Tank, angry now: “Who’s out there?”

From behind the spotlight a series of male voices say, in unison, “Yeah, welcome to senior year, Tank!”

The spotlight goes out.

Ten members of the Blaine Memorial High School wrestling squad, all upcoming seniors like us, stand in the yard, laughing and giving each other high fives.

Chad Billings, the second best wrestler on the team behind Tank, stands in the middle. He holds the spotlight and is clearly the ringleader. He’s taller and bigger than Tank, a rare sight. Regardless, Tank can’t stand the prick, says Chad’s always been jealous of his superior skills on the mat.

I look down and notice Tank’s clothing bundled into a small pile on the lawn, inches from Chad’s feet. The cigarettes and pint still rest atop the pile. Chad Billings reaches for the bottle, takes a gulp, and passes it to a teammate.

“You drink good booze, Foster,” he says. “Now get out here and let’s go party.” He looks at me. “You can bring Ramsey, too, I guess.”

Billings gives me one of those cocky jock looks, and then I hear Tank say, “Is that you, Billings?”

Billings says, “No, it’s your mom.”

His cronies laugh.

Mandy Frack laughs.

Tank and I don’t laugh.

Chad Billings has just made a horrible mistake. Tank’s mom is off limits.

I hear Tank lift himself out of the water. He walks to the edge of the privacy deck and stares out into the yard. The deck’s side panels conceal him from the waist down. He looks toward the ladder and seems puzzled for a moment. Then he fixes his gaze on Chad Billings with that disturbing look of rage in his eyes that I know all too well. I saw it the night he played chicken with the locomotive, saw it again during the Big Dale Foster Bedroom Tour.

“Where’d my clothes go?” Tank says.

“See, that’s the thing,” Billings says, his buddies still laughing. “You’ll have to come and get them.” He points down at the pile.

Tank studies his clothes as if something isn’t right. He has that puzzled expression again. Weird. Tank never seems puzzled.

“Okay, fine,” Tank finally says. “Here I come.”

Mandy Frack laughs. “Oh, you go get them, big boy.”

“Shut up, bitch,” Tank yells. His eyes are on Billings as he crosses toward the ladder.

The team stops laughing.

So does Mandy.

“Hey, relax, Foster,” Billings says. “We’re just playing around here.” He pauses. “Dude, we’re here to tell you we want you to be our senior captain.”

“Screw you, Tank,” Mandy says. I hear her getting out of the pool. She’s wrapped a towel around her waist and stands on the far side of the deck. “And by the way, you smell horrible.”