I quietly enter Skunk’s room. His pants are on the floor, wet with sweat. I root through the pockets. Eureka! My fingers touch the smooth leather, and I run them over the indentation of the eagle.

  Skunk is notorious for long showers, but I don’t want to push my luck. Knowing my brother, I’ll probably end up all the way at the bottom of the stairs this time. Although, given the state of his bedroom, he probably won’t go back to those pants for at least a couple of days.

  I go into my room, change into a clean shirt, brush my hair, and grab my bag. I check on Mama and tell her I’m going to Hillary’s birthday party, which is a lie, but something she’d like to hear.

  I sink into the seat of the Honda, my heart pounding. I dial Even’s number. The mechanical ring echoes in my ear and goes to voicemail. Just as I’m about to leave a message, the car door wrenches open. I squeak.

  Skunk stands there in his boxers, looking ready to murder. “Give it back!” he thunders.

  “You give it back,” I say.

  This has him for a second, but then he reaches into the car and swipes for my bag. I fumble for the key. As I try to fit it into the ignition, his fist meets the soft flesh of my cheek and upper lip. I cry out. Tears instantly blind me, but I don’t need my eyes to start the car. I paw for the keys again and start it up.

  We’re both too big to allow him to get across me to the passenger side, where the wallet hides in my bag. As he scoots around the front of the car, I take the opportunity to put it in reverse. My door slams with the motion, though I can barely see for the tears in my eyes and blood soaking my mouth and chin. I leave him in the dust, shouting and looking like a blubbery walrus wearing underwear.

  I peel down the road, completely unsure of where to go. Blood oozes from my lip. I have to clean up. I drive to the gas station, hoping the bathroom around the side of the building will be unlocked.

  I jiggle the knob, but it sticks. The adrenaline rush from obtaining the wallet fizzled when Skunk attacked. I’m weak and uncertain, my footsteps awkward and out of time.

  The bell to the gas-station door jingles, announcing my arrival. The clerk, the one Skunk fought with on the first day of school, looks up at me, unconcerned. Maybe my face doesn’t look as bad as it feels. A throbbing pulses in my lip.

  “Bathroom key?” I ask.

  He looks me up and down with what might be disgust. “Out of order,” he says.

  “Please,” I say. He shakes his head, not even looking at me.

  I don’t argue. I grab a few napkins. I return to the car and angle the rearview mirror to look at myself. The blood has stopped, but my splotchy face looks terrible. Nonetheless, I want to give Even his wallet back. Better he has it than me if Skunk tries to get it back from me again later. Tenderly, I lick the blood from the corner of my mouth and lip, wipe my chin, swab on some lip gloss, and dial Even’s number. I clear my throat. At the sound of the first mechanical ring, I want to hang up, but it’s too late—my number will appear on his caller ID. I’ve lost my momentum. It rings a half dozen times and then goes to voicemail. “Hi, this is Even. Please leave a message.”

  The way he says his name sends an unfamiliar feeling winding through me. There’s a tingling in my stomach that is different from hunger or self-loathing.

  “Hi, Even, this is Sugar.” I say my name as if it belongs to a stranger. It feels like it doesn’t belong to the version of me I want Even to know. “I, um, I’ve got it. Your wallet. If you want to meet, I can give it back to you. Call me.”

  After I hang up, the words echo in my head, playing on repeat. I analyze each one as the sun sets behind the banks of gas pumps. Did I say the right thing? Did I play it cool? Did I say “um” too many times?

  A car pulls up beside mine. I glance over to see upperclassmen from school inside. A kid wearing a trucker hat who I recognize gets out and then meets a guy I remember graduating with Fat Henry. They loiter by the bathroom doors and then exchange money. The older of the two ambles into the store. The kid from school gets back in the car, and the music already straining the car’s speakers gets louder.

  I hope they don’t notice me. Moments later, the guy returns and pounds on the trunk. It pops and he lowers a case of Pabst in. I overhear the words “party” and “Oak Hill Ave,” and instantly know they are going to Hillary’s party, which reminds me that Even is probably there.

