I end up waiting around for Mom to get home, hoping she’ll let me take the car. She doesn’t. I mean, she does get home, but she doesn’t let me take the car.

“Baby bird,” she says, deepening the wound, “you don’t have your license yet.”

Like I could possibly forget that.

“I’ve got my permit!”

“Yes, but you need a licensed driver with you,” she says.

I hate that part.

“And I’m tired,” she adds.

I literally, physically cringe. Showing up at Janie’s for the first time in months with my mom in the passenger seat … It’s almost too horrible to imagine. She does look tired, though. This morning, her suit looked pressed. Now it looks de-pressed.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll take my bike.”

“Be back before dark,” she says, like I hoped she would.

“Nope, going to get hit in the dark,” I say. “Pretty dangerous out there on the side of the road at night.”

Now I’m thinking that she’s fallen into my trap and she will let me take the car after all.

“Well, then, you can’t go at all,” she says.

D’oh!

Now I can resort to pleading or call her bluff.

“Fine,” I say, and head for the door.

“Be back before dark,” she says to my back.

I don’t argue anymore. The truth is, I’ll probably be back in about half an hour. It’s like a fifteen-minute ride, and there’s a pretty good chance Janie won’t want anything to do with me. I start to imagine worst-case scenarios: the door slammed in my face and things like that.

I get going and power up the first big hill of the ride without too much trouble. I reach the top and shift gears for the coast down. I’m sweating now, but the wind on the ride down cools me off a little. I shift gears again for the straightaway and try to flatten out my wind-tunnel hair as I ride. I’m not wearing a bike helmet because that is precisely the sort of midlevel semibadass I am.

I barely make it up the third hill. Three hills will do that to you, but worse than the cramp in my side is that fact that it feels really lame to be biking to her house. It wasn’t as bad last year, when I was still a sophomore and it seemed like I’d have my license any day. We used to joke about it: “In like Schwinn!” Now I’m a few days away from being a junior, and no closer to that license. Just watch: I’m going to get there, lean my bike against the tree out front, and there’s going to be a frickin’ Porsche in the driveway, owned by her new boyfriend, Dale Earnhardt Jr.

I try to shake the thought out of my head. It is so two hills ago. And who knows, she could be happy to see me. Maybe she missed me…. Maybe her parents are out…. Maybe it will be just like it was before…. Now I’m pedaling faster again, faster and faster. It’s been a lonely summer.

By the time I arrive, I’m back to looking like the Swamp Thing. On the plus side, no Porsche. There are two cars in the driveway: her parents’ SUV and the little hybrid that I realize is probably hers now. I let my bike drop in the grass, like the non–helmet wearer I am, and start toward the door before I can change my mind.

I walk slowly, not because I’m nervous, or at least not entirely. It’s turned into a fairly cool evening, there’s a nice breeze, and now that I’m off the bike, I need to, well, I need to dry. As it turns out, I have plenty of time. I reach the door, take a deep breath, and knock twice.

Nothing.

Twice more.

Nothing.

Come on, people. Your lights are on. Your cars are in the driveway. I’m wondering if they saw me pull up, if they know it’s me. I go to push my hand through my hair, and I can feel it crunch. It’s the hair gel. I found a year-old sample tube of L.A. Looks in the back of the medicine cabinet today and used the whole thing. The sweat must have reactivated it, and now my hair has dried in the upright-and-locked position.

The door opens. It’s Janie’s father, Adrian. That may sound like a girl’s name, but it’s a guy’s name in Romania, where all six-feet-four of him is from. He’s terrifying, and I’m pretty sure he has always hated me. It was during one rare thaw that he cracked a smile and said, “Call me Adrian.” Now I’m standing there, my hand stuck halfway through my hair, and I’m not sure what to call him.

“Hi, Mr. Pera,” I say, playing it safe and pulling my hand free.

“Hello,” he says in his Count Dracula accent.

“Is, uh, Janie home?” My voice comes out smaller than I want, but at least it’s a coherent sentence.

“No,” he says.

He hesitates, trying to think of something to add. He’s not a talkative guy at all, but even for him, a one-word dismissal of a guy who looks like he just ran 26.2 miles to get here is a little harsh.

“Your hair,” he says. “It has a problem.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. I’m pretty sure it’s standing straight up. This is not the “absolute styling performance” I was promised.

“Well, she is not here,” he says, finding his rhythm. “I will tell her you stopped by. Good night.”

He closes the door in my face. I’m not sure that’s his intention, but that’s where my face is, so that’s the effect closing the door has. I stand there for a few seconds, kind of reeling. It’s like, Nice to see you, too, Adrian. Then I walk back to my stupid bike. I resist the urge to look in every window as I pass, but I allow myself a quick look up at her bedroom.

The light is on, but the blinds are closed. Don’t jump to conclusions, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean she’s home. She might just have forgotten to turn the light off when Junior picked her up in the Porsche.