Lisa's parents padlocked the basement door, but we found the key behind the silverware tray. She played guitar, read to me from her novel, drank Pepsi and smoked Marlboro Lights until her parents went to sleep. Then we left.
We could have gone around the cemetery, but we liked to climb the fence. We smoked on the tombstones and Lisa showed me the little girl's grave. Then someone who drove, one of the boys, picked us up.
The house had a hot tub and the hot tub had more boys. I didn't have a suit but someone said, "That's OK," and everyone laughed so I took off some of my clothes. Under the water the boy I liked best put his foot on mine. His girlfriend sat next to me and didn't notice.
We smoked pot and time went by. Lisa disappeared, then came back with Jake Schiller and never told me what happened, even ten years later when we saw each other in a bookstore in Chicago. The boy I liked best took me into a room with wood paneling and I gave him a blowjob. The music was so loud I couldn't hear.
It was still dark when we got home. Mrs. Gelb was waiting for us on the porch steps, doughy in a white and pink flannel robe, sitting in a triangle of light. The light was so bright I could see the bald spot on top of her head. I think she was angry, very angry with me, but she knew she should be sorry. I think that was hard for her. She stood up when she saw us. Lisa ran around the side of the house to the basement door. I stood on the sidewalk; I wasn't in trouble, it wasn't my house. Mr. Gelb came outside with his keys. I covered my mouth with my hand. I thought they could smell it on me: beer, pot, sex. I thought they were going to drive me home. Then Mrs. Gelb covered her mouth so I couldn't hear what she said. Lisa stood behind her in the window, making faces and laughing. Mr. Gelb swung one arm out and punched the back of his fist through the glass.
I remember shards of glass tumbling to the lawn, but I don't think I was close enough to see them.
Mr. Gelb drove me to the hospital in his moccasins. He drove with his left hand, his right mummified in a towel, seeping blood. I thought we were driving to the hospital because of his hand. He was crying and looking at me.
"It's not my fault you did that," I muttered.
He reached out and put his hand on my knee. I stared at it. When he pulled away my jeans had a red splotch. They were my favorite jeans.
"Watch the road," I whispered.
When we pulled up outside the hospital I saw Dad's truck there like it had been waiting for me my whole life. Mr. Gelb parked and turned off the car and came around to my side. When he opened the door I stepped into the warm night. The people in the ER looked like fish moving under ice. I saw Dad, standing at the desk in his flannel shirt and jeans and boots. I remember the smells: vinyl seats, car exhaust, cut grass, dust on the sidewalks, and Mr. Gelb's deodorant, which smelled the same as his aftershave.