  I tilt my head against the headrest as they pull away. I debate whether to go there and bring the wallet to Even. If Skunk retaliates, I’ll simply no longer have it. If he wants to deal with Even, he can. Though I doubt he’ll bother with Even because of the trail. Then there’s my ghastly lip. Hillary wouldn’t have invited Skunk, so I’m safe there. Relatively. Not safe from embarrassment for umpteen reasons, starting with my giant ass and ending with the bloody gash. But the wallet . . . Even.

  I have another look at my lip in the twilight. It isn’t so bad. Or maybe I’m just convincing myself because each time I think about Even something sparks inside me. I start toward Hillary’s, hoping I’m not walking directly into disaster.

  When I turn onto Oak Hill Avenue, cars line both sides of the street. I hesitate. The entire upperclassman student body appears to be at Hillary’s house. What am I doing? I drive slowly, hoping I’ll just see Even, give him the wallet, and be on my way. When I reach the end of the street, one parking spot remains before the road turns into woods. I take a steadying breath and pull in.

  I check my lip one more time. It’s now or never.

  When I reach the front walk, music, loud conversation, and laughter mash together in a way that makes me feel alone, even when so close to so many people. The last time I was here, Mama dropped me off to swim, but it was before I realized that a person’s size and how they look in a bathing suit determine whether they’re friend material or not. Something burns inside me and it doesn’t have to do with Even. A splash, followed by laughter and hooting, tells me someone did a cannonball into the pool. I’m just about to ring the doorbell when I realize I’d save myself some hassle just by going around to the backyard.

  I slowly open the wooden gate. As soon as I am through, it’s open season. I need to look around, but don’t want to make eye contact with anyone.

  I avoid the splashing in the pool and bump shoulders with Allie, Hillary’s best friend. She looks at me as if I’m a slug she’d like to squish and moves on. I’m just glad it wasn’t Hillary. I count on whatever Allie drinks out of the red cup in her hand to wipe away her memory of my presence at the party.

  A boy in loose swim shorts chases two girls in bikinis. They squeal in delight, jumping into the pool. Dots of water appear on my T-shirt, punctuating the fact that I’m out of place. I have to get out of here. Fast.

  There’s no sign of Even outside, so I go in the back door of the house. They’ve remodeled the kitchen since I was last here. Everything looks clean and uncluttered, despite the snacks set out. The sleek organization at Hillary’s always made me feel comfortable. But also deficient and jealous at the clean scent of flowers and lemon, not stale with cigarette smoke and overcooked canned ravioli.

  I move into the living room and pick out Even talking with Will. Thankfully, Hillary is absent. As I approach, Will notices me. His face puckers. I tap Even on the shoulder. He turns around, offering a warm smile.

  “Hey, you came,” he says cheerfully.

  “Did you get my message?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  I notice Will looks stuck between boredom and curiosity as to why I would have left his cousin a message.

  “Got your wallet,” I say, reaching into my bag and passing it to him. “Skunk isn’t sorry it’s a little lighter than when you dropped it.”

  Even’s eyes linger on my lips.

  I flush and then remember the cut.

  “I can see that,” he says seriously. “Let’s take a walk. Hey, I’ll see you later, Will.” Without another word or room for argument from me, he turns. Taking my elbow delicately in his hand, he guides me toward the front door. I feel eyes on us, including Allie’s and those of a few of the other girls with high ponytails and the kind of confidence that draws envy, guiltily, out of me.

  Even closes the door behind him.

  We sit on the slate front step.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath and let my shoulders fall. “What didn’t happen? The good news is I got your wallet back,” I answer.

  “Yeah, but you didn’t have to, you know, go through that much trouble. I mean . . . He didn’t hit you, did he?” Even speaks with a mixture of horror and anger in his voice, maybe something else, too, but I can’t place it.

  “It’s certainly not the first time and probably not the last,” I say, again shocked at my candor. “I didn’t mean that. Skunk’s all right. You know, he’s my brother and all. Just, he has anger issues.”

