That’s when I see Sarah looking out the living room window. The distance from the back seat to the window fogs her image, but even as a fuzzy blur she looks hot.

Shifting my gaze to the porch, I watch Dale Foster grab his son by the neck of his T-shirt with one hand and slap him hard across the face with the other. My chest tightens and I wince. Tank’s head jerks to the right and his chin drops. His dad nods to the cops and they remove the handcuffs. Then Tank follows his dad into the house. Big Dale Foster slams the front door shut.

And at that moment, I lose all respect for Dale Foster. The sight of him hitting Tank is harsh enough, but the thought of him doing something like that to Sarah unleashes a rage inside of me that spreads like some high-speed virus.

The two cops smile at me as they walk back to the cruiser.

And when I look back toward the Foster living room, Sarah is nowhere in sight.

————

The cops follow the same pattern with me, keeping me in the back seat as one of them walks to the front door to explain things to my parents. I’m not nervous or crying. To my parents’ credit, they don’t believe in violence as a form of punishment, so I know the worst that can happen is a severe lecture.

But when I see Mom put her face in her hands … well, that gets to me.

The cops escort me to the porch. Mom and Dad are silent as the officers unlock the handcuffs. Mom keeps looking to her left and right, embarrassed at the sight of neighbors gawking from porches. Dad just shakes his head and steps inside. Although the cuffs have been on less than twenty minutes, my wrists are raw and aching. I raise them in front of my face and see pressure lines where the metal has pushed and rubbed against my skin.

Mom and I watch the cruiser pull away, blue lights still flashing. The neighbors go inside, surely excited to fire off emails, make phone calls, and, God forbid, post YouTube clips.

We sit at the kitchen table. Justin is still out partying. Mom and Dad look at each other, probably wondering who should speak first. Mom nods to Dad, her signal that this is to begin as a father-to-son talk. He shrugs and lights a cigarette, stares at the tabletop for several moments to gather his thoughts. I feel Mom glaring at me from across the table, and I can’t bring myself to look at her.

Finally, Dad says, “Look, Zach, I was no saint when I was your age.” He’s still looking down. “But I knew a stupid idea when I heard one.” He looks at me. “Do you realize what you did was stupid?”

“Yes.”