“Who should I ask?” I said.

“‘Whom,’” Vanessa said.

“Huh?”

“It’s ‘whom,’ Charlie. A personal pronoun as direct object must be in the objective case.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “Whom should I ask to the prom, Miss Priss?”

“Whomever you like.”

“Maybe I should ask you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Arch wouldn’t mind,” I said. “Don’t you want to go?”

She put her pencil down.

“I don’t know, Charlie.”

“It wouldn’t be a date,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “I just think maybe you should ask someone else.”

“Whom?” I said.

“I don’t know.”

I had been only half serious; it wasn’t something I’d really considered. And yet her reaction had wounded me. If I’d thought about it before I opened my mouth, I wouldn’t have risked the rejection. But once it had occurred, my pride drove my mind to see deeper implications.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Am I too far down the social ladder to be seen with?”

“I don’t care about that.”

“But I am,” I said.

“What?”

“Socially inferior,” I said.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said.

“Think of it as an act of charity,” I said. “Won’t everyone admire you for stooping to go to the prom with the son of your mother’s servant? Wouldn’t that look good? If you weren’t in Princeton already, you could probably put it on your application.”

“Now you’re just being cruel,” she said.

“Then why not?” I asked. “Is it Arch? Did he tell you not to go?”

“Don’t talk about Arch,” she said.

“Maybe I should ask him,” I said. “For permission.”

“Shut up, Charlie.”

I pressed on, oblivious. I mimed picking up the phone and dialing it. “‘Hello there, bud. It’s me, Charlie, your poor relation,’” I said. ‘Would you mind letting Vanessa off the leash for a night? I’ll have her home before bedtime.’”

“Just shut up, Charlie!” she hissed.

A sob broke in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Tears streamed down Vanessa’s face. She pushed back from the table and stood.

“Don’t leave,” I said.

“I just need to go,” she said. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive.”

We took Vanessa’s Saab. She drove out Highway 100, toward the Natchez Trace Parkway. It was already dark; once we passed over the bridge in Bellevue, the only lights we saw were the high beams on the road.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said. “I can’t keep it to myself anymore. It’s eating me alive. But it has to be a secret. That’s the only reason I’m telling you—because I know you can keep a promise. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” I said.