“That’s kind of personal, don’t you think?” He says this with a smirk.

“Well, answer this then: what kind of man beats his kids and dates another man’s wife?”

I know. I know. I can’t believe I said it, but I just totally did.

And I immediately take a few steps backward.

But instead of punching me or grabbing me by my collar, he just laughs. “I don’t beat my kids, Zach. And I can’t believe that lush is using you to get his dirt.” Looking me dead in the eyes, he adds, “You’re seventeen. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.”

And then he drives off, leaving me coughing and choking on his truck’s black exhaust fumes.

And I’m thinking to myself, man, what the hell is going on in this city?

Confused and semi-shocked, I head back to the sidewalk and make my way back to Tank’s. Along the way, I keep my head down and make sure I step over every one of the lines that separate the concrete sidewalk squares. When we were younger, Justin told me I’d go to hell if my feet ever landed on one of those lines. That was at least ten years ago, and now here I am following the same rule even though I’ve matured enough to know that stepping on sidewalk cracks has nothing to do with life after death. I think about how pissed I feel about Justin’s comments about the Blaine Memorial steroid ring, Mom and Coach Horton, and Mom and Dad.

That’s when I decide how stupid it is to be avoiding sidewalk lines at the age of seventeen.

I stop in the middle of one of the squares. The sun beats on my neck as I stare at the next line in front of me. Raising my right foot as high as possible, I bring it down hard on the line and look back toward my house to see if Justin is watching. Of course he isn’t, but I wish he were. I turn and smile, bringing my left foot forward and smacking it down on the same line. It’s amazing how something so trivial can feel so liberating. Before taking another step, I rub the soles of my shoes back and forth over the line like I’m trying to erase it or something.

That’s when I hear a familiar male voice say, “Hey, Ramsey, whatever it was, I think you killed it.”

I look toward the street and see Coach Hank Horton sitting in the driver’s seat of his silver sedan. The engine is running and he’s stopped in the middle of the road. His face is plump and red, a drinker’s face with a pleasant smile. He’s clean-shaven with a full head of silver hair.

At first I wish I had a gun.