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better. If there was even a whiff of alcohol on his breath, he’d have to answer to his father, six foot five, two hundred fifty pound State Trooper, Theodore Jedinski. And that’s why I know that as much as Jerry is telling the truth about not drinking or smoking himself, he is also lying about Peter doing it. “So, what were you doing with him in the car yesterday and why did you go last night?”
    “I took a ride because we both had basketball practice.” He turns a shade of pink that has nothing to do with the sun, and says, “He’s a really popular guy and I thought you’d be impressed.”
    “ Don’t.” I sink back on my knees, pull off my gloves. “Please.”
    “ I know, I know.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I know.”
    “Can we just drop it?”
    “Y eah, I think we should.”
    “Good.” I smile at him, a peace offering.
    His lips curve into a lopsided grin that holds, wobbles then fades flat. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
    “I won’t.”
    He stays a little while longer, holding the bag while I scoop out peat moss, helping me tamp it in place with his large, square, dependable hands. He can cover twice as much an area as I can. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. A chunk of brown hair sticks up at the back of his head like a giant comma with its tail chopped off. Beads of sweat cling to his upper lip and forearms as he works. He is so nice, so considerate, so sweet. And I am so not interested in him. 
    I tell Jerry I won’t get hurt and I mean it. So, when Peter Donnelly calls me later that afternoon, I let his soft, persuasive voice lure me to an eight o’clock meeting at Mini-Mart. Peter Donnelly wants to be with me, Sara Polokovich, the non-cheerleader, the brain. I can’t get him out of my head as I paint my nails shimmery pink, can’t stop thinking about the sun-streaked golden waves curling at the nape of his neck as I lather Herbal Essence into my hair. And as Three Dog Night sing Pieces of April , I hear his voice like the thrumming of a bass, see his slow, purposeful smile. By the time I pull on my faded jeans and tuck my tank top inside, I am half in love with him and we haven’t even spoken ten complete sentences.
    I stare at my reflection in the mirror, touch my fingers to my lips. What would it feel like to kiss him? To run my fingers through his hair, hear him say my name? I smile then, the secret smile of a woman-child and laugh as I slip out the door.

Chapter 7
     
    “I’m glad you decided to come tonight.” Peter’s white teeth gleam in the faint light of the A&P parking lot. We are one of eight cars, lined up side-by-side, radios blasting out synchronized versions of Aerosmith’s, Walk This Way . Peter motions with a flick of his hand when it is time to put the cars in gear, cruise down Main Street to the other side of town, loop into Mini-Mart and head back toward the A&P. This is our third round—idle, rev, go.
    “I’m glad I came, too,” I say. Jerry’s jealousy is ridiculous. Peter Donnelly is sitting beside me with his arm casually slung on the back of my seat, wearing a navy pullover and English Leather after-shave. He’s not someone who hides a flask under the seat of his car. And if I have a chance later tonight, I’ll run my hand under the seat, where Jerry says Peter keeps a flask, and where of course, there will not be one.
    “So” —he turns toward me, his fingers brushing the back of my hair—“what do you do around here for fun?”
    “It’s not exactly Pittsburgh, is it?” I ask, avoiding the question.
    “Norwood is,” he pauses, “different. ”
    “You mean weird?”
    He laughs. “I’ve never seen a place where the policemen are the ones putting money in the parking meters.”
    “That’s Officer Cranski. He can’t stand to ticket anybody so he carries around a baggie full of change.”
    “Like I said —different.”
    “Have you peeked in Bob the Barber’s yet?”
    “No, you think I need a haircut?”
    “No,