a bus ride. Or a shower. I hate buses, and if I showered every time I felt stressed my fingertips would look like raisins. So instead I would go for a walk into the woods just beyond our backyard. Tammy and I used to sneak out at night and walk the bike paths, listening for the voices of adults. (Okay, I can admit this now, Mom—but Tammy also used to hope that those potential “adults” would be drinking beer or smoking weed so we could party. I was secretly relieved the opportunity never arose.) I loved walking in the fall the most, the brittle crunch of dead leaves beneath my sneakers, breathing in the cold yet strangely humid air.
Maybe I should go into the woods and just keep on walking. Find the creek and follow it down to the river. Or the opposite direction, out into the western suburbs and keep going all the way to sunny California. Wildey can’t force me to say anything if I’m just gone, can he?
Gave it some thought. But I couldn’t do that to Dad and Marty.
Okay … so. I have to snitch on a drug dealer. One who is not D. But he’s the only person I know who sells drugs.
I can’t give him up.
Right?
About an hour later, as night falls in the Pennypack Woods, knowing that the next time the sun comes up it’s deadline time, and there’s a good chance I’m going to know what it’s like to feel handcuffs around my wrists and hear a Miranda warning, I come to what I believe is a sensible decision. I’m going to go back home and tell my dad everything. Everything but D.’s name. I’ll say he’s just a guy I met at the party who needed a ride to his friend’s house. I’ll say he doesn’t even go to school there, but he was cute and I gave him a ride and then all this crazy shit happened. I’ll say he gave me a false name. Then I’ll find a lawyer and put this behind me. Because I didn’t do anything wrong.
But this desperate plan vanishes when I step out of the woods and see D. standing there in my backyard.
You ever see someone out of context and it completely freaks you out? This is what’s happening to me right now. He’s wearing a hoodie, both hands stuffed in the pockets. He’s changed his pants, trading the bright red chinos for brown corduroy. There’s an overnight bag slung over his shoulder as if he’s just stepped off a bus. Which he probably has. He looks more disheveled than usual, but it’s not exactly a bad look for him. Makes you want to tuck in his shirt, smooth out his hair, and give him a hug. Damn it, you’d think I’d be over this schoolgirl shit, given how much trouble I’m in thanks to his lame ass. But apparently not.
D. nods in my direction.
—Hey.
I wonder what he’s got in those pockets. How well do I know this guy, anyway? Bang bang bang, that’s to make sure you don’t rat me, kid. If I am smart I should scream for Dad or run back in the woods. Instead dumbass me says:
—Hey.
D. shuffles his feet.
—Can I talk to you?
A quick scan of the second-floor windows—is there a Dad-shaped silhouette in one of them? No. Not yet.
—How did you find my house?
—Honors directory. Seriously, is there somewhere private we can go?
I turn my head all the way around and check the windows, the back door. Dad can’t hear this. Not a freakin’
syllable
of this. I grab a fistful of D.’s hoodie, which looks and smells brand-new, pull him into the woods. We go down the trail about an eighth of a mile up to a break in the creek, where the water rushes over a ledge, creating some white noise. There’s a concrete slab that used to be the foundation of something. After all these years, I still have no idea, but it’s as familiar to me as our back deck. We sit on that.
D. looks at me.
—You okay?
—Yeah.
—I didn’t hear from you all weekend. I was getting really worried.
—I don’t have your number.
He blinks, confused, as if he assumes that every young lady at school has his cell tattooed on her wrist or something.
—Thought you’d, you know, reach out to me.
—I
Maybe I should go into the woods and just keep on walking. Find the creek and follow it down to the river. Or the opposite direction, out into the western suburbs and keep going all the way to sunny California. Wildey can’t force me to say anything if I’m just gone, can he?
Gave it some thought. But I couldn’t do that to Dad and Marty.
Okay … so. I have to snitch on a drug dealer. One who is not D. But he’s the only person I know who sells drugs.
I can’t give him up.
Right?
About an hour later, as night falls in the Pennypack Woods, knowing that the next time the sun comes up it’s deadline time, and there’s a good chance I’m going to know what it’s like to feel handcuffs around my wrists and hear a Miranda warning, I come to what I believe is a sensible decision. I’m going to go back home and tell my dad everything. Everything but D.’s name. I’ll say he’s just a guy I met at the party who needed a ride to his friend’s house. I’ll say he doesn’t even go to school there, but he was cute and I gave him a ride and then all this crazy shit happened. I’ll say he gave me a false name. Then I’ll find a lawyer and put this behind me. Because I didn’t do anything wrong.
But this desperate plan vanishes when I step out of the woods and see D. standing there in my backyard.
You ever see someone out of context and it completely freaks you out? This is what’s happening to me right now. He’s wearing a hoodie, both hands stuffed in the pockets. He’s changed his pants, trading the bright red chinos for brown corduroy. There’s an overnight bag slung over his shoulder as if he’s just stepped off a bus. Which he probably has. He looks more disheveled than usual, but it’s not exactly a bad look for him. Makes you want to tuck in his shirt, smooth out his hair, and give him a hug. Damn it, you’d think I’d be over this schoolgirl shit, given how much trouble I’m in thanks to his lame ass. But apparently not.
D. nods in my direction.
—Hey.
I wonder what he’s got in those pockets. How well do I know this guy, anyway? Bang bang bang, that’s to make sure you don’t rat me, kid. If I am smart I should scream for Dad or run back in the woods. Instead dumbass me says:
—Hey.
D. shuffles his feet.
—Can I talk to you?
A quick scan of the second-floor windows—is there a Dad-shaped silhouette in one of them? No. Not yet.
—How did you find my house?
—Honors directory. Seriously, is there somewhere private we can go?
I turn my head all the way around and check the windows, the back door. Dad can’t hear this. Not a freakin’
syllable
of this. I grab a fistful of D.’s hoodie, which looks and smells brand-new, pull him into the woods. We go down the trail about an eighth of a mile up to a break in the creek, where the water rushes over a ledge, creating some white noise. There’s a concrete slab that used to be the foundation of something. After all these years, I still have no idea, but it’s as familiar to me as our back deck. We sit on that.
D. looks at me.
—You okay?
—Yeah.
—I didn’t hear from you all weekend. I was getting really worried.
—I don’t have your number.
He blinks, confused, as if he assumes that every young lady at school has his cell tattooed on her wrist or something.
—Thought you’d, you know, reach out to me.
—I
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