  “Yeah, I’m familiar with those,” he says. Then, “Not me. Never mind.” Even looks down at his boots.

  “How’s the party?” I ask.

  Even shrugs. “What you’d expect, I suppose. How about we go take care of that lip? Where are you parked?”

  For a minute, something lights up within me. He wants to take care of my lip? Seventeen and never been kissed. Then I scold myself. He means my bloody and swollen lip. Duh.

  “Yeah. Sure. Thanks. I tried the convenience store, but the clerk wouldn’t let me use the bathroom,” I say. As soon as the words are out, I realize I sound pathetic, but Even follows me down the slate path to the street nonetheless.

  Chapter Six

  When we get to my car, I ask Even how he got to Hillary’s party.

  “Walked. No better way to learn a new area, unless you’re on a motorcycle.”

  I think of the photo of my dad, still hidden in my pocket.

  “Do you have one?” I ask.

  “Yes and no,” he says.

  I tilt my head with confusion. Under the dome light of the car, the shadows highlight his cheekbones and his knees bump the dash. After he buckles up, I have the silly thought that we could drive anywhere, but I realize I probably don’t have enough gas.

  “I’m rebuilding one,” he says, raising his eyebrows conspiratorially. “Let’s go; I’ll show you.”

  Even directs me toward Birch Road, even though I know where it is because I’ve traveled the roads in this small town my entire life. He shows me where to park and seems relieved mine is the only vehicle in the driveway. He leads me up a set of outdoor stairs to the second-floor apartment and gives the door a good push to get it open.

  “Have a seat. I’ll grab a washcloth,” he says.

  I sit on a stool in the sparse, distinctly bachelor-inhabited kitchen. There are a few pots and pans, still on the stove burners, some open cans sticking out of the trash, and a sink full of dishes. When Even returns, he notices the mess.

  “Damn. OK, let’s get you cleaned up, and then I better get this cleaned up,” he says, gesturing to the disorder. “After that, I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

  Even carefully dabs at my lip, removing the dried blood. When the dangling washcloth lightly touches my collarbone, I let out a giggle. “Sorry, ticklish,” I say by way of excuse. I’m also amused that this boy, who by all rights should be the new hottie in town, with girls chasing after him, is with me, in his kitchen, cleaning my lip.

  “All better,” he says after he spreads some antibiotic ointment on it, which will blend with the lip gloss I quickly apply when he turns to the sink. “Do you mind keeping me company while I do the dishes and take out the trash?”

  “Not at all. Did you leave in a rush?”

  “No,” he says, exhaling loudly. “My dad—”

  I slide off the stool, scrape the food stuck on the dirty pots and pans into the trash, and bring them to him.

  “Thank you, but you don’t have to help,” he says. “Take a seat.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say, happy to be useful. Even if he was just being polite, I feel appreciated for once. We’re quiet for a minute as Even washes and rinses. I dry.

  “Tell me, why on earth is your brother called Skunk?” he asks. “And please tell me it somehow explains why he’s so mean.”

  I chuckle. “When he was a kid—let’s see, I wasn’t in kindergarten yet, so he must have been about six or seven—he got sprayed by, you guessed it, a skunk,” I explain. “He hated showering, and so he just went to bed, stinking to high heaven. Mama had a job at the time, from three to eleven at night, and she smokes. And so, dead tired and in a cloud of nicotine, she didn’t smell him when she got home. I’d tried to stay up and tell her what happened, but I must have dozed off. I couldn’t wake her up the next morning—she sleeps like a log—and so Ernesto, aka Skunk, went to school smelling like one. You can imagine the fun the kids on the bus and in his class had with that. Eventually, the school nurse sent him home and Mama had to give him a bath in some nasty concoction, peroxide and tomato juice or something. He’s never lived it down, and I think it just plain turned him mean.” I pause, wondering how careful I should be with my words.

  Even glances at my lip as if that explains how mean he can be.

