If I Tell

ones.
    “So your grandma really shipped you to juvie?” I asked.
    “Yup. She’s tough.” He put down his fork and folded his hands, his expression serious. “I’ve never claimed not to have faults. I’ve done some stuff. Drugs.” He grinned but looked like a boy caught with cookie crumbs on his mouth. “But now I’m back in school. Hell, I’m even holding down a part-time job.”
    I wanted to ask him if he still dealt drugs. If the phone calls were what I thought. But I couldn’t make myself say the words.
    He smiled. “Amber knows about juvie. I had to tell her when I applied for the job. Apparently she had some druggie years of her own when she was younger.”
    “Amber?” I put down my fork, finished with the pie.
    Jackson nodded. He dug in. “You want the last bite?”
    I shook my head.
    “Sure?”
    He grinned, scooped it up, and shoved it in his mouth. “So? You want to come to my house and play?”
    “Play?”
    He nodded at my guitar on the floor. “I do a fierce ‘Smoke on the Water.’”
    I made a face, sure he was teasing me again. “You do not. I’ve heard you sing.”
    He laughed. “Okay. You’re right. I play. I didn’t say I played well. Not like you. But I play. What do you think I did to keep out of trouble at the Bad Boy School?”
    I stared at him, waiting for him to continue.
    “Mastered guitar chords, of course. Taught to me by fellow juvenile delinquents.”
    I scowled. “You’re making that up.”
    He grinned. “Nope. I learned to play guitar in juvie.” He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “I don’t want to brag, but I have a custom-made Martin. My own inlay design.” He leaned forward, grinning at me. “But I guess you’re not interested in seeing it.”
    “You do not have a Martin.” I chewed my lip, almost drooling at the thought of a custom Martin guitar.
    “Oh, I do all right. You want to see it?”

chapter thirteen
    Jackson drove to the oldest part of Tadita, where the mountains were clearly visible on the horizon. He pulled his car up to an old brick apartment building and parked on the street in front.
    “It’s not exactly the Ritz, but it’s home,” he said with a shrug.
    The building looked like it had been around for a long time. Old but still in nice condition on the outside.
    He turned to me. “You sure you want to bring your guitar in?” he asked. “I don’t know if your Alvarez can handle it.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Another secret. A custom Martin.” I wasn’t sure I believed him yet.
    “I don’t want to make it jealous of Marty.”
    “You named your guitar Marty?” I slung my guitar case over one shoulder, my backpack over the other, and opened the passenger door.
    “What was I supposed to call it, Fred?”
    I shook my head as we climbed out of the car, and I followed him up a sidewalk lined with cracks. I glanced at the building as Jackson got out his key and opened the glass door, holding it for me to go in first. Inside the lobby, an old orange-and-brown rug covered the floor. The smell in the hallway reminded me of old folks’ homes where I’d performed with Grandpa Joe.
    We passed a group of elderly couples playing cards around a wooden table in what looked like a games room. Jackson waved at them but kept walking to the elevators even as they stopped their game and craned their heads to get a look at me.
    He pressed the Up button, and the door opened right away but took forever to close. He smiled. “It’s slow so no one gets stuck. Lots of old people live here.” He grinned again. “Grandma will be happy with gossip that I brought a girl home. The whole building will be buzzing.”
    The elevator sluggishly headed to the fourth floor. When the doors finally reopened, Jackson waited for me to walk out first.
    “Apartment 404.” He pointed down the hall. “We’ve got a two-bedroom, which is quite an accomplishment in this building. It’s mostly the old married couples on our floor. With cats. Lots of cats.”
    I smiled but didn’t say anything as we walked down the narrow hallway toward the door with the gold numbers nailed on: 404. Jackson dangled his keys, and I had a sudden fit of nervousness. I’d never been to a boy’s home alone. Who was I kidding? I’d never been to a boy’s home at all.
    “Uh. Is your grandma home?” I asked, guessing she wasn’t. I hoped she was. Wasn’t. Was.
    “Nope. Friday is poker night at Dorie’s.” He laughed. “Don’t look so shocked. They’re