She stood, half-pouting and half-angry. “You could have stopped me at the door, you know.”

“I should have done that. You’re right.”

“You’re being a real jerk face.”

Jason could barely hide the smile. “No one has ever called me that, but yes. I suppose I can be a real jerk face.”

“What do I tell my friends?”

Jason glanced down into the club, and saw her friends at the bar, four or five pretty girls, jaded, no doubt, but not one over nineteen. “I think you and your friends can find a better place to party.”

Dinner that night was no better than the last. Dad didn’t show up. Mom asked enough questions to make sure I’d not been with Jason. Afterward, in my room, I read of war and communism and riots in a northern prison. It was a bad night, a lonesome one. That changed when the doorbell rang.

“Gibby.” My mother called up the stairs. “You have a visitor.”

I went down barefoot, in jeans. My mother, at the open door, said, “Not too long,” then ghosted away with a frown on her face.

“Sara.” I stepped outside, closing the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, I’m sorry to show up like this. I tried to call all afternoon.”

“My mother.” I waved off the apology. “Sometimes she answers. Sometimes she doesn’t. Do you want to come inside?”

“Maybe we could talk out here.”

“Sure.” I followed her off the porch and into the night air. She wore cutoff jeans, sandals, and a white top that tied behind her neck and left her shoulder blades exposed. “How’d you find me?”

“There are only three listings for French in the book. I thought I’d take a chance.”

“I’m glad you did.” We stood on the walk as moths flickered in the lights behind us. Sara looked lovely but vulnerable, her arms squeezed so tightly beneath her breasts I wondered if she was cold. “Would you like a jacket?” I asked.

“No, no. It’s nothing. Listen, um … Do you mind if we take a drive or something?”

She nodded toward a window, and I saw my mother inside, watching us through the glass. The frown had deepened. She tapped her watch. I said, “Yeah, sure. Understandable.”

We walked to the driveway, and I recognized Tyra’s Mercedes, still battered and scraped. I hesitated, but Sara understood. “It’s part of the reason I came.”

“The car?”

“The car. Tyra.”

I glanced at the house. My mother stood in the open door. “We should go,” I said. Sara slid behind the wheel, and I got in the other side. My mother moved onto the porch, then the walk. “We should go quickly.”