“It’s not important what we do,” I said. “I just want to get out of Coalfield for a day and have fun with Zeke. He wants me to see where he lived.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, smiling. “This is all very sweet. But that’s so far. Why don’t you just go to Chattanooga and see the aquarium. You love the fish there.”

“Mom? Zeke wants me to go with him. He’s excited. His dad has ruined his life, you know?” Was this too obvious, to talk about men who had messed things up for everyone else, all the good people left behind?

“You like him, don’t you?” she asked. “Zeke?”

“I mean, he’s my friend,” I stuttered.

“Okay,” she said, touching my face, like she was remembering something, but I didn’t know if I was involved in the memory at all. “You’re growing up so fast.”

“It doesn’t feel like that fast to me,” I replied.

“It goes slow and fast at the same time,” she told me. She looked so beautiful, my mom. I hadn’t gotten what she had, the genes necessary to be that pretty, but I knew that I came from her. It made me so happy. This was maybe the moment when I could have told her that I’d made the poster, but why would I ruin this?

“You have to call me every few hours? Find a pay phone and let me know you’re okay.”

“I can go?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure,” she said. I hugged her, and she laughed. “Okay, now let me eat these brownies and watch my man sing.”

The next song was “Rosie” and I listened as Jackson Browne explained to the audience that it was about a guy he knew, the sound mixer, and how this girl in a green leotard had sat with him for the show and then left him for the drummer. It made me sad. It went on that the guy got drunk and tried to accost the drummer, and, right before the story ended and Jackson Browne started the song, he said that the girl had been sixteen.

“Sixteen?” I said, “Jesus, Mom.”

“Don’t mess this up,” she said, waving her hand at me.

And then I listened to the song, which was so beautiful, so sad. And it hit me. I’d heard the song so many times, but who listens to Jackson Browne that closely? Like, what teenager in the nineties is reading the liner notes of a Jackson Browne album? When he sings that “it’s you and me again tonight, Rosie,” I realized he was singing about masturbating.

“Mom?” I said, just as the song ended. “Is he?”

“Is he what?” she said, shaking her beer can, making sure there was a little left.

“Is he talking about, you know, touching himself?”