Noah’s black Audi hummed softly in my driveway. Rebecca was in the passenger seat. I considered briefly whether this sight was a mirage. Timidly, I approached.
He rolled down his window, flooding my driveway with electronic music. Rebecca leaned over him to greet me, lowering the radio volume. “Ari!”
“Hop in, bud,” Noah said. “They’ll make room.”
In the back sat two boys. The one on the far side was skinny and pale with slicked light brown hair, a thin nose and large, black-rimmed glasses that seemed especially expensive. He wore a crisp Oxford shirt and fitted, pale-gray jeans. “Greetings,” he said, nodding haughtily. “Oliver Bellow.”
The other boy—“Amir Samson, nice to meet you,” he said, actually offering his hand—was fair-skinned with a thick beard, thinning brown hair, coal-like eyes that became black slits when he smiled and thick eyebrows that gave him the permanent impression of a faint frown. I couldn’t tell if he was Latin or Mediterranean: he had large, white teeth, a square-shaped face, high-arching cheekbones and a Romanesque, slightly crooked nose. He and I were the only ones wearing yarmulkes.
“Yo, shove over,” Noah barked. “Make space.”
“Oliver, move to the middle,” Amir said. “You’re smallest.”
“Not where it counts, Amir,” Oliver said. “That dishonor falls on your lap, so to speak.”
Rebecca turned in her seat to face me. “I’d say they’re not typically this annoying, but they absolutely are.”
“Maybe I’ll just take the middle,” I said, cringing at this glare of attention.
“How generous of our guest,” Oliver said, as I awkwardly sidled my way between them. “Wait, aren’t we getting Evan?” That name again.
“Nah,” Noah said, “he’s not home yet.”
Rebecca changed the radio station to 99 Jamz. “When’s he coming back?”
“This week, isn’t he?” Amir said. “Thursday or Friday?”
Oliver yawned, putting his legs against the back of Noah’s seat. “Where’s he now?”
Amir played with his beard. “You don’t know where your overlord is?”
“I don’t recall.”
“All that weed affecting your memory?”
“He’s in Spain,” Noah said. “One of those travel programs.”
Oliver gnawed at his cuticles. “People in Spain are supposed to be breathtaking, did you know?”
After too long of a pause I realized I was being addressed. “No, can’t say I did.”
“Knock it off, Oliver,” Rebecca said.
Oliver didn’t look away from me. “Have you been to Spain?”
Amir snorted. “Suddenly Oliver is worldly.”
“Nope, never,” I said.
“Where do you vacation, then? The Maldives, maybe? Sukkot in Israel? Passover in Greece?”
“You’re an ass, Oliver,” Amir said.
“And you’re balding, Amir,” Oliver said.
Amir took out his phone and scrolled mindlessly through Instagram, double tapping a post by some college advising firm. “Rebs, now you see what I mean when I say there’s something wrong with him?”
“I’m pretty sure she saw it a long time ago,” Noah said. “Like, in second grade.”
“What? I’m just trying to become acquainted,” Oliver said. “Anyway, yes. Evan. Spain. He must be on some rampage.”
Rebecca glared through the rearview mirror. “Don’t be a pig.”
“Oh, lighten up. You’re just defending Sophia,” Oliver said. This caught my attention. I looked around uneasily. “For the record, may I note no one’s forbidding Sophia from doing the same. I’m definitely not. Far be it from me to overstep my boundaries.”
“Stop fantasizing,” Rebecca snapped. “It’s repulsive.”
Oliver winked at me. In response I pursed my lips.
“Where was she this summer?” Amir asked, changing the subject. “I haven’t seen her in months.”
“Abroad,” Rebecca said. “But she just got back.”
“Abroad where?”
“Kenya.”
Amir frowned. “Wasn’t she doing, like, interventional cardiology research or something at U Miami? Her dad’s friend has a lab?”
“Yeah, but that was late June,” Rebecca said. “Then she went to Kenya.”
Amir cracked his knuckles absentmindedly, painstakingly. “What’s in Kenya?”
“Volunteering at some institute that teaches music to orphans. Something like that.”
“Orphans and music, huh?” Amir shook his head. “Great, that’ll dance right off the résumé.”
“Here they come, ladies and gents,” Noah announced, “the rat race! Look, against all odds, there’s Amir Samson leading the pack!”
“Fuck off,” Amir said.
“Chill, I’m only kidding,” Noah said, pulling into a driveway. “Anyway, pipe down. We’re here.”
Oliver glanced at the house. “Am I the only one down to punt this and hit Three Amigos?”
“Cut it out,” Rebecca said. “Be well adjusted for once.”
Four cars were parked outside the house, which was average-sized, at least in comparison to the other homes I’d seen, all still decisively larger than anything on my block in Brooklyn. The house was quiet, much to my relief. In fear, I’d envisioned deafening music, pools of vomit, half-naked bodies.
Oliver knocked. He carried a small backpack, adorned with the Miami Heat logo. “Drugs and booze,” he said, returning my stare.
The door opened halfway, revealing a short, freckled girl with fiery red hair that was, sure enough, slashed with streaks of blue. “Hello!” she said, fawning over the sight of my companions at her door. After a moment, her gaze rested confusedly on me. “Do I know you?”
“This is Ari Eden,” Noah said, stepping to my side, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “He’s with us.”
Her blank stare evolved into a smile. She offered her hand. “Lisa Niman. Nice to meet you, Ari.”
“You too.”
“Very touching,” Oliver said. “Inviting us in or what?”
She opened the door wide, stepping out of the way. “Everyone’s out back.”
There were about a dozen people in the backyard. They sat on folding chairs, circling a tiny pool and smoking from a translucent hookah. Oliver surveyed the crowd, mumbled his dislike for the clientele and proceeded to probe his bag for a pre-rolled joint, which he then stored behind his left ear. “You blaze?”
I gave a puzzled look, which he returned.
“Do you smoke marijuana?” he repeated, slower and more enunciated, as if I spoke a foreign language, which I suppose I did.
“Ah, right. No, thanks.”
He handed me his backpack. I could feel a bottle inside. “Then make yourself useful by holding this for me.” He turned to Noah and Amir. “Quick session?”
Amir retreated several feet, anxious to avoid being seen with the joint. “Funny.”
“Yeah, sorry, bud,” Noah said, waving his large hands. “Basketball season.”