“You owe me thirty-six dollars,” Sam added. “You can cancel the debt by going to Atlanta with me next Friday. We have the day off school, so my father is sending me to a clothing factory as his emissary.”

“What about Deborah?” Violet glanced in her direction and found Deborah engrossed in conversation with Hugh, apparently sipping her own missing beer.

“Deborah doesn’t have to know. There’s wine on the back porch. Care to join me?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

The moon peeked at them behind a wispy cloud. Sam poured wine into a juice glass for Violet. She felt his fingers draw across hers slowly and deliberately as he placed it in her hand, trailing tiny electric tingles. She looked up at him, surprised.

Sam was not looking at her. He leaned forward across the porch rail; the sky had his attention. “I wish I could get a shot of those stars with my camera,” he said. “It’s beautiful tonight.”

“You and that camera. You did a great job for the yearbook, Sam.”

“Did you happen to notice who appears in more photos than anyone else?” he asked. He turned back to Violet and poured his own wine. He clinked his glass to hers with a map of lights reflected in his eyes. “Here’s to my favorite subject.”

“If you mean me, that’s very sweet. You took way too many of me.” Violet was shy and confused around a boy for the first time in her life. It was a feeling as foreign as if she’d awakened atop a sand dune or iceberg. She put a hand on his arm. “We should probably get back inside. Deborah and Hugh will think we’re up to something out here.” She tried to sound make it sound light and funny.

Sam grinned. “Have a sip of wine. We are up to something.”

“What is that?”

“We are working out details of our secret trip to Atlanta. After my factory visit, the day is ours. There’s a lot we could do and see.”

“I don’t know if I can get away, Sam. Mama makes me clean our house every time I’m out of school.” Violet stared at her beloved platform sandals and winced. “These heels are killing me.”

“Take ‘em off. I’ll carry them.”

“Carry them where?”

“To the other side of that tree.” He pointed to a massive oak, its canopy covering a third of Jerry Payne’s back yard.

Violet slipped her shoes of agony off, darting a look into the kitchen window to see if anyone might be watching. In one swift move, Sam dangled her sandals from his left hand, cradled his juice glass next to them, inserted a large stolen lawn chair cushion under his left arm and grabbed Violet’s free hand with his right.

She giggled. “That’s quite a talent.”

“Basketball hands. Come on.”