“Um. Tonight?” My cheeks went hot, and my heart began to race. Daddy and Anna were out for the evening. Still, it was out of the question. My father would never approve. That is if I asked for permission.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked with a flirtatious side-glance, a look Nicole and I had practiced in the mirror.

“I know where there’s a party,” Al whispered. “I get off at six. Meet me on level-two parking.”

In a sea of Mercedes and BMWs, one didn’t have to look hard for Al’s car metallic purple van with orange and red swirly decals on both sides. White shag carpeted the dashboard and a plastic Jesus hung on a pink ribbon suspended from the rearview mirror. Behind our seats, a curtain of wooden beads shook and rattled with every bump. It was nearly six-thirty when we pulled into the westbound lane on Santa Monica Boulevard and commuter traffic was thick. The sun was low and shining in our eyes. Al lowered the visors. “Better?”

“Oh yeah.” I smiled, to cover my nerves. “Thanks.”

I had dressed in casual party attire—a jean skirt and a cute cotton T-shirt that was low cut enough that you could see a peek of bra.

He slipped a tape into the cassette player. Van Halen blared from the speakers.

“Where are we going?” I shouted. I crossed my legs and leaned back as if I was relaxed. As if I were someone who’d been in lots of vans with lots of older guys.

He turned the volume down and pushed in the cigarette lighter. “To the beach.”

“I have to be back by ten. You know my dad and all.”

“Oh yes, ma’am we all know Mr. Goldstein. Home by ten. You bet Miss Jackie.”

“Hey!” I punched his arm.

“Just messin’ with around. You like weed?”

My heart lurched. I felt disoriented and out of my depth. I’d smelled pot at the hotel, but no one had ever offered it. I considered pretending, but I knew I wasn’t cool enough to pull it off.

“I’ve never tried it.”

“You’re kiddin’ me?” He laughed. “Reach in here,” he instructed, signaling to his shirt pocket.