He brandishes the Jim Beam and the Marlboros as if they’re weapons. He shoves them into the waist of his jeans and pulls his T-shirt loosely over them, just like he did in the store the day he stole them. Then he flashes a mischievous grin.

“It’s summer, and it’s the weekend. Let’s party.”

“Sweet,” I say.

We hear the front door slam upstairs, Mr. Foster and Sarah off to who knows where.

“He’s dropping her off at the mall,” Tank says. “Great, more clothes. Just what she needs. I bet dudes check her out in the stores.” He pauses. “And I bet she’s starting to like it.” He looks around the basement. “Damn. I don’t have a lighter. Do you?”

“Nope.”

“It’s cool,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I’ll get one from my dad’s room. Let’s go. I need tobacco and alcohol in my system to deal with this crisis.”

“What crisis?”

“Sarah, idiot.”

“Oh.”

I follow him upstairs and wait in the kitchen. Although Mr. Foster keeps his bedroom door locked, he uses a combination lock that Tank has somehow learned the numbers to. When I hear him pop the lock and open the door, I walk over to where Sarah was sitting and stare at the empty seat. Then I lean over and smell the back of the chair. Her lavender scent fills my nostrils again. I close my eyes and savor the aroma. I’ve had my share of girlfriends, but I realize this is the first time I’ve ever truly appreciated the smell of a girl. It does things to me, makes me feel all powerless or whatever.

Stepping back into the living room, I take a quick look around for anything that might reveal more information about Tank’s dad. Problem is I don’t find anything. The room is oddly bare, as usual—a sofa, coffee table, leather recliner, and new home entertainment system taking up most of the space. I don’t even see any drawers I can rummage through. As for pictures, the only one I spot is an old, framed family photo up in the top right corner of a mostly bookless bookcase.

Somebody has pushed the photo far back into the corner, as if they don’t want to see it. Moving closer, I discover the dusty picture is from back in the day, at least twelve years old, back when Tank’s mom was clean, sober, and beautiful. Staring up at it, a strange wave of sadness flows through me. Big Dale and his wife look so young and proud, huge smiles plastered across their faces. Tank and Sarah can’t be older than five, sitting between their parents, looking safe and content. I’m not surprised somebody has shoved this happy memory into the top corner. It has to be hard to look at.