“Who’s there?” my dad asked, his startled face shrouded in the ghost light of the moon. “Is that you, Jay?”
I hid behind my mother’s marble head of Aristotle displayed in a glass cloche on a European dresser she inherited from her great grandmother. It sat kitty corner to the stairs and bay window.
My father stepped to the edge of the banister and looked down into the dim foyer. I could hear him breathing, his chest expanding with each inhale.
If he flipped the switch for the chandelier I was a dead goose. I could explain my reason for drifting in three hours past my bedtime. But I didn’t want to rope Grams into my sorry excuses.
Smoking pot with Rocco would be the nail in my coffin if my folks found out where I was after school. My parents loathed Rocco. They thought he was bad news,
