“Suppose you leave the acid home?” I ask Arno. “We could have such a bitchin’ time hanging out and grooving on the music without you running around trying to unload two thousand hits. Then you can take all that acid to Bucknell and be the biggest dealer on campus. You’re worried about making friends? You’ll have more friends than you’ll know what to do with.”

Arno looks like he’s actually considering it.

Tinsley sighs a bit dramatically. Despite what she said the other night about pushing her mother too far, I sense that she’s fishing for an invitation.

“You can still get tickets.” Arno gestures to the radio. “He said there’s a number to call.”

“Murray Hill seven, oh, seven, oh-oh,” Milton recites.

The rest of us stare at him. We’ve just polished off a bottle of champagne and have nearly finished the joint. I don’t remember the DJ saying anything about a phone number.

When a burst of firecrackers comes from down the beach, followed by laughter and voices, we all turn to look. It’s hard to see in the dark, but it sounds like a bunch of guys.

Snap! Crack! More firecrackers flash and spark, followed by loud talk and laughter. Now we can see their silhouettes. Crash! A bottle smashes against a rock.

“Maybe we should go,” Milton says.

“Why? We have as much right to be here as they do,” Arno says.

But when the group down the beach grows quiet, I feel my chest compress. Something tells me they’ve noticed our fire.

Footsteps start to crunch on the pebbles and rocks. They’re coming.

“We better split.” Milton rises to his feet.

“Slowly.” Arno starts to get up. Tinsley and I do the same. Whatever buzz we’d gotten from the champagne and the J instantly evaporates, replaced by the sober chill of fear. Still, Arno takes his time with the radio and cooler. He wants to send the message that we’re not scared and that it’s just a coincidence that we’re leaving as they approach.

The crunching footsteps grow louder and faster. “Hey!” one of the guys shouts. “Where you think you’re goin’?” There are six of them. They’re around our age — or maybe a little older — wearing T-shirts, jeans, and work boots, their hair greased back and spit curled.

The GTO is parked on the street about thirty yards away. We might be able to reach it before they reach us, but I doubt there’ll be enough time to get in, start up, and escape.

One of the unburned pieces of driftwood we collected for the fire is roughly the length and thickness of a baseball bat. I pick it up.

“What’re you doing?” Arno whispers.

“Get in the car and go,” I tell him in a low voice.

“Are you crazy?”