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“What else you got?”

“I don’t look that bad, do I?”

“You look great. I just want to know what my options are.”

“Oh, I see.” I laughed and unbuttoned my shirt slowly, staring him down. I couldn’t believe that this was my life. That this was what it was like to be in college. That someone this unbelievably hot was in my dorm room helping me pick out an outfit and taking me to meet his parents.

“And see you in that tank top again.” He bit his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows. I threw my shirt at him. He caught it. “You’re a handful, aren’t you?” He was staring at my breasts when he said it, but he wasn’t referring to them. When his eyes met mine, he smiled. Then his eyes got wide and his face turned red. “Trouble,” he mumbled. “I mean, you’re trouble.”

“Ah.” I smiled.

“I’m going to look at your CDs.” His face was still red.

“I’ll put this on.” I grabbed my black cotton cardigan.

I watched him as I buttoned up. He thumbed through my beards-U2, Dar Williams, Pete Yorn, Radiohead, the skinny guy who played at the coffeehouse in Mount Kisco-the CD collection I had carefully crafted to look hip, alternative, and off the beaten path. The Boston tapes my mom made me were tucked away in my underwear drawer.

“How’s this?” I turned around again.

Peter leaned on my desk and crossed his arms. “Looking good.”

“Not too much?”

“Too much?”

“It’s a little tight.”

“In all the right places.”

“I’m going to meet your parents?” I put my hands on my hips and pretended I was scolding him.

“You look great,” Peter said. He flashed his perfect smile and, for a moment, I felt like I was perfect too.

Peter clicked his car open before we got to it. “It’s open,” he said, and climbed in. “It’s my dad’s old one. I can’t wait to get my new one when I graduate.”

The dashboard lights were bright and blue, and even though the car was a hand- me-down, it was newer and nicer than anything my mom had ever driven.

“So what should I call your parents?” I asked.

“Mom and Dad,” Peter said, laughing.

“Seriously.” I shoved his arm.

He looked over at me with his eyes open really wide, smirking. “Van, I’m driving here. We could have an accident.”

“Shut up,” I said, laughing.

“You shut up!” Peter shoved my shoulder gently.

“Peter, you’re driving.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, we could have an accident.” I tried to deadpan it, but I got the giggles.

“Shut. Up.” He was laughing too.

“No, you shut up. What do I call your parents?”

“Do you want me to shut up, or do you want me to tell you?”

“Oh my God!” I was laughing so hard my eyes were tearing. “Just tell me!”

“I’d go with Mr. and Mrs. Clarke. It’s the safe bet. My friend Drew calls my mom Scotty, but he’s known her since before he could talk.”

“Why does he call her Scotty?” I wiped my eyes, and tried to catch my breath.

“That’s her name.”

“Really?”

“Actually, it’s Scottsdale.”

“Scottsdale, like Arizona?”

“Scottsdale, as in Scottsdale Home Materials.” He said it proudly, like I should be impressed.

It didn’t ring any bells. I shook my head.

“Insulation mostly. Not the pink brand, the yellow kind.”

“I don’t know a lot about insulation. It’s not my forte,” I said, smiling.

“Ephram Scottsdale was my great-grandfather. He had two girls, so there wasn’t anyone to carry on the family name.”

“So your grandmother named your mom Scottsdale?”

“Yeah.”

“No offense, but that’s awful.” I’d always thought Savannah was too weighty a name, but Scottsdale was so much worse.

“Yeah. Scotty isn’t bad, though.”

“So she’s the end of it, right? I mean, she’s the last one to carry on the family name.”

“Eh, I think I’m expected to.”

“Scottsdale Clarke, Junior.” I made a face.

“Guess I’d better hope for boys,” he said.

“So they can have the same name as their grandmother?”

“Well, her middle name is June. I wouldn’t keep that.” He talked about having kids with the same level of comfort that he might talk about a movie he planned to see. He seemed so easy with his picture of his future. I couldn’t even think past getting out of the car in his parents’ driveway. At the time, I was in awe of his certainty. Now, I think it had more to do with the fact that he was never allowed to make any choices. Being certain of your future is easy when there’s only one path out in front of you, and it’s well lit and clearly marked.

The Clarkes’ house was smaller than Diane’s, but it was still huge. Diane would have called it a McMansion, and turned her nose up at the newness of it. Diane loved to point out the signs of new money, even though she hadn’t had money before she married Charles. I found it amusing that Diane lived in a respectably old house, while Scotty Clarke lived in a new one. Scottsdale Home Materials had been around since Peter’s great-grandfather. Diane’s marriage to Charles was only a few months older than Janie.

Mr. Clarke opened the door before we even got close enough to ring the bell. He was holding a full martini glass complete with an olive on a blue glass pick. When Diane drank martinis at home, she just used a tumbler and plunked some olives in to hang out together at the bottom of the glass.

“Well, what do we have here,” Mr. Clarke said, giving me the once-over. His eyes rested on my cleavage, and stayed there even as he shook my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Clarke,” I said, trying to make eye contact and failing.

“This is Van, Dad,” Peter said, patting his dad on the shoulder as he walked past him into the house.

“You’re not Peter’s roommate, are you?” Mr. Clarke said, still standing in the doorway, so I was stuck out on the front step.

Peter yelled, “Mom, we’re here!” and walked away from the door. I couldn’t see him anymore.

