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they’d go spinning like crazy and about half the time end up in the creek.”
    â€œI know where we can get one,” Danny Brewster says loudly, to nobody.
    â€œWhere I grew up,” Pet says, “it never snowed. That’s one thing I’ve liked about moving up here, how it gets cold enough to snow.”
    â€œIt used to snow more,” Addie says. “Even in my lifetime. I remember when I was small, it snowed more than it does now.”
    â€œI wouldn’t want any more,” Pet says.
    Roland’s birthday cake is from Fancy Pastry, chocolate, in the shape of a cutaway electric guitar. Everyone sings the birthday song, Roland makes a wish and blows out his candles, and Pet cuts little pieces of cake that everyone eats with plastic forks, scraping the frosting off their plates. Before they can ask for seconds, Roland stands up.
    â€œI want to thank you all for coming.” He speaks in his deep, practiced, performer’s voice. “You’re the best friends anybody could ever have.”
    â€œKeep on truckin’!” Danny yells.
    â€œI wish you could stay here forever. I really do. And”—laughing his dry, amused-with-himself laugh—“you can if you want to. But I’ve got to go. I promised Louise a ride, and she has to be home by nine-thirty.”
    No one else laughs. Louise blushes, but only slightly, as if she can control even the flow of her blood. Addie glares at Roland but be ignores her. Of course, she thinks. He doesn’t want to know how he’s wrecked her night. She’s here without a car or a ride home; she walked over hoping he would take her home, hoping that, for at least the short drive down Fairview, they could be alone again. Now he’s leaving without her, leaving his own party, and it’s too late to call her parents. Claree can’t drive at night and Bryce will be drinking. He would come anyway if she called, driving fast and loud like he does, screeching up to the curb, blowing his horn.
    Roland doesn’t want to know any of that.
    He opens the car door for Louise, closes it behind her, gets in and drives away. Addie imagines them cruising across town, Louise telling stories, Roland huck-hucking , laying his arm along the seat behind her. Louise leaning her head back.
    He won’t just drop her off. He will walk her to her front door. Addie pictures them standing there, Roland pressing his hand into the small of Louise’s back, waiting for her to invite him in.
    Louise’s house will be quiet and clean: no blaring TVs, no spilling-over ashtrays. Louise’s father will be sitting up in the den, reading a magazine under soft yellow lamplight, listening to jazz on the radio. Louise will whisper to Roland, “He’s so protective.” Which will make Roland think about Louise’s dead brother and broken mother and feel sorry for her. He will kiss her—not on the mouth; on the cheek, maybe, or forehead. He will take his time with her. He’ll think to himself, With this one I’m going to get it right .
    Across the table, Danny Brewster taps his plastic fork on his plate. Danny has a horse-shaped face and thick glasses that make his eyes seem closer than they are. “I can give you a ride,” he says to Addie, more quietly than she knew he could talk.
    â€œCan we leave now?”
    â€œFuckin’ A.” Danny forks up his last few crumbs of cake and pushes himself up from the table. “Far-out party,” he tells Roland’s parents.
    Addie doesn’t bother with good-byes or thank-yous.
    The yellow ’Cuda gleams under the streetlight. “Hop in,” Danny says, opening the door. The seat is slippery, like it’s been polished. Danny cranks the engine and his eight-track blasts Edgar Winter, the bass boosted so loud it rocks the car. Addie buckles her seat belt. She hopes Roland’s parents are watching. She hopes they all are. She hopes the