“You better drive,” he says. “I’ve had …” His eyes close again, and he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Move over, then.”

I leave the driver’s side door open, go back to the Blazer, walk out onto the plank, and reach for Grimshaw’s hand. “Let’s go,” I tell her. “We have to go home.”

She opens her eyes wide at me. “Come on.” I snap my fingers. With drunken docility, she lets me lead her off the Blazer. I help her down, then I push her in front of me to Ruby’s truck, and she gets in and slumps against the passenger-side window. Ruby is already stretched out in the back, sleeping next to Jake and Jaws. Before I get behind the wheel, though, I turn around. Mike is still standing in the same place, watching me.

“Remember what I said,” he calls.

I rush up to him and get right in his face. “You leave us alone,” I tell him. As I turn to go, his hand snakes out, he grabs me by the back of the shirt, and he pulls me in close to him.

“I’ll give you some advice, little sister,” he whispers into the back of my head. “Don’t take me on.”

He lets me go and I run to the truck. When I get to the door, I turn around and give him the finger. “You’re too old,” I shout at him. “We’re still in high school.”

He seems to think this is the funniest thing he’s heard all night, and his laughter stays with me all the way up the hill.

three

AFTER I SLEEP FOR MOST of the next day, I head out to an old cemetery, located halfway in between my house and Grimshaw’s, going crosslots. It’s on a little knob on the side of a hill, a swell in Mizerak’s rising sea of corn. Ever since sixth grade, it’s been our secret meeting place. There are about a dozen lichen-covered graves surrounded by cedar trees. There are only four families buried here—the Purdys, the Getmans, the Helmers, and the Spragues, all related. Nobody’s been buried here since 1924. Grimshaw uses the Helmers as her stage.

I get there in the late afternoon and wait for about half an hour, when here comes Grimshaw, gliding up through June-high corn. She’s wearing a sleeveless black Harley T-shirt that comes down almost to her knees. Maybe it’s because it’s a breezy day, with everything in motion—trees, clouds, corn, Grimshaw, all moving together in the same graceful rhythm—but she really looks like she’s dancing. This is the last day I’ll see her before our senior year begins. It turns out I’ll be gone all summer after all. Tomorrow they’re putting me on a bus to Maine.