“No. He’s in my-we’re in a class together.” I shifted my weight, hoping if I looked uncomfortable, he’d invite me into the house, and I could find Peter.

“I was going to say, Peter lucked out on the roommate lottery.” Mr. Clarke took a sip of his martini, and finally looked up at my face. “Well, come on in!” he said like I’d been the one holding things up. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

He turned sideways in the doorway to let me past, his smile growing wider than his mustache.

Peter was standing in the entryway holding two glasses of iced tea with lemon wedges and long spoons. “Come meet Mom,” he said.

“Let me talk to her first,” Mr. Clarke said, rushing past Peter.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Did you say anything political?”

“No.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Peter handed me one of the glasses.

Scotty Clarke walked into the entryway. She was a small woman with very straight, very blond hair, and impossibly skinny hips. When Peter introduced me, she said, “Nice to meet you, Van,” in a soft, flat voice, and offered me her cold, limp hand. Peter smiled at me encouragingly. “I put the hors d’oeuvres in the living room.” She smoothed her apron against her skirt. It was a crisp white half apron, and completely spotless, as if she wore an apron over her apron while she cooked. “I’ll be in shortly.”

The living room had a cathedral ceiling and too many windows with too many window treatments-blinds and curtains and valences on every one. Even though there was a fire in the fireplace, the living room didn’t smell like woodsmoke. Stargazer lilies, perfectly arranged in big vases, sat on the mantel and the table behind the couch. Their cloying, plastic smell crowded the room. I wanted to sit in one of the chairs, away from the flowers, but Peter sat on the couch and put a coaster on the coffee table for me, so I sat down next to him. The flowers made my eyes tear.

Assorted flaky dough puffs in different shapes with different, unidentifiable fillings were arranged on a big white platter on the coffee table. Peter held a napkin under his chin and popped one in his mouth. I did the same. I think it was spinach and cheese, but all I could taste was lilies.

Peter hooked his index finger with mine and gave a tug. When I looked up and smiled at him, his pupils dilated. I read in
Cosmo
once that men’s pupils dilate when they like what they see. I tugged back on his finger.

Mr. Clarke came in with a full martini glass. His footsteps were heavy and loud, even on the rug. Peter unhooked his finger from mine and rested his hand on his leg. I left my hand on the cushion next to me, in case his finger was coming back.

Mr. Clarke sat down in one of the armchairs across from us. “Sure you don’t want a drink, Van? Peter’s driving.”

“Um, no, thanks.” My voice was stuck behind throat scum. I coughed softly to clear it. “Thank you, though.”

“So Petey, when do we get to meet this Dan fellow?”

Dan was Peter’s roommate. They hadn’t been expecting me.

“I’m sure you’ll meet him sooner or later,” Peter said, reaching for another puff.

Mr. Clarke laughed. “Sounds like you’re not eager to force the issue.” He pulled one of the olives off of his pick with his teeth and chewed it loudly. I wondered if he was new money like Diane.

“Dan’s kind of a dick,” Peter said.

Mr. Clarke laughed harder and his whole body shook. I thought a piece of his olive must have gone down the wrong way, because it turned into a laugh-hack combination, and his face went bright red. “That’s my boy. He knows an asshole when he sees one, Van. I tell you, he’s going to be a great litigator.”

Once he settled down and went back to his drink, he said, “So, where’d you come from, Van?” The way he kept saying my name felt like he was either making fun of me or trying to sell me something.

“Van’s from Westchester, Dad,” Peter said, before I could say anything.

Mr. Clarke eased back in his chair and pulled his ankle up to rest on the opposite knee. “Whereabouts?”

“Chappaqua,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows. “I do business in White Plains sometimes. Hell of a drive.” He smiled, and his teeth were big and white under the dark fringe of his mustache.

“Yeah, it’s a long one.”

“I can’t decide if it’s more of a hassle to fly or just suck it up and get in the car. Have you figured it out, Van?”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” I said, relaxing a little. Flying instead of taking a six-hour drive wasn’t in my vocabulary.

Mr. Clarke chuckled. “Yes. Exactly.”

“What did I miss?” Scotty came in, sans apron, holding a glass of white wine. She sat down on the very edge of the other armchair.

“Van was just telling us she’s from Chappaqua.”

“How funny!” Scotty swirled the wine around in her glass. “My cousin lives in Chappaqua. Bronwyn Childs. Do you know her?” Her nose was very thin and very straight, and didn’t move at all when she talked.

“The name sounds familiar.” It didn’t, but for all I knew, she could have been one of Diane’s friends.

“Oh, Bronwyn spends all her time playing tennis. She makes it sound like that’s all anyone in Westchester does.” She laughed, so I did too. “Do you play?”

“A little.” I’d hit balls around the court with Janie when Diane let me go to the club with them, but I didn’t even understand how it was scored.

“Bronwyn plays at the Saw Mill Club.”

“I play at Whippoorwill,” I said, quickly. It spilled out of my mouth so easily, but once I said it, I was so conscious of the implications, and where I fell short. “I did, I mean. When I was home.”

“You’re a long way from home now, aren’t you? It must be hard to leave your family like that.”

“Yes,” I said, softly, “I am.”

“See, Scot,” Mr. Clarke said, “some birds let their chicks out from under their wing.” His martini glass was empty.