We were perched on the precipice of manhood, drunk on our own importance, our futures promising, the present full of opportunity for seemingly endless firsts and lasts—first drink, first kiss, first love, first lay; last dance, last test, last performance, last season, last game. There were many dances and parties to attend: homecoming at both Steptoe and Yeatman, Steptoe’s winter formal, holiday celebrations, and, in the spring, proms and the Tennessee Breeders’ Cup. At times, it seemed our education was getting in the way of the events surrounding it. But Arch claimed that this was the education: learning how to mingle, how to hold one’s liquor in public, how to know what to wear, whom to flatter or shun, when to show up, and when to leave. Calculus mattered, Arch explained, but more in the figurative than the literal sense.

In December, Vanessa got her letter from Princeton. Mrs. Haltom had my mother order a cake, which went largely untouched (“Sugar is your enemy,” Mrs. Haltom liked to tell Vanessa) and a dozen orange and black balloons. Arch came over with his mother. Even Jamie seemed happy.

After the holiday, Arch began to come around more often with his new friends: young men of a similar mold, who dressed and carried themselves not just with the air of privilege but with a sense of ambition and seriousness of purpose, which made it easy to foresee their ascent in law firms and brokerages and private medical practices all around the South and beyond. I wondered if all of these boys had a father or a mentor like Mr. Haltom whispering in their ears, advising them how best to position themselves for the swiftest possible rise.

As the weather got warmer, Mr. Haltom began to host Arch’s friends for barbecues with his own circle of friends and business acquaintances. The Haltoms’ backyard became a veritable feeding trough for the recruitment of future captains of industry. Jamie and I often lurked around the periphery of these events, a bit stung by how invisible we were in such company. Vanessa fared better with the college boys. They all knew she was Arch’s girl, but regardless, anyone who planned to make a go of it in Nashville could benefit from knowing a girl like her.

But really, how could anyone know a girl like Vanessa?

I thought I did. Living nearby, studying with her every night at the breakfast table in the great house—or, rather, pretending to study just to be close to her—I thought I understood her, that, as it was with Arch, there were no secrets between us.

Vanessa had the rare ability to carry on a conversation while doing her homework for AP Calculus; I was taking College Math and cruising toward graduation, confident that, thanks to Mr. Haltom’s influence, the letter offering me admission to Vanderbilt would arrive any day. I was far more worried about getting a prom date.

“Who should I ask?” I said.

“‘Whom,’” Vanessa said.

“Huh?”