“That’s just for the civil disobedience.” Jack tilted away from me, gripping the edge of the table with one hand and balancing on the back legs of his stool. “That’s the best part! But we can raise money. We can publicize it. We can go on the march. We’ve got a permit to be on the sidewalk in front of the White House for the whole afternoon.”

“Do you know what they call it?” I read off the screen. “The picture-postcard zone.”

“As long as you keep moving, you don’t break any regulations. But if you sit down there and refuse to move, you could get arrested. That’s why minors can’t take part.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting arrested,” I said.

“Well . . .” He was still balancing on his stool, trying to impress me with his acrobatic skills.

“I might have minded before.”

“I’d love to get arrested,” said Jack. “But it could damage the campaign.” With his free hand, he took a slug of beer. I watched his Adam’s apple moving up and down under the smooth skin of his throat, and smiled like I knew some joke he didn’t. The beer had trickled down onto my legs and made them warm and pliable.

“I’m thinking,” I said dreamily, “what will the picture-postcard zone look like when the White House is underwater?”

His stool hit the floor with a thump. He slapped the counter and sprang to his feet.

“What’s wrong?”

Jack turned around once, waving both arms in the air. I saw the muscular back of his neck, the loose seat of his jeans, and for a second the complicated front of them before he sat down again, grinning.

“What a great idea! We can make postcards of the White House underwater and sell them to raise money!”

He was looking at me in this easy way, and it seemed as if the fourth-grade, crew-cut, planetarium Jack was saying, “Remember me?” At that exact moment I made a decision. I would find a way to do it. Not right now, but soon. To know what it’s like. And just as that thought entered my head, Jack Bell in his enthusiasm about the postcards laid his hand on my arm, near the wrist. He removed it instantly, and went to the sink on some pretext or other, but my arm was fizzing and sparkling so much where he’d touched me that it didn’t even feel like an arm anymore. I knew then that it wasn’t just a matter of curiosity. The thing was this: I wanted to be with someone who, unlike my family, didn’t have to love me but just decided to. Even if it was only for one day.

•  •  •

Fiona collapsed on my beanbag chair, more than an hour late. With her fierce blue eyes and white blond hair, she looked like some third-string angel down on her luck.