Two more police cars arrive. Mr. Foster heads over, says something to them, and the two cruisers speed away. Then a wrecker arrives to get Big Dale’s truck. A fat guy gets out and shakes Dale’s hand before cranking the useless pickup onto the rear deck and driving away.

After the wrecker leaves, Dale asks me how I’m planning on getting home. I tell him I feel like walking. He says that’s fine with him. I light a cigarette. He doesn’t say anything.

“I suppose you’ll tell my parents about tonight, huh?”

“Why?” he says. “As far as I can tell, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

He turns to join Helen and the others on the porch.

I stand there, sort of stunned, watching the flashing blue lights atop another arriving cruiser flicker and spin, the beams hitting my face every few seconds. I mean, it feels good knowing I’ve finally spilled the news about the stash and Horton’s role. And it’s cool knowing I have Big Dale’s blessing with Sarah or whatever, but somehow I know the biggest hurdle still lies ahead.

Think about it: if Tank approves of Sarah and me, why hasn’t he said anything?

Chapter_23

23

The walk home is uneventful.

I reach my street at two o’clock and stand on my front lawn, staring at the dark house. I look around for Justin’s car but don’t see it. I’m tired, exhausted even, but I don’t want to go inside yet. Because of all the fighting, Dad’s been sleeping on a sofa in the basement. And that’s such an uncomfortable feeling, living with parents who hate each other so much they can’t even share a mattress at night. I wish they’d just divorce and get it over with.

I think about going to Sarah’s window, but I can’t take the chance of pissing off Tank. He’s been through enough tonight. I’ve never been more worried about him, physically and emotionally.

So I light a cigarette and sit on the porch, gazing at the homes across the street and the railroad tracks beyond, reliving the time I spent with Sarah down in the fort. I feel helpless, like there’s something I’m supposed to do but can’t figure out exactly what it is.

Sarah Foster.

Tank Foster.

Girl of my dreams.

Best friend since elementary school.

After several minutes it finally hits me.

“Screw it,” I whisper, and stand to go inside, flicking my cigarette onto the dead lawn and knowing that what I’m about to do will come back to bite me in the ass.

Regardless, it’s the right thing to do.

Because right now it’s all about helping Tank Foster, my best friend.

————