The Six Rules of Maybe

to you,” I said.
    “I can’t dance.”
    I thought about this. “Maybe you don’t have to dance. Just go.”
    “I hate shit like that. What’s in it for me?”
    “She really likes you,” I said. He wouldn’t look at me. Just down at the big leg of his big jeans.
    “Fucking freak, she’ll stick her fangs in me,” he said, but I could tell he was wavering.
    “Just ask her. I’ll pay for dinner. The Lighthouse.” It was one of those places on the water. Nice, but not so fancy that they still didn’t have the captain’s wheel from a ship hanging on the wall and menu items called Surf and Turf and Wally’s Oyster Special.
    “I’ll give it my personal consideration,” he said.
    “Thanks, Kevin. You won’t regret it.” I touched his arm. He wore a puffy ski coat, even in the heat. His arm was in there somewhere. I stood. This was great. Great! My heart sang with Everything Working Beautifully hope. Something good could happen, not just for Fiona Saint George, but for Kevin Frink, too. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
    “Go get another A or something,” he said.
    Buddy Wilkes’s El Camino was there at the curb again when school got out. I passed by it. You could feel the heat and energy of Buddy’s presence even as he sat in the driver’s seat.
    “Hey,” he said. He was looking right at me.
    “Me?” I said.
    “Give this to your sister for me,” he said. He had a folded-up piece of paper in his palm and he held it out.
    I wanted to hit his hand, make the note go flying. I wanted to say something brave, something I’d never say, Fuck you , maybe,something bold and definite. But I was so surprised at his eyes looking right at me and his voice aiming right my way that I barely remembered to lie.
    “She’s not around,” I said.
    “Just give it to her,” he said.
    I took the note. It felt hot from his own palm, hot enough that its heat transferred to my own hand. I stood dumbly holding the note as Alicia Worthen walked out the school doors. I still held that note as Buddy Wilkes started his car back up and drove off, held it as Alicia just stood there at the curb calling, “Buddy, Buddy! Wait!” as the back of his El Camino left the school lot and drove out of sight.
    Alicia Worthen started to cry. Right there, with her backpack on one shoulder, her clarinet case in her hand. I unfolded the note. His writing looked nothing like Hayden’s. It had the childish, blocky innocence of a fourth grader’s report on earthquakes or volcanoes or the pony express. But not his words, though. Innocent is not what you’d have called them. Saturday. Five o’clock. You know where. I know you want to .
    After school, the cars were gone in front of Clive Weaver’s house. No one was out in the neighborhood except Ally Pete-Robbins, who was a planting a tidy row of marigolds up her walkway, and her twin boys, Jeffrey and Jacob, playing kickball in the street. Jeffrey kicked the red ball and it rolled under the Martinellis’ RV, the Pleasure Way. Jacob ran over and looked underneath, his butt up in the air and his shirt rising to show his smooth eight-year-old back.
    “You dummy, Jeffrey!” Jacob shouted to the underside of the Pleasure Way.
    “Jacob!” Ally Pete-Robbins called with a trowel in her hand. Her hair was up in a bandanna, and she had on those high-waistedshorts that are in the clothing Constitution for some women over thirty. “What did Mommy tell you about name-calling?”
    “Don’t name-call,” said a serious Jeffrey from first base, which was a red jacket thrown on the ground. Jeffrey looked like his father.
    “Dummy, dummy, dummy,” Jacob said. He fished out the ball with one arm and stood up. “Don’t dummy do that dummy again.”
    “Jacob!” Ally Pete-Robbins yelled again. She brushed the dirt off her hands like she meant business. “What would Jesus say?”
    “He’d say he wished he could play kickball,” Jacob said to Jeffrey. This cracked them both up. “Jesus loves kickball,” he said again to maybe see if the joke was as great the second time.
    It was. Jeffrey held his stomach. “I’m gonna pee.”
    Ally Pete-Robbins decided to ignore them. Not Reinforcing Bad Behavior was right up there in the top ten in the parenting rule book, just after Presenting a United Front and Being Consistent. Jeffrey and Jacob were basically monsters.
    “Mrs. Pete-Robbins?” I asked. “Have you heard anything about Clive Weaver today? I saw these cars… .”
    “Oh!”