I looked at Paul, standing beside Ronnie, absolutely sure this was a joke. When Paul didn’t burst into laughter, I nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You look beautiful.” Ronnie sounds sincere, although I catch a half smile on Paul’s face, just like he’s in on a joke. I wait half a beat, fully expecting that Ronnie and Paul will pull the plug on this charade.

“You two kids have a nice time.” Paul slaps Ron on the back and waves as we walk to Ron’s car, which is parked at the curb. Predictably, his car is a brand-new Chevy Camaro with all the bells and whistles, a throaty muscle car. Ronnie pulls away from the curb like he’s launching a rocket.

“I thought we’d go to the Pizza Palace and then maybe take a drive.”

My hands are clasped between my knees so that Ron can’t see how nervous I am. “That’s sounds nice.” Anything sounds nice. I’ve never been out with a college boy before, and I suppose that Ron won’t be interested in the usual stuff of high school dates, McDonald’s and the Game Room. The very fact that this isn’t a double date seems so sophisticated to me, but on the other hand, I wish that I had a friend with me, someone who would be a witness to my success, or failure. Someone I could go home with at the end of the date and analyze every word and gesture for deeper meaning.

Ron has a lot of his father’s car salesman charm and keeps the conversation in the restaurant going single-handedly against my tongue-tied hero worship. He talks about his athletic achievements at college. That topic moves easily into his academic stardom. In the end, he isn’t a whole lot different from the other boys I date. As long as I keep nodding and smiling, he keeps talking.

I begin to relax a little, the glow of his aura dimming enough that I can actually look across the table at him. I sit up a little straighter, hoping that someone, anyone, will come in and see me, Justine Meade, sitting here alone with Ronnie Markham. For once in my life, I’m glad to be popular Paul Rose’s stepsister.

Later, we drive around a bit aimlessly until we get to the beach, stopping at a point that is a popular make-out spot, especially in the warm weather, when a blanket and the sand behind the dunes make a perfect nest. The engine pings softly as we sit there looking out over the water through the broad windshield of the car.

“Your brother’s a great guy.”

This seems like a strange statement to make, sitting, as we are, in the most popular make-out spot in New Bedford.

“He’s all right.” I’m hardly going to complain about Paul tonight.

“He convinced me to take you out.”