The possibility bothers me a lot more than it should. Harrison is a good guy, as far as I know. His friend group overlaps with mine some, and I’ve never heard about him getting into trouble. I’m certain he’s never fought someone for money. He gets good grades. Has two present parents and a picket fence in front of his house.

“You sit up front, Cas,” Sydney says.

My sister doesn’t appear to notice the way Cassia glances at me as I unlock my truck, but I do. This is the first time she’s ever ridden in it. I bought it last summer with money I obtained legally, stocking groceries at the local supermarket, plus years of birthday money from distant relatives on my dad’s side.

It’s too easy to pretend it’s just the two of us sitting in here. After giving me Graham’s address, Sydney is totally quiet in the back.

“Your truck is nice.” Cassia isn’t as willing to sit in silence.

“Yeah?” I glance over at her before taking a left-hand turn, surprised by the choice of comment. Her car is at least a decade newer than mine. There’s a lingering tobacco smell in the cab and the brakes squeak. I’m not sure I would call it nice. More like functioning.

“Yeah. It seemed like it took a lot to get it running.”

It did. I spent weeks fiddling with the engine in the driveway. Mark helped some and so did his dad, who’s a mechanic. But I did the bulk of the work myself, watching videos online and reading manuals to make sure it runs reliably.

“It seemed that way, huh?”

Cassia’s house is directly across the street from mine. I’m not sure if she meant to insinuate she watched me work on this truck last fall, but that’s what I got out of what she said just now.

The dim light and fact I’m driving make it difficult to tell for sure, but I think she’s blushing. At the very least, I watch her shifting in the seat, fiddling with the strap of the seatbelt and looking out the window instead of me.

It only takes another five minutes to reach Graham’s house. It’s a two-level Colonial, well-maintained and modest. I eye the basketball hoop visible to the left of the driveway. Maybe I’ll just hang out here instead of heading to Finn’s. My muscles are sore, but it doesn’t take much effort to just stand and shoot.

There’s no one stumbling down the front steps. No flashing lights or music.

“Looks like a rager,” I say, as we walk up the brick front path.

“I told you, you didn’t need to come,” Sydney says.