My dad’s construction crew finished work on the new house behind the mall. I know where he keeps the keys.
I didn’t tell the guys, because they’d be all over me, wanting to party there, bring girls, hang out after practice, whatever. But Jordan, my girlfriend, I trust. Tonight, she’s “babysitting,” and I’m “playing Madden at Brody’s.”
We lay in front of the empty fireplace, on the blanket from the pickup. It’s scratchy and smells like turf and dog, but Jordan said she doesn’t mind. It’s warm, anyway. Still, my hand shakes, tracing the sweat and moonlight on her shoulder.
Cynthia Hamill 