Bad Haircut. Tom Perrotta

spend the afternoon with Kevin. I hoped he wasn't mad at me.

      Around eleven o'clock a brown tow truck turned the corner and began tailgating me down Maple Street. I veered up a driveway to give it room, but the truck didn't accelerate to pass. Then I saw why: “PAUL'S AMOCO EMERGENCY SERVICE” was written in yellow letters on the side door. Paul himself was scowling at me from the driver's seat, jabbing his finger like a cop pulling over a speeding car. I stepped on the brakes and so did he. The truck's passenger door swung open on a creaky hinge.

      “Get in,” he commanded.

      “What about my bike?”

      “Just leave it.”

      I dropped my bike on someone's lawn and climbed into the cab, which smelled pleasantly of gasoline. Paul sat beside me, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The skin on his knuckles was cracked, the crevices caked with grease. He took his hand away from his face and looked at me.

      “Where's Kevin?”

      “Isn't he home?” I tried to sound casual, but I could feel my blood abruptly reverse itself, rushing into my face as though I were doing a headstand.

      Paul gave me a disgusted look and shifted into gear. I wondered vaguely if I was being kidnapped.

      “It's not the money that bugs me,” he said. “It's really not. But if he needed it, why didn't he just ask?”

      I didn't answer. How could I explain that Kevin didn't need the money, that we were just having fun?

      “Tell me the truth,” Paul said. “Is he doing drugs?”

      I shook my head. It gradually became clear to me that I wasn't being kidnapped. We were just orbiting the streets of Darwin, cruising up one and down another. I began to relax and enjoy the ride, my first ever in a tow truck. The heavy chains swayed and clanked behind us; our bodies vibrated along with the powerful engine. The parked cars we passed looked small and vulnerable. If Paul and I had felt like it, we could have just hoisted one up and dragged it away.

      “How come he hates me?” Paul asked.

      “I don't know,” I said.

      He took a couple of quick turns, and pretty soon we were back on Maple. I was almost disappointed that nothing more exciting had happened, that Paul hadn't tried to make me talk. I had one leg out the door when he grabbed my arm.

      “You tell Kevin to come home. He's not going to get punished. We just want him back. You tell him his mother's worried sick.”

      “Okay,” I said.

      I got out, walked over to my bike, and slung the heavy canvas bag over my shoulder. The tow truck didn't move. Paul was slumped forward in the driver's seat, his forehead resting on the wheel.

      That afternoon I told Kevin about my encounter with Paul. He was only half finished with the sandwich I'd brought him, but he got mad and whipped it at a tree.

      “He's a liar! The second I walk through the door he's gonna kill me.”

      “I bet he won't.”

      “You don't know him.”

      We sat sullenly on the log. The woods weren't the least bit scary during the day. Birds were chirping; the air was cool and fresh. You could see through the trees to the houses on Center Street.

      “Can you camp out tonight?” Kevin asked.

      “Tonight's my birthday,” I said. “I promised my parents I'd spend it at home.”

      Kevin looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair matted down against his head. “But what about later? Think you can sneak out?”

      “I'll try.”

      Before I left, Kevin asked me to do him a favor. He unzipped the flap of his tent—not very well camouflaged during the day—and pulled out a wrinkled envelope, which he handed to me along with a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Angela's name was scrawled across the envelope in big childish letters.

      “I wrote it myself,” he said.

      People's houses have distinctive odors. Kevin's, for example, always reminded me of a doctor's office. Burnsy's smelled like cat food, even though he didn't have a cat. My grandmother's house gave off an odor of rancid orange peels. And the Far-rones’ house smelled like Angela. As soon as I stepped inside, I remembered that when I had kissed her, her mouth had tasted exactly like this.

      I followed her father down the hallway into the kitchen. On the way I caught a glimpse of the living room. It resembled a display in a furniture store, not a cushion dented or an ashtray out of place. An oil portrait of Angela, done before she bleached her hair, was hanging above the couch. In her tartan plaid dress with the lace collar, this brown-haired Angela looked innocent and full of wonder.

      Mr. Farrone tossed my bouquet carelessly on the kitchen table and headed for the refrigerator. It was the modern kind that dispensed ice water from a compartment on the freezer door. I had only seen them on commercials and game shows, never in someone's house.

      “What can I get you?” he asked.

      “Just water.”

      On my previous flower deliveries, I had managed to escape undetected. But that afternoon my timing was off. I was halfway up the front steps when a maroon Lincoln Continental pulled into the driveway. A dumpy man in a gray suit got out of the car and came to meet me.

      “I'm Pat Farrone,” he said, extending his hand. “You must be Kevin.”

      I started to say no, then caught myself and nodded. It seemed easier not to have to explain the situation.

      “Here,” I said, thrusting the roses into his arms. “These are for Angela.”

      Mr. Farrone cradled the roses like a baby. He had heavy jowls and a mustache that looked like a misplaced eyebrow. It seemed bizarre to me that such an odd-looking man could have a daughter as beautiful as Angela.

      “Kevin,” he said, “I think you and I need to have a talk.”

      Mr. Farrone sat at the head of the table, stroking his mustache. His voice was calm and professional, as though he were interviewing me for a job.

      “How old are you, Kevin?”

      “Thirteen,” I said.

      “Thirteen.” He nodded solemnly. “You know, Kevin, when I was thirteen I wasn't chasing girls. All I wanted to do was play baseball.”

      He lifted the flowers to his nose, sniffed them, and frowned. When he set them back down, he inadvertently rotated the bouquet, so the envelope with Angela's name was now facing up.

      “Roses are expensive, Kevin. Where do you get your money?”

      “My Dad owns a gas station. He lets me work there.”

      “Tell me, Kevin. What do you want to do with your life?”

      “I'm not sure. I think I'd like to be a park ranger. Either that or a truck driver.”

      “My daughter tells me you're quite the little poet.”

      “Thanks.”

      I was blushing with pride when he reached out and casually detached the envelope from the wrapping paper on the bouquet. He jammed his finger into the flap and began tearing it open, as though it were addressed to him. He stopped halfway through and glanced at me.

      “That was a helluva hickey you gave her the other night.”

      “A hickey?” I said.

      “Don't bullshit me, Kevin. I don't like bull-shitters.”

      I should have been alarmed, but I had this funny feeling that I wasn't really there, that all this was happening to Kevin, not to me. Mr. Farrone unfolded the sheet of loose-leaf paper and spread it flat on the table. He squinted at the words. A vertical fold appeared in his forehead.