I slipped into the back door of the Dairy Queen, tying on my apron as I walked to the front.

“Hey chickiedoo! How was your day?” Frankie said, closing the window after her latest customer walked away.

“Weston got kicked out of class for taking up for me. The Erins and some of the guys were waiting for me after school.”

“Aw! Wait . . . what?”

“You heard me,” I said, crossing my arms and leaning my butt against the counter.

A minivan pulled into the parking lot, and several kids filed out. The mom came to my window, already looking worn. I took each of their orders, three of them changing while I was making them, and sent them on their way. After that, the lines formed and people kept adding to them until dark, so we didn’t have much time to talk. When baseball practice let out, Weston’s truck took off down Main Street, without stopping at the DQ. None of the players did..

We cleaned up, closed the shop, and walked outside. “Ride?” Frankie asked, but then stopped, mid-step.

Right outside the back door was Weston’s red Chevy, towering over us. He was smiling down at me from the driver’s seat. “Wanna take a drive?”

Frankie looked back at me, pleading with her eyes for me to say yes.

I nodded, and Weston disappeared, leaning over to pull the lever of the passenger door and pushing it open. I walked around the truck, but not without noticing Frankie’s cheesy grin. I climbed up into the seat, and shut the door.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” I said. “I just kind of left you there to deal with them alone.”

“Stop. Don’t you dare apologize to me.”

When I didn’t respond, he pulled the truck into gear and pulled away, down my street and past my house, straight out of town. I knew where we were going, and I was glad. It felt better than going home, or to school, or even the Dairy Queen. It had become the one place where I could relax and be at peace.

The Chevy’s engine turned off, letting the silence of the night surround us. Weston opened the door and walked directly to the tailgate, pulling it down. This time he waited for me and held out his hand.

I stared at his fingers. They were long, and the nails had been bitten down to the quick. “I’m not . . . helpless.”

“Oh, I know. I just think you’re due for a little special treatment.”

I looked at his outstretched hand.

He shrugged. “Just let me be nice to you.”

I let him help me to the tailgate and watched as he climbed up and sat next to me.

“Oh,” he said, leaning back and opening the cooler. He handed me a Fanta Orange, and he ended up with a Cherry Coke.

“Thank you,” I said, taking a sip. “What did your parents say? About today?”

“They don’t know.”

“What do you mean? Didn’t the school call them?”