“Allen Mizerak—Tim, can you please turn on your headlights?—has no class at all.” At that moment, Mike Lyle staggers out, sopping wet and coughing and held up by a crowd of naked football players from all the towns of the Minnechaug Valley, who are doubled over, laughing and yelling. Grimshaw doesn’t see any of this. Her eyes are closed.

“Yeah,” she says. “Who does he think he is, anyway?” She starts to cry into her hands. “Why do people have to be so mean? I don’t understand.”

“Melody!” Mike bellows.

She picks her head up and sees him. “Mike!” she screams, and throws herself at the door.

I reach across Grimshaw and hit the door lock. I turn my attention to Tim, who has forgotten how to drive his truck. “Reverse,” I coach him. “Turn to the right. Watch the van there. That’s good. Now shift into first. Watch the maple tree. Brake, brake! Turn left, out the driveway. Now second …” and so on, down Robinson Road, up Kingdom Road, while Grimshaw sobs out her guilt for how bad she’s treated the only one who loves her, until we roll underneath the gates of Versailles. We’re on private property now. I look behind us—no Corvette in sight. By this time, Grimshaw has bawled herself into semiconsciousness.

As we pull up to the front of the house, it occurs to me that my mother is in Maine, so I brace myself for dealing with Scot. The front door is locked, so I have to ring the doorbell. Tim and I are holding Grimshaw up by the armpits. I put my coat over her. As deadweight, she’s surprisingly heavy. When Scot comes to the door, he stares at us for a minute, nods, and lets us in. Grimshaw throws up in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. For about half an hour, she stays in the bathroom, half conscious, clinging to the toilet, still in her wedding gown and crying about how bad she’s treated Mike Lyle.

“He loves me,” she sobs. “He really loves me. Nobody else loves me. To them I’m a Grimshaw. Just trash by the side of the road. Like I fell off a truck.”

Scot and I get Grimshaw’s face washed. We ply her with vitamins, aspirin, and water, and then get her down the hall, up the stairs, and into my bedroom. I cover her up and smooth the sheets. She lies there, barely breathing.

“Poor kid.” Scot looks down at her and shakes his head. “It’s not like anybody chooses their family.” He pauses. “It’s just the luck of the draw. It’s not like my family’s any great shakes. She’s not … like them, is she?”