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in the town, a low rumble, a steady, clanking beat of machinery echoing through the river valley. If you grew up in Sparta, the sound of the cement plant was part of your consciousness, it was like your breathing, you ceased, after a while, to even notice it. And if the sound had stopped, it would have been like thecessation of a heartbeat. It would have been as if there was suddenly no more life left in the river valley.
    Then I saw Dean’s red Dodge truck pull in and curve around the elliptical driveway. He stopped in front of the porch, reached over, rolled his window down. Looked from me to Terry with a smile, a question in his eyes, and I made the introductions. “Terry,” I said. “Dean.”
    Terry, serious at all times, in a hurry, stepped toward the car. And then she stopped and met Dean’s eyes.
    Funny, seeing Terry’s coolness disappear. I saw her eyes lock on him, in spite of herself. The curiosity at first, I thought—yes, what was he? And then—something else . . . and I smiled inside myself.
    Dean shot her that quick smile, that flirtatious look you couldn’t resist. I saw Terry catch herself, then she looked away.
    â€œDean,” he said, and he held out his hand.
    It was curiosity, I thought, that always drew them to him.
    As we climbed in the truck, he swept his hand across the floor, and moved aside all the junk, the empty cans of Mountain Dew, the Skittles bags.
    I sat in the seat next to Dean, between him and Terry. Terry, by the window, folded herself practically in half, bending her long thin legs up close to her body so she could fit inside the front of the truck. Terry’s awkwardness was sweet.
    â€œMy dad had to use my car to take my son to the doctor,” Terry said, nervously, though no one had asked, and I had already explained this to Dean.
    Seeing Terry nervous made me happy.
    He drove the truck down the driveway that curved around the home. We passed the hospital, and the beige stucco house on Noland with the big willow tree and the plaque in front of it saying the Queen of Greece had visited there once in 1959 on her American tour. Actually, they said, the queen had really stopped at the house just to go to the bathroom.
    We passed the Fireman’s Home, and the park and the KiwanisOlympic Torch Memorial. In the park, the Christmas Village was set up permanently, the little wooden houses on the green that only a child could enter, a train that went ’round and ’round. My mom and dad both said the town had had the Christmas Village when they were little kids.
    Terry was huddled against the door of the truck, gripping the dashboard so she wouldn’t fall against us. Every now and then, I’d catch her glancing at Dean. Couldn’t help herself, I thought—they never could. It was so funny, I thought, to see Terry unhinged because of Dean.

PART II
A RE Y OU A C OMEDIAN?

C HAPTER 8
TERRY
    Aug. 23. Eddie has gone and we are all alone now in the middle of nowhere xxxx there is this silence xxx nothing, no way to eat my body shocked. When you have seen the worst and you have survived and you realize that you are still alive . . . I called Dad and he came right over and he’s going to help us. . . . I feel like I am getting flu or sick after the crying.
    â€”Excerpt from the diary of Terry Kluge
    As we drove along in Dean’s truck, he sat at the wheel, staring out at the road ahead, slender and slight. I noticed the soft flesh of his neck above the rim of his collar, so vulnerable there, the tender curve of his flesh, made me want to put my tongue on it. I noticed he had high cheekbones, delicate bones. The little smile on his face, like he knew he was cute, and was in charge of the situation.
    I wondered about where Chrissie found him. Something so clean and perfect about the curve of his full lips. His features so fine, different from the other guys around here, like he was an aristocrat or