  “He wasn’t very nice before that to begin with. I remember he took my bike once—you know, the girlie kind with pom-pom tassels and a pink seat. He tried riding it like a mountain bike down the ravine by the river. It’s still there, broken and rusting away,” I say, sighing, remembering how happy I was to get that bike, a hand-me-down from Hillary, and how crushed I was when Skunk destroyed it. “So what about your family, aside from your mom?” I ask carefully, yet eager to change the subject.

  “Nothing to say, really. Just my dad and me. My aunt and uncle, Will . . .” Even pulls the trash bag out of the can and motions for me to follow him. We go back down the stairs. After he deposits the trash in a larger bin, I follow him to a shed behind a detached garage.

  Even turns on a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. A snowmobile fills the corner along with some yard equipment. In the center of the space, Even pulls a tarp off what looks like a hunk of metal.

  “Ta-da!” he exclaims, and he can tell I don’t fully appreciate the fine mechanics of a disassembled motorcycle. “I’m just waiting for a few more parts, and then she’ll be ready to roll. It’s a Harley. Trust me; it’s going to be one fine ride.”

  I turn to him and smile, unable to help myself. “I’m sure it will be. Where are you going once it’s ready?” I ask.

  Even doesn’t answer right away. He gazes at me, and for a second I worry he looks through me, but no, it’s almost as if he’s looking into me, perhaps wondering if he should risk the answer.

  He stutters as he starts to speak again. “Everywhere. Anywhere.” He takes a breath. “You have some smile, Sugar,” he says sweetly. “And your hair . . .” He reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly as he glides them through to the ends. The hint of a rosy glow rises to his cheeks.

  My blush matches his and I hide behind my hair. “I had braces for, like, four years. We had dental insurance when I got them and then lost it, so it took a while to save up to have them removed. My older brother, Fat Henry, offered to pull them out for me, but no thank you. The good part is my teeth are so perfectly straight I’ve never had to wear a retainer.” I bumble with my words and have no idea why I am telling him these stupid details. The only other good thing about braces was I lost a few pounds from not being able to eat so many sticky treats, but I don’t dare reveal that. I gained it all back and then some, but wish he could have seen me then. There is a moment of silence, and then we hear a loud truck rumble in.

  “Shit. My dad.” He hustles out of the shed, but then just as he’s about to turn the corner, he stops and I run into him. “Sorry.” He turns around and faces me.

  “Why are we always bumping into each other?” I ask, absently.

  “I don’t mind bumping into you, but let’s not bump into my dad. I know this is weird, but he’s probably half in the bag, and it’d be better if you didn’t meet him right now,” Even says in a whisper.

  “But my car—did he pull in behind it, blocking me in?” I ask.

  “Probably, but if you wait here, I’ll go up, grab the key to the truck, and move it.” He hesitates as if he wants to add something, then says, “I’ll be right back.”

  I linger in the shadows by the garage. Doubt plagues me. I fear that Even is embarrassed to introduce me to his dad, like the stereotypical fat-lady-and-skinny-farmer couple I see shopping at Walmart. My jaw drops open. We’re not a couple. Why did I even think that?

  I remember his comment about my smile. No one, not a single person in my entire life, has ever paid me a compliment. I’m at once excited and humbled. Did he really like my smile? I search my mind for a reason he would need to be nice to me. It’s unlikely he wants to get into Skunk’s good graces. Maybe he likes Brittany. But she’s so eager, especially lately with the body-baring clothes, boys don’t really have a problem approaching her. Before I travel too much farther down the rabbit hole of self-loathing and doubt, footsteps approach from the wooden stairs.

  Even appears and puts his finger to his lips. Again, I worry about why he feels the need to sneak around.

  “I’m glad we got to hang out tonight,” he says. “And thanks for my wallet. I owe you. If I get the bike fixed soon, I’ll take you out to the coast. Promise.” With that, he gets in the truck and backs up, giving me room to do the same.

  I drive home elated, like I’m riding a magic carpet. I imagine this is the way normal girls feel when they have a crush and it’s mutual. But no, wait, that’s moving too fast. Way too fast. Even is maybe just becoming a friend. An actual friend. Nothing more.