The scholarship deadline is three days away. Beneath my bed, I have my manila envelope stuffed with my poems, transcripts, letters of recommendation, a self-addressed stamped envelope. I’m just waiting on Stan now. He’s been saying that he’s almost done with the song. He says, “With poet-songwriter on your application, you’re a shoe-in.”

I kick my heels against the wall and watch the sediment as it crumbles. When I lean forward the rush of it is freeing. I hang off the edge, facedown. I want to see how far I can go before I feel like falling. I sip more wine. It’s delicious. I smile back at the night seduced by those winking lights.

I think I see a deer running, a pair of wet shining eyes behind a bush. I lean farther out. The wine falls from my lap. The bottle clinks against rocks as it rolls down the mountain.

Back at the car Phoebe is sitting on the rear bumper with her arms folded to her chest. She’s tapping her foot furiously and looking away from Stan. He’s in the driver’s seat. His head is on the steering wheel. His hand is in a fist on the dash. I see him turning the key but the car won’t start.

Phoebe says, “The battery’s dead. Dad shouldn’t have left the music on.”

“Does your dad have jumpers?”

Stan screams, “Damn it.”

Phoebe says, “What do you think?”

“I guess they wouldn’t have helped even if he did though right?” We’re up on the peak of Mt. Tamalpais and Stan took side streets and illegal fire trails and nobody is around at all. The entire predicament makes me bust up. I can’t stop laughing. I can barely stand it. I’m rolling on the pavement.

Stan stands over me. “If your parents knew, kiddo,” he says and shakes his head. But then he turns his attention to the car. “Let’s try and jump start it.” Stan says that he’ll push, Phoebe’ll drive, and I’m in the passenger seat. The idea is that at the first turn off, Phoebe will pull in. Stan’s going to walk down the hill and meet us there.

She’s behind the wheel and freaking out.

“I’ll do it,” I say, “I want to drive!”

They say, “Yeah right!”

Stan says, “Now, when I say so, let go of the clutch. That’s all you’ve gotta do.” He’s out of breath as he pushes the car along.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just don’t know.”

Stan insists she’ll be fine. He says, “I have all my faith in you, honey.”

The engine fires up and we cheer. The wheels skirt the edge of the road. We scream at the top of our lungs. We’re careening down the hill and then the fireworks start. Beautiful blossoms burst everywhere. We are up so high we see five shows: the one in Mill Valley and Richmond, Oakland and San Francisco, San Rafael too. There are pinwheels and starbursts and sparklers and rockets. Everything is in flight. Umbrellas of red and purple rain down blues and greens. I put my face to the sky. The heavens are near and the world lies before us, that’s what Stan always says. It is warm. It smells like a bakery. The fireworks look like cupcake sprinkles and my mouth is open wide.