Of course, I was always with Macon. Now he could pick me up for school and take me to work or home in the afternoons; Scarlett, who used to drive me, was as busy as my father. She was working extra shifts at Milton’s so she could buy baby clothes and nursery items; plus, she was spending a lot of time with Cameron, who made her laugh and rubbed her feet. Finally, our guidance counselor, Mrs. Bagbie, had convinced her to join a fledgling Teen Mothers Support Group that met at school two afternoons a week. She hadn’t wanted to go, but she said the other girls—some pregnant, some already with kids—made her feel a little less strange. And Scarlett, as I knew, could make friends anywhere.

Macon and I had fun. Monday we didn’t go to school at all, spending the entire time just driving around, eating at Mc-Donald’s, and hanging out by the river. When the school called that night my father wasn’t home, and I easily explained that I’d been sick and my mother was out of town. Macon had already mastered her signature, signing with a flourish every note I needed.

She called every night and asked me the basic questions about school and work, whether my father was remembering to feed me. She said she missed me, that Grandma Halley was going to be all right. She said she was sorry we’d argued, and she knew it was hard for me to break it off with Macon, but someday I would understand it was the right thing. At the other end of the line, phone in hand, I agreed and watched him back out of the driveway, lights moving across me, then heard him beep as he drove away. I told myself I shouldn’t feel guilty, that she’d played dirty, changing the rules to suit her. Sometimes it worked; sometimes not.

The night before my father and I were leaving to go to Buffalo for Thanksgiving, Macon brought me home from work. The house was dark when we pulled up.

“Where’s your dad?” he said as he cut off the engine.

“I don’t know.” I grabbed my backpack out of the back of the car and opened my door. “Doing radio stuff, probably.”

As I leaned over to kiss him good-bye, he pulled back a bit, his eyes still on my dark house. Across the street Scarlett’s front porch light was already on, and I could see Marion in front of the TV in the living room, her shoes off, feet up on the coffee table. In the kitchen Scarlett was standing at the stove, stirring something.

“Well,” I said to Macon, sliding my hand around his neck. “I guess I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me to come in?”

“In?” I drew back. He’d never asked before. “Do you want to?”

“Sure.” He reached down and opened his door, and just like that we were walking up the driveway, past my mother’s mums, to the front steps. The paper was on the porch and a few leaves were blowing around, making scraping noises. It was getting ready to rain.

I fished around in my backpack for my keys, then unlocked the door and pushed it open just as there was a loud rumbling overhead. Even without looking up I could feel the plane coming closer, the thin line of windowpanes on either side of the door already vibrating.

“Man,” Macon said. “That’s loud.”

“It’s bad around this time,” I told him. “There are lots of early evening flights.” The house was completely dark inside, and I felt across the wall for the light switch. Right as the light came on overhead there was a popping noise, a flash, and we were in the dark again.

“Hold on,” I said, dropping my backpack as he stepped in behind me, a few leaves blowing in across his feet. “I’ll find another light.”

And then I felt his arms wrap around me from behind, his hand, cool, on my stomach, and in the dark of my parents’ alcove he kissed me. He didn’t seem to have any problem negotiating the dark of the empty house, walking me backwards to the living room and the couch, pushing me down across my mother’s needlepoint pillows. I kissed him back, letting his hand slide up my shirt, feeling the warmth of his legs pressing against mine. Another plane was rumbling in the distance.

“Macon,” I said, coming up for air after a few minutes, “my father could be home any second.”

He kept kissing me, his hand still exploring. Obviously this wasn’t as much of a threat to him as it was to me.

“Macon.” I pushed him back a little. “I’m serious.”

“Okay, okay.” He sat up, bumping back against another stack of pillows. My mother was into pillows. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“You don’t know my father,” I said, like he was some big ogre, chasing boys across the yard with a shotgun. I was running enough risk just having him there; my father finding us alone in the dark would be another story altogether.

I got up and went into the kitchen, flicking on lights as I went. All the familiar things looked different with him trailing along behind me. I wondered what he was thinking.

“Do you want something to drink?” I said, opening the fridge.

“Nah,” he said, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table and sitting down.

I was bending into the fridge, searching out a Coke, when I suddenly heard my father’s voice, as if he’d stepped up right behind me. I swear I almost stopped breathing.

“Well, we’re over here at the new Simpson Dry Cleaners, at the Lakeview Mall, and I’m Brian and I gotta tell you, I’ve seen a lot of dry cleaners before but this place is different. Herb and Mary Simpson, well, they know a little bit about this business, and... ”