“Mind your own business, Zach,” Justin says. “Jesus, you sound like a counselor.” He pauses. “The hell you guys doing out here, anyway?”

“Just getting ready to party,” I say, realizing he’s changed the subject on purpose.

Victor finally acknowledges my presence. “You playing football next year, Zach?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure I can take another year of Coach Horton’s act.”

The girls look at each other and scrunch their noses. Then Tall Girl looks at me and goes, “Oh my God. Horton’s a total perv. He used to stare at me every time I walked past him.”

“Me, too,” Short Girl slurs. “He’s such a creeper.”

“I’ve heard he’s done a lot more with some female students than just stare at them,” Victor says.

“Shut up, guys,” Justin snaps. “Drop the Horton thing already.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

“You guys want a beer?” Victor asks, reaching down into the twelve-pack and offering us two cans.

Tank and I gladly accept.

“Thanks,” I say, popping the top. Warm beer fizz sprays the top of my hand. “How’d you get it?”

“The beer?” Victor says. “Brandon Watkins gets it for—”

Justin elbows Victor. “Don’t worry about how we get it, Zach.” He picks up the twelve-pack. “We have to go.”

The girls each grab one of Justin’s arms for support. Victor shrugs. The four of them walk toward the path.

When they’re gone, Tank and I slam our warm beers, toss the cans, and continue through the field.

“I’m so pissed at Justin.”

“Why?” Tank asks. “Because he’s with girls and you’re not?”

“No. Because he told me he was starting college in the fall. It’s his only way out of here.”

Tank laughs. “Man, relax. You sound like an old lady. Let your brother live his life.”

“Whatever.” I pause. “Those girls are hammered, by the way.”

“Which means your brother’s a lucky man. Drunk girls are the best. They do things they normally wouldn’t and never remember in the morning.” He smiles. “And that’s exactly how I like it.”

“Sounds perverted.”

“My dad says all guys are perverts, but most of us are sane enough to know the difference between fantasy and reality.”

We walk in silence. I decide the time is right to make a play on my best friend.

“I know I’ve never really asked you this, but what kind of cop is your dad, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, like, what city does he work for?”

“I don’t know,” Tank says, eyeing the school.

“He’s never told you?”

“I’ve never asked.”

We reach the asphalt basketball court, where Tank mimics a last-second, game-winning three-point shot and does a funny little celebration dance. He laughs and gives me a high five, as if I’m a teammate in his imaginary scenario.