“Can we go now, please?” Bert asked as I pulled the doors shut. Up in the passenger seat, Kristy was messing with the radio, the wailing woman now replaced by a boppy pop beat. “Or would you like another moment or two to make me insane?”

Kristy rolled her eyes. “Where’s Wes?”

“He’s meeting us there. If we ever get there.” He pointed, annoyed, at the digital clock on the dashboard, which said 7:37. “Look at that! The night is just ticking away. Ticking!”

“For God sakes, it’s early,” Kristy said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Which, I soon found out, was a good thing. We’d need it, with Bert behind the wheel.

He was a slow driver. More than slow, he was also incredibly cautious, a driver’s ed teacher’s dream. He paused for green lights, came to full stops before railroad crossings that hadn’t seen trains in years, and obeyed the speed limit religiously, sometimes even dropping below it. And all the while, he had both hands on the wheel in the ten-and-two position, watching the road like a hawk, prepared for any and all obstacles or hazards.

So it seemed like ages later that we finally turned off the main road and onto a gravel one, then began driving on grass, over small rises and dips, toward an area where several cars were parked, encircling a clearing with a few wooden picnic tables in the center. People were sitting at them, on them, grouped all around, and there were several flashlights scattered across the surfaces of the tables, sending beams of light in all directions. Bert backed in, so we were facing the tables, then cut the engine.

“Finally,” Kristy said, unbuckling her seat belt with a flourish.

“You could have walked,” Bert told her.

“I feel like we did,” she said. Then she pushed her door open, and I heard voices nearby, someone laughing. “I’m going to get a beer. Anybody else want one?”

“Me,” Monica said, standing up and pushing open the back doors. She eased herself out with a pained expression, then started across the grass.

“Macy?” Kristy asked.

“Oh, no thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.” She climbed out the front door, letting it fall shut behind her. “Be right back.”

I watched them cross into the clearing and walk past one of the picnic tables to a keg that was under some nearby trees. Two guys were standing by it, and one of them, who was tall with a shock of red hair, immediately went to work getting Kristy a beer, eyeing her appreciatively as he did so. Monica was standing by with a bored expression, while the redhead’s friend shot her sideways looks, working up to saying something.

Bert was sitting on the back bumper of the ambulance, scanning the crowd, and I joined him, letting my feet dangle down. Most of the faces here were new to me, which made sense, since this was more of a Talbert High crowd, while I went to Jackson, on the other side of town. Still, I did recognize a few people I knew from school. I wondered if any of them knew me.

I looked across the clearing then, and saw Wes. He was standing with a group of guys around an old Mustang, talking, and seeing him I felt that same sort of lurch in my stomach as I had the first night I’d met him, and the night he’d pulled me out of the hole, and just about every time we’d crossed paths since. I couldn’t explain it, had never felt it before: it was completely out of my control. So idiotic, I thought, and yet there I was again, staring.

After a minute or two he broke off from the group and started across the clearing. While I was making a pointed effort not to watch him—or, okay, not watch him the entire time—it was hard not to notice, as I took a quick glance around the circle, that I was not alone in my observations. I counted at least three other girls doing the same thing. I wondered if they felt as stupid as I did. Probably not.

“Hey,” he said. “What took you guys so long?”

Bert rolled his eyes, nodding toward Kristy, who was now coming back toward us with Monica. “What do you think?”

“I heard that,” she said. “You know, it takes time to look like this. You can’t just throw this sort of outfit together.”

Bert narrowed his eyes, looking at her. “No?”

Ignoring this, she said, “A fat lot of good it’s doing me here, though. There aren’t any good prospects.”

“What about that guy at the keg?” Bert asked.

“Please.” She sighed. “Can’t a girl have high standards? I don’t want an ordinary boy.”

There was bout of laughter from the jeep parked beside us, and a second later a blonde girl in a halter top suddenly stumbled over. “Hey,” she said, pointing at me. “I know you. Don’t I know you?”

“Um, I’m not sure,” I said, but I did know her. It was Rachel Newcomb: we’d run middle school track together. We hadn’t spoken in years.

“I do, I do,” she said, snapping her fingers, hardly seeming to notice everyone else looking on. Kristy raised her eyebrows.

“You know me, Rachel,” Bert said quickly. “Bert? I tutored you last summer at the Kaplan center, in math?”

Rachel looked at him briefly, then turned her attention back to me. “Oh shit, I know! We used to run together, right? In middle school? And now you date that guy, the one who’s always yelling at us about bicycling!”

It took me a second.

“Recycling?” I said.

“Right!” She clapped her hands. “That’s it!”