We kiss again. Shortly into it, she pulls back a few inches and looks at me, worried.

“What is it?” I ask.

“What do you think he’ll do when he finds out?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Let’s not think about it right now.”

There’s a silence during which I imagine Tank at the wrestling clinic. He’s probably tossing his opponents around as if they’re mannequins. Does Sarah know about the juice? If not, does she need to know?

Yes, I decide. She deserves to know what’s going on with her brother.

I mean, I’m totally in love with Sarah. I don’t want to lie to her. Ever. I don’t want to hide anything from her. Ever. I’m doing enough lying to other people right now, so I refuse to let deceit and dishonesty jeopardize my relationship with this beautiful girl. So that’s why I decide to lay it on the table.

“I know something about Tank, something you might not know.”

She stares me dead in the eyes and says, “Like what?”

“I hope I’m wrong, but you need to know. I want you to know. I can’t hide anything from you.” I glance toward the driveway, still empty. My heart starts pounding against my ribcage. “Downstairs.” I pause and look at her. “In the crawlspace.”

There’s another silence. We stare at each other. Her lavender scent drifts toward me. I just want to keep kissing her, but I know that will have to wait.

She finally nods and turns, leading me toward the sliding glass door.

We step into the living room and she closes the door. As we cross toward the stairway, I glance at the old family photo tucked deep into the top corner of the dusty bookless bookshelf. Part of me wants to ask about her mom, but I know this is the wrong time.

Moving quickly down the steps, Sarah says, “What are we going to find, Zach?”

“Nothing, I hope.”

“I don’t like this.” She sounds irritated, almost as if she thinks I’m using her just to sneak around down here.

I cut in front of her and head toward the paneled wooden door that opens to the crawlspace. The rusty hinges squeak as I open it. Reaching inside the dark space, I pull a little metal chain connected to an exposed light bulb on the ceiling. It’s called a crawlspace for good reason. You have to climb into it, and, once inside, the distance from floor to ceiling is about four feet. As light fills the small space, I notice cobwebs caked along the concrete walls, especially in the corners, but the main path is clear, meaning Tank’s been in here recently. Dozens of haphazardly stacked cardboard boxes line the far wall. The air inside is cool but stale.