We enter the private drive, which is a dirt road through a forest. Looking ahead, I glimpse a modern house, made of glass and white concrete, in a sunny clearing. There are no cars in the driveway, but he parks behind some trees short of the front lawn. He kills the motor. I wait for him to get out but he just sits there.

So are you coming in or do you want me to pick up some tissues and bring them back for you?

I ignore him and open my door and step onto the long, crispy grass, slamming the door behind me. It was stupid to make a loud sound but Tomas does not get mad. He just grins at me. Up near the house the grass becomes well cut—a lawn—and the driveway becomes paved. The house seems to be built half in the sunny clearing, half around the edge of the woods. I hear him shutting his car door softly and his footsteps crunching the coarse wild grass as he nears.

I am nervous now and start worrying about how Mom would feel if we got caught.

I’m not going, I suddenly tell him.

Why?

I’m just not.

An evil-looking smile comes across his lips. You don’t even know whose house this is, Junior.

A gentle breeze smelling faintly of the ocean runs across my neck, slips down my shirt back. Whose house is it then?

Why should I tell you? It’s not like you care.

Care about what?

He goes to the Explorer and opens the rear and reaches inside. He pulls out a tire iron and slaps it against his palm, then grips it.

Okay. You know that yoga mother who keeps nagging Mom about that stupid dent in her car?

You mean Ben Feinstein’s mom?

He nods towards the carport tucked between the house and garage, which I had not noticed before. In it is parked the black Land Cruiser. Its tinted windows are almost as black as the paint.

He comes over and stands right next to me. So close his shoulder touches my own. That’s the truck that bitch humiliated Mom in front of school about, right?

The sun throbs hot against my temples.

That pissed you off, didn’t it?

I nod.

I could tell, Junior. I could really tell.

He watches wind blow through the prickly red chaparral treetops, high above, like warm breath moving over thorns. His shoulder against my shoulder bone feels warm and strangely gentle.

Are you game? he says.

Yeah.