She scowls at me. “Yeah, his online username is ChildPredator77. I sent him pictures of my naked budding bazooms and he wants to meet me behind the Dumpster at Pete’s Liquor to give me candy. Jeez, Jules! Of course not. I’m not stupid.”

I sigh in relief. “Okay. Wow. Sorry. Of course you’re not stupid. So how . . . ?”

“Soccer camp during fall break.”

“Oh.” I search my memory, trying to recall if she ever talked about a boy. “Have you been in contact with . . . wait, what’s his name?”

“Charlie. Yeah. We video chat during second hour almost every day.”

I blink.

“I have study hall in the library. He’s sort of homeschooled. I met his parents when they picked him up.”

My lips part but I can’t think of anything to say.

She turns to look at me. “They’ve invited me to come for spring break.”

Silence.

“They offered to pay for my ticket, but that felt weird so I’m saving up my tips to go. They live in New York.” She snaps her fingers in my face. “Hello? Any reaction at all would be appreciated.”

I shake my head, dumbfounded. “But . . . a week or two ago you said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

“It wasn’t official yet then. We’ve been taking it slow.”

“New York? Really?”

She nods. “So? What do you think?”

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re fifteen. There’s no way Mom and Dad will let you.”

Rowan rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Besides that.”

“Have you two . . . did you . . . ,” I stammer. “Um . . .”

“We held hands and kissed once. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” I echo, lost in melancholy thoughts. And then I catch myself and shoot her the best smile I can fake. “I’m really happy for you, Ro.”

“And the long-distance thing?”

I shrug. “I think if anybody can make it work, it’s you.”

She grins and hops off the chair arm. “Thanks, Jules. I was hoping you’d say that. I really like him.” She reaches down and hugs me, then hurries to the restaurant, leaving me alone to dwell in the chair as dusk settles over the hoards.

• • •

But there’s no time to feel sorry for myself. I mean, big whoop—my younger sister likes a boy and she’s making it work. Do I care that she kissed somebody before me? Hell no. Hell no I don’t. It’s not a contest. Besides, I have a lot of other, more important crap to think about right now.

Around seven, when I know everyone will be busy, I grab the meatball truck keys from Trey’s room and sneak out.

It takes me a little less than five minutes to get to Angotti’s. I park on the next block so they can’t see my truck. As I walk I pull my collar up and my hat down to my eyebrows and wrap my scarf around my face.

When I reach their enormous back parking lot, I do a snow-level check. There’s definitely a little snow piled up along the road, but it’s nowhere near a third of the way up the No Parking sign or the top of the hydrant across the street. One good snow could change all that, but it’d have to be a decent storm, I’d say.

I walk slowly up the sidewalk, studying Angotti’s from the back, trying to pretend that I’m just taking a walk on this cold evening in case any of the family or employees pop out the back door to take out trash. I get a decent look into the dining room window. People sit in the booths there now, enjoying pizza and beer. I look for Sawyer but he’s not in the dining room, as far as I can tell.

As I get closer, I try to remember all the things I wrote in my notebook and curse myself for forgetting to bring it with me. I stop for a moment, push my hat back, and give myself more room to breathe around the scarf, and look inside as much as I can, trying to figure out the exact layout. I should have looked a few days ago when I was inside, but I’d had other things on my mind and didn’t think of it then. And something seems off. I can’t place it, but it doesn’t look exactly the same as the scene. I can’t tell what it is. I take a few steps closer, trying to stay in the shadows so that people inside won’t notice me. I look all around the dining room, from the service station to the giant forks and knives on the walls to the antique clock with ivy all around to the arrangement of the tables. Maybe that’s what’s off—the tables aren’t quite in the same spots as in the scene I keep seeing. I narrow my eyes. But I still can’t place it.

My teeth start chattering, but I weave my way between a few cars in the lot, trying to get a closer look at the building itself. The back door flies open and I spin around, pretending to walk toward a car. I glance over my shoulder, and it’s a short-haired blond girl with heavy eye makeup carrying a trash bag. She props the door open with her foot and picks up a second bag, maneuvering them through the opening.

“The fifteenth,” she’s saying to someone in the kitchen. “No, I can totally work Saturday. Not going to the dance. I need the fifteenth off.” She lets the door close and walks over to the Dumpster, hoists the bags inside, then wipes her hands on her pants and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her coat pocket. She flips one out and lights it, taking a deep drag.

I crouch behind a car, stuck here until she goes back in, unless I want to risk her seeing me appearing out of nowhere and walking away. A car pulls into the parking lot and I turn to look at it, its lights bouncing on me for a few seconds.