Then I see her, up on the roof of the Blazer. This might be what we were waiting for, it might be why we came to the party in the first place. For her it’s not a party, it’s an audience, but she has to be drunk enough, and so does the audience.

The bottle of schnapps is still with her. She takes a swig of it, makes it part of the dance, then lets the bottle lead her out to the middle of the plank. Everybody is quiet, watching her undulate into center stage. Grimshaw’s dancer fantasy doesn’t come out of nowhere. The girl really does know how to move. Even drunk and in heels, her balance is perfect, and she doesn’t take a false step. She gets to the middle of the board and stops and sways with her eyes closed.

“Take it off!” somebody says, a male voice. Grimshaw smiles and closes her eyes and starts to sway. First she holds her hair up. Then she stretches her arms out and starts to unbutton her sweater—my sweater—with one hand.

Somebody turns the music up. Once her sweater is open, she starts peeling it slowly off her arms. I don’t want it to end up in the fire, so I fight my way to the front of the crowd and grab it just before it lands in the coals.

Underneath the sweater is a lacy top, and under that is her bra. Liberated from the sweater, Grimshaw moves her arms more freely. The silence of the men around the fire has a particular focus to it, like they don’t know Grimshaw is just dancing. They think she’s promising them something. I seem to be the only other female present. With my eyes open, I say a silent prayer that the song will end and we’ll go home with no more drama than that. The skin on the back of my neck starts to prickle. Behind me a stick cracks. Mike Lyle walks up behind me. I’m glad to see him. He’ll defend our honor and drive us home in his Corvette. He’s the answer to my prayer.

“Looks like all the good little girls have gone home,” he says. “And you’re still here.”

“Could you take us home?” I ask him. “Like, right now?”

He focuses on me with those laser-vision eyes of his and pretends to be confused. “You want to go home with me, little girl? I thought you didn’t like my car.”

“I didn’t say—”

He looks around. “Seems to me like the party’s getting going again. All the little kids have gone home.” He lets out a long, low belch. “Or almost all.”