“You’re so right—it is about the split in each of us. The ego and the id!” Alicia Hwang was the kind of Asian suck-up that would make most Asian suck-ups vomit.

After class, Mr. Z pulled his Nissan Maxima up to Rosemary at the bus stop. “Hop in.” He said he had to run an errand anyway. His car smelled like toothpaste—or mouthwash. When they turned onto Santa Claus Lane, he slowed his car down. She felt herself get goosebumps, waiting for him to just say something.

“Did you know that this area used to be a giant graveyard for the Pascualite Indians? The only thing that grew here was poppies. Then, in the 1890s, a man named Luther Burbank brought these deodars over from the Himalayas and planted them here.” He pointed up at the beardy pine trees lining the street. “He was a brave guy.”

“For planting trees?”

“Well, for one, he told people he was a freethinker, but he was really an atheist. And you know how they went for nonbelievers in those days . . .”

He pulled the car over to the side of the road, and she felt her stomach tighten.

“He published a pamphlet called Why I Am an Infidel in which he wrote, ‘Science, unlike theology, never leads to insanity.’ Pretty bold stuff, huh?”

“I guess,” she said.

“Ironically, deodar means ‘tree of God.’”

“Huh. That’s funny.”

He looked out the window.

“Are you a believer, Rose?” The way he said it made her hair stand on end. He cooed it, like he was asking if she loved him.

“My dad was a pastor.”

“No kidding? Was? Has he retired?”

“In a way. He killed himself.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry, Rose.” He winced with his eyes but his mouth was still smiling.

“No, it’s okay.” She wanted both for him to drop her home so the awkwardness would end and for the ride to keep going. “How come you know so much about . . . trees?”

“I absorb all kinds of information. My wife calls me a sponge—an animal and not a mineral, by the way, nor a tree.”

Rosemary waited a moment then said: “You’re married?”

“You assumed I was gay, didn’t you?” He inhaled dramatically and raised an eyebrow. “Because I teach drama. And care somewhat about my appearance.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s . . . you don’t wear a ring.”

“How right you are. I don’t wear a ring. I’m allergic. My skin’s very sensitive. Um. So . . . where exactly do you live?”

She turned red—she’d never said. She waved her hand five or six houses down. Mr. Z pulled into the center of the road and started driving. He stopped outside Raymond van der Holt’s house.

“Whoa, nice crib, girlfriend!”

“No, mine’s that little gray thing next door to it.”

Rosemary gathered her things together slowly and opened the car door. She unbuckled her seat belt last.