“Speaking of getting better—you need to make things right with your mom. She’s hurting, Atlanta.”

“I dunno. I just . . . I’ll try.” She chews on a lip. “What about you and your dad?”

“We’ll figure it out.” Way he says it, she’s not sure that he really gets what’s going on there. Or maybe he does but just won’t shine too bright a light in that dark corner. Maybe that’s a good thing.

Atlanta doesn’t mind being the one to shine that light. Not at all.

They hug, and she gets back in the car.

Shane is sitting on the steps when they pull into the driveway. He leaps up and bolts for her, fast as a bowling ball tumbling toward the pins. He wraps his arms around her. “Uh, hey,” she says.

“What happened?” he squawks, but then he sees Atlanta’s mother getting out of the car. “Oh. Uhh. Hey, Missus Burns, I was . . . just asking your daughter about . . . what happened in class yesterday?”

Atlanta’s mother smiles a sad smile and says she’ll leave the two of them alone.

“Go home,” Atlanta tells Shane. “Everything in class went . . . fine. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” She leans forward, whispers in his ear: “The whole thing went sideways, but somehow we got it righted again. Call Chris. He’ll give you the scoop—but uh, give him a couple hours, okay?”

Shane nods, clearly confused.

She kisses him on the cheek. His eyes open up and his face goes red.

“Shoo,” she tells him, and runs him off.

As her mother goes inside through the garage door, Atlanta hurries after.

“Hey,” Atlanta calls. “Wait up.”

Her mother looks at her expectantly and unsure.

“You want dinner?” she asks Mama.

“You want me to cook?” Arlene asks.

“Not so much, no.” They both laugh. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but a laugh is a laugh. “How about we swing down to Dominick’s, maybe get one of those Hawaiian pizzas?” Atlanta suggests. Up here in the Northeast, it’s Italian joints every fifteen feet or so. You can’t throw a shoe without hitting a cheesesteak.

“Sounds good, baby bird. Sounds real good.” It’s not until later that Atlanta realizes she kissed a boy on the cheek and didn’t pass out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It’s Monday afternoon—quittin’ time—when Atlanta surprises Bill Coyne, Chris’s father, by his pickup truck outside the factory where he works, a factory that makes little tools like tiny eyeglass screwdrivers and the itty-bitty screws that go with them. His truck is parked in the back lot, out by where the weeds come up through the blacktop.

When he sees her, his voice goes low, low enough to be a growl. “You.”

“Me,” she says.

Then he sees she’s got the .410 with her. Leaning up against his driver’s-side door.