There are cars packed in both my and Owen’s driveway, many with lights on, pointed directly at the hoop anchored to my garage. There are about a dozen guys all playing ball and crushing beer cans right below my bedroom window, my bedroom window that I can see plainly through the thin veil of curtains thanks to the flooding lights.

“You wanted war,” Willow says, shaking her head at the scene.

“Yeah…” I say, grabbing my heavy bag and pulling it over my shoulder as I step out of her car. “I guess I did.”

“You want me to stay? Come in for a while?” She’s asking to be nice, but I can tell she doesn’t really want to be a part of whatever the hell this is that I started.

“No, it’s all right. I’m just going to put some music on and go to bed. Really, let them do whatever out here. I don’t care,” I lie.

I wait at the front door until Willow pulls away, then push my key in and quickly shut the door behind me.

“What are you doing?” I whisper to myself, letting my bag, coat, scarf and sweatshirt all fall into one pile by the front door. I pull my boots from my feet and slide along the wood floor in my socks toward the kitchen, stroking my hand along the smoothness of the piano top as I pass it. I could still play, but for some reason, playing while there’s practically a party happening on the other side of the wall is far less appealing. It’s not so much their disruption and the noise as it is my fear of them hearing me—of them stopping and listening. Maybe a fear of them mocking me and taking away something that’s mine.

I grab a Coke from the fridge and climb the steps, careful not to turn on my light. I don’t need to give them a reason to look up. On all fours, I crawl to the window and lean my back against the side of my bed, cracking the tab on my soda.

Someone’s radio is blaring rap music. Not the radio-edited version, but the kind with full swearwords and demeaning lyrics. Kiera is out there, sitting on the hood of Owen’s truck, and she’s taking long drags from a joint, her head swaying side-to-side, not even remotely in sync with the beat. She’s ridiculous, and watching her gives me a thrill for about five minutes.

Owen doesn’t seem to be aware of her at all, which she doesn’t seem to care about because I’m pretty sure she’s high off her ass. He’s busy playing basketball. It’s barely in the fifties outside, but he’s not wearing a shirt. There’s a white T-shirt tucked into the back of his black jeans, hanging from the waistband like a rag, and his chest is dripping with sweat. They must have been playing all night.

Sliding against the wall, I let my head come to rest on the frame of the window, my hand tucked under my chin, and I watch. Owen is so focused out there playing this game of pick-up ball—this game that doesn’t matter anywhere but in his head. At one point, he’s arguing a call, shoving his friend in the chest and threatening him. They’re both tall, but Owen’s more muscular, his frame that of someone who looks as if he’s been in a street fight or two.

Their language gets more vulgar as the hour goes on, as more beer cans get crushed into a pile in my driveway. I wouldn’t be able to sleep through this even if I wanted to. I know if my father were home, he’d have the police here to haul everyone away. No one is older than eighteen out there, and I’ve seen at least three cases of beer go down, as well as two or three joints.

It’s one in the morning, and I hear one of the guys call out for the last game. Everyone pulls money from their wallets, handing it to Kiera, who stuffs it in her bra, and they pass the ball to Owen for the final game. He’s dribbling it, each bounce slower than the first as he points to guys and splits them up on a team, then he throws the ball to someone and jogs over to his truck, pulling a ringing phone from inside the cab.

There’s something about the way he’s pacing—the way his hand is on his neck and his eyes are down at his feet—something is wrong. For him to be agitated, it must be really wrong, like as in a kind of wrong I can’t even fathom.

“Yo, O! We doin’ this or what?” one of the guys yells out at him. Owen raises a hand, crouching down and pushing the phone more tightly to his ear. “O! Come on, man. Are you pussying out because you’re out two hunny?”

Two hunny…as in two hundred dollars? Owen stands up from his crouch, the phone still pressed to his ear, and he stares long and hard at the guy giving him a hard time. He doesn’t say anything to his friend—if that guy is even a friend—but something is communicated between them just from one look.

“Yeah, whatever man. We gotta go anyhow. Hey, Chris, grab my shit and let’s get out of here,” the guy yells over his shoulder.