“Was that so hard?” She offered a satisfied smile, and held out a slip of paper for me to take. “I’ll be getting ready at Dana White’s house. That’s the address. Saturday at seven o’clock.”

“Um…”

“I’ll see you then.”

She turned in a swirl of motion and color. I stared at the paper in my hand. “What just happened?”

Chance laughed out loud. “Dude, you got told what to do.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Wuss.”

“Yeah, but it’s a date with Becky Collins.”

Suddenly, I was grinning, too.

“You know what that’s all about, don’t you?” Chance pointed at the slip of paper. “The pickup at Dana White’s house? Becky doesn’t want you to see where she lives.”

“Come on.”

“Have you ever seen her parents? Her parents’ car?”

“She rides the bus.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“You’re off your gourd.”

“Truth, man. I’ll show you.”

We did it after school. I wasn’t eager, but Chance was like a bulldog when he got a notion in his teeth. He guided me so far out in the county it felt like a different school district. When I balked a second time, he told me to shut up and drive the damn car. He said his insistence was due to my lack of faith, but Chance had his own jealousies and insecurities.

“This is the street. Turn here.”

He meant a narrow street between a muffler shop and a weed-choked lot. I made the turn and stopped the car. The street ran off between small houses and trailers and dirt yards. A few houses missed bits of siding, and I saw a tuft of insulation that hung from one and spilled, like a tongue, into the yard. I thought of Becky’s confidence, her satisfied smile when I’d asked her out.

“Why are you stopping?” Chance asked.

“This is far enough.”

“Three more blocks. You can almost see it.” Three blocks in, it was worse: a burned-out house, another with boarded windows. “Dude, come on. This is why we’re here.”

“No. I’m sorry.” I shook my head, then turned across the narrow street and drove us out. Chance craned to look behind us, then sat low in the seat, arms crossed. On the four-lane, I finally spoke. “You made your point, okay? It’s a shitty street. She’s poor.”

“Hey, man, drive away. Ignore the deeper truths.”

“You’re mad at me?”

“I want you to know what you’re getting into.”

“I don’t care if she’s poor.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Stop the car.”

“What? Why?”

“Just stop the car. Look at me.”