“But oh, don’t you look nice?”

As I pulled up on the dirt driveway at Jake’s house, I could not ignore the fact that his big red pickup truck was missing. I sat a moment, considering whether he might be at home despite his wheels not being there.

He couldn’t be at Joanna’s. I’d just come from there. None of the Fremonts were usual churchgoers, so maybe the family had gone out to breakfast? I decided I would have to find out if anyone was home. I still felt a knot inside that almost made it hard to breathe as I trudged up to the kitchen door.

I knocked once and opened the door to find Jake’s mom washing dishes at the sink.

“Pete,” she said, glancing at me before trying to rub her nose with her elbow. “Dish soap always makes me want to sneeze,” she offered as explanation.

“Um,” I said.

“Jake’s not here,” she added. “But oh, don’t you look nice.”

I blinked at that, deciding it was wiser not to reply to the sentiment. “I didn’t see his truck,” I mentioned instead.

“He went over to Dave’s since Joanna was having her party. I think they’re going to watch football.”

I blinked again. “Denver…” I began, then I remembered. The new Mile High Network would be carrying any game not on a national broadcast if it sold out locally. And the Broncos were always sold out. “Oh, yeah,” I ended lamely.

“Fancy you forgetting a football game,” Sylvia teased, showing the dimples that matched Jake’s.

I made a noise that sounded too much like a squeak. I didn’t want to go over to Dave’s. His family had a big projection TV, and probably half the football team would be there, sprawled out on the floor. No.

“Can I borrow your phone?” I asked.

“Of course. This one here?” she pointed her chin at the wall-mounted kitchen phone. “Or the one in the living room? Alvin is going to watch the game here, so he’s probably in there sleeping through the pre-game show.”

“I’m not asleep,” Jake’s dad protested from the other room. “C’mon in, Pete,” he called out. “You can help me make fun of this dumbass sports common-tater. He’s really just an ornery spud like the rest of the Mile High vegetables.”

I got halfway to the living room before realizing that I didn’t want to use a phone with anyone listening. I made some sort of lame excuses to the Fremonts and got out of there. My skin felt prickly, my— my breasts ached, and my stomach lurched around inside me, banging against my other organs.

I drove downtown looking for a payphone, finally going inside at Thrifty Drugs to use the one beside the tube-tester station. No one was playing with the arcane device that could predict how much you would have to spend to repair your grandmother’s radio, so I put a dime in and called Dave’s number with the intention of asking Jake to meet me somewhere.

I hung up before anyone could answer.