great,” I told her.

“I don’t know about that.” She slid the pillow into a fresh case, then plumped it. “It’s so typical that Rosie just takes over my room. She gets whatever she wants.”

“I really don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” I said.

“No way. You are a guest. Mac will be fine there.” She turned, picking up one of the two sleeping bags we’d brought in from the garage and shaking it out of its sack.

I sat down on the bed—Mac’s bed, I realized belatedly, which made it feel different suddenly. As she spread a blanket over the sleeping bag, I looked around the room. It was small, with a twin bed and bureau, both made of the same well-worn yellow wood. Two car posters—one Audi, one BMW—were up on the wall, along with a map of what looked like Lakeview, dotted with pencil marks. On a metal desk, dinged with dents, there sat a computer, speakers, and a row of books, mostly about running and exercise. At the far end, there were several clock radios, all in different stages of disrepair: some were missing knobs, another the glass screen, and one had several springs poking out of it, as if it had exploded.

“He’s kind of a mad scientist,” Layla said. I looked at her, and she nodded at the desk. “Or maybe not mad. Just curious. He likes to see how things work.”