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greeted us at the door on the night of the party. Boris took the bag from him and handed over the keys to the Cadillac.
    Before the dude got in the car, he admired my bare legs and studied the red mark on my face. He shifted his gaze over to Boris, as if questioning the source of the damage. I sucked in my bottom lip and turned away.
    “Did you bring change of clothes?” Boris asked, admonishing my tennis skirt.
    “I can pull on some sweats. I’ll bring something to change into from now on.”
    Boris carried the groceries inside and then opened up a leather notebook, put on a pair of reading glasses, turned on a sports program on the radio, and pretended he wasn’t babysitting me. I kept a bag of ice next to me on the counter and pressed it against my face intermittently as I chopped up zucchini, onions, potatoes, beets, and carrots in the food processor for the stew.
    While I worked, I Tweeted and returned a few texts. I tried to muffle my giggles, but my friends were cracking me up. Boris set out a plastic bucket on the kitchen floor and instructed me to toss the vegetable butts, skin, and extras in there for the birds. The peacock was out by the basketball court strutting around with his feathers fanned out to impress the peahen.
    “What’s the peacock’s name?” I asked.
    “Igor.”
    “What’s his girlfriend’s name? Is she Russkiy , too?”
    Boris glared at me over his glasses. “Natasha.”
    “Mr. Ivanov loves animals, huh? That’s why he’s a vegetarian?”
    Not a peep from the big guy. Jeez. If I had ignored his question he would have held me upside down by my ankles and shook me until I came up with an answer. Fine. I’ll entertain myself. From where I was chopping, the feed bucket was about six feet away. Instead of scooting it closer, I tossed the leftovers out free-throw style. Yeah, I knew my game was annoying him.
    “That’s three in a row,” he said, not looking up from his book.
    “I’m on a winning streak.”
    He peeked over his reading glasses. “Care to make wager?”
    “Seriously?” I would never back down from a challenge. “What’s the bet?”
    He tapped his pencil on the counter. “If you miss your next shot, you show me your phone. The way you and your friends waste time fascinates me.”
    “Fine. If I miss, which I won’t, I’ll let you see my phone for ten seconds.”
    He scoffed.
    I put down the knife. “Okay thirty seconds. What do I get if I make it?” I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter.
    He scratched his bristly salt and pepper beard. “What do you want?”
    Honestly, I didn’t want anything from him, but since I was confident I would make the shot, I came up with a brilliant idea. “Truth or Dare.” I put my hand on my hip and cocked my head, proud I’d outsmarted him.
    He studied my pre-victory confidence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “If I win you have to pick truth or dare. So, if you say ‘truth’ then I get to ask you a question, and you have to answer it truthfully. You can’t lie.” I pointed a stern finger at him. “If you choose ‘dare’ you have to do whatever I say.”
    “What’re you going to make me do?”
    “Well, I can’t tell you, but as an example, the last time one of my cocky friends chose dare, I made him chug an entire bottle of hot salsa. Once you’re in, there’s no backing out.”
    He tapped his fingers on the bar.
    “Take it or leave it, tough guy.” I held out my hand.
    “I’ll take it, of course.” He shook—crushed—my hand and nodded for me to go for it.
    I chunked off a piece of zucchini, lifted it over my head, and tossed it easily into the bucket. “Woo-hoo!” I did a victory dance. “Truth or dare, sucka?”
    He removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. “Double or nothing?”
    “No way, really?”
    “What can I say? I don’t know when to quit.”
    I felt kind of sorry for him. He was always listening to games on the radio and scribbling down notes or stats or something in