Page 108 of What Boys Learn

“Overrated. I can tell you how many girls have ever fought me or run away.” He holds up a hand, fingers splayed. “This many. Out of more than I can count. So what’s the third response?”

“I don’t know.”

“Freeze. That’s the one we want. Lower heart rate, dropping temperature, inability to respond. I don’t understand wannabe necrophiliacs like Weber, personally. The truth is, a terrified girl seems dead already.”

I swallow and look out the window.

He says, “You think a Jag costs a lot, but it’s all about the maintenance. That’s the real expense, when it comes to a car.”

Thank god. A normal conversation.

“I budget two thousand a year.”

“Not bad,” I say. I was thinking he’d say something insane, like ten thousand.

“Oh, ‘not bad.’ You think you can afford two K in regular maintenance?”

“I just meant I thought it would be more.”

We’ve taken an off-ramp onto a smaller highway now. Lots more trees and fields. Still some trucks but not as many. He gets a faraway look, picking out the next car way ahead, a nothing-special red car that looks like the sort of banged-up commuter car my mom might drive, his foot heavy on the gas as he closes the distance. Here we go again.

“When I say maintenance, I don’t mean the year you can afford it. I mean every year, in and out. That’s the problem with anything.”

Ninety. Ninety-five. One hundred.

“You buy something or you start something, and you know you have to do it right or there’s no point doing it at all. But you can’t slip up. Once you’re in, you’re in. It’s a commitment.”

He looks over at me and rolls his eyes because he can tell. I don’t get what he’s talking about.

He steers hard to the right. I was so preoccupied with that red car ahead of us I didn’t see the rest stop sign and the exit until he’s barreling down it. He pulls into the big lot and whips into a parking space, two slots down from the next car.

He kills the engine. “Let’s go see what they’ve got for us.”

Like, besides toilets?

But then I see a girl who’s close to my age or I guess a year younger—fourteen, fifteen—sitting on the grass with a sign that saysSTEVENS POINTover a childish-looking rainbow done in streaky markers. Next to her is a golden retriever puppy with a rope instead of a regular leash. Matt’s staring at her.

Maybe he just means a pop machine.

“You go ahead in,” he says. He didn’t even ask me if I have to pee. “Wait, here’s a couple of dollars.” He pulls two worn ones from his wallet, then puts them back and hands me a black credit card instead. “Just tap it. Whatever you want.” He flashes white teeth. “And get her one, too.”

“Really?”

“When someone offers you something, the correct response is thank you.”

“Right. Thank you, Dr. . . . Matt.” It’s never going to sound right.

“If she asks, tell her I’m your uncle or your cousin. Don’t mention the worddoctor. Ever. It makes girls uptight.”

“I don’t think she’ll ask.”

“Yes, she will,” he says, reaching for a pair of sunglasses and sliding them onto his face. “Especially when you tell her we’re giving her a ride.”

38

ABBY

Robert wasn’t answering my texts. That wasn’t a real surprise, considering how pissed off I’d been with him at Ray’s. Even when I texted in the morning to say I was concerned about Benjamin—that I thought I’d discovered something new and important, the reason Benjamin had been acting up—Robert still didn’t reply.