Nah, I was agitated with you and your Nerds hoarding.

“No, I do,” I said. “I just don’t want to be wearing my TPC clothes anymore.”

“TPC?”

“The Pallbearers Club.”

Mercy leaned over the rock wall and made faux retching and puking sounds.

We didn’t talk on the ride to my house. Mercy played the latest Ramones record Brain Drain, which, sorry to say, was one of their more forgettable (everyone’s a critic) efforts, aside from the song “Pet Sematary.” The lyrics were at first blush funny and a comic-book retelling of the Stephen King book and film, yet the chorus lament of not wanting to come back to relive one’s life drips honest metaphysical dread.

Memoir as “Pet Sematary.” Author buries old life but relives it anew in the pages. Or do you bring up the song solely because of our ill-fated boneyard boondoggle?

Mercy pulled into the end of my driveway instead of idling in front of the house. I asked her if she wanted a drink or needed anything. She said she didn’t. I told her she was welcome to come inside and wait, but also, I wouldn’t be long. I darted out of the car and to the house without looking behind me to see if Mercy followed, or, as an equal possibility, to see if the Datsun pulled out of the driveway without me.

I opened the front door and shouted into the depths of my house, “I’m changing and going back out!” From the kitchen Mom responded with a confused sort of yodel and I leapt up the stairs two at a time to my second-floor bedroom. While shedding clothes, I kept an ear out for Mercy’s car horn. I didn’t have time for a shower, so I washed my face, quickly scanning the craggy terrain for impending Vesuvius whiteheads, and wiped my armpits with a washcloth. Back in my room I penciled into jean shorts but then I couldn’t find my one plain black T-shirt that fit me okay. With each passing T-shirtless second, the Mercy-is-waiting bomb clock ticked in my head as loud as a bouncing basketball. There was in fact a basketball bouncing, outside, in the backyard. Dad was outside, too, and he said, “Hey, nice shot. You’re a pro,” and giggled his goof’s laugh.

Oh no. I threw on a green Boston Celtics 1986 champs T-shirt that was too small and minotaured through the house to the back door.

You as the monster in the maze of this book. Important detail. Verbing the noun might distract the reader.

Mom sat on the stairs, smoking a cigarette. Mercy, her green coat still on despite the warm late afternoon, shot a jumper from fifteen feet. A jumper by name only as she didn’t really jump, and instead more shot-putted the ball to the hoop, but it went in. Dad cackled like a madman.