He speeds down alleys and side streets and finally loses them by turning into a Food Lion parking lot. We hide beside some shopping carts. When the coast is clear, he drives his bike to the Maserati dealership, where he cuts the ignition.

“What in the world?” I ask. “Why did you do that?”

“I told you, it’s my day off. I don’t feel like dealing with Gina and Tracy and talking to the press about how much I loved eating brisket with my biggest fan.”

I snort. “Why are we here?”

Jesse says, “Okay, in keeping with Ferris Bueller, first we’re gonna do something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“I thought this was my day,” I tease.

“You’ll like this.”

“What about Mr. Logan? We were supposed to call him after lunch.”

Jesse waves a hand. “Pfft.”

I gaze at the Maseratis in the showroom. The few times Dad and I have been in this neighborhood, we slowly drove by the dealership and stared through the windows at the most magnificent cars on the planet. I always said, “Dad, let’s go in and look around!” And he’d reply, “They won’t even let us inside.”

Jesse gives me an evil grin. “Let’s do it.”

“Do what?”

He nods at the window display. “We’re gonna test-drive that red car.”

“Oh, no, no, no.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a GranTurismo!”

“Yeah, and it’s big-time. So we’re gonna drive it.” He takes my elbow in his hand, and the automatic doors swoosh open as he pulls me inside.

The salespeople lift their heads, then go back to their cell phones and paperwork. Then Jesse takes off his cowboy hat, and suddenly their sales team rushes over.

“Mr. Scott,” a man says, sticking out a hand. “We’re honored you’re here.”

Jesse ignores the man’s hand and jerks his head toward the out-of-this-world sports car. “I’m interested in buying a GranTurismo.”

“Of course you are,” the man replies in this hoity-toity voice. “If I can see your driver’s license, I’ll have a test car brought around for you.”

Jesse shakes his head. “Maya’s doing the test-driving.”

When Dad hears about this… He. Will. Die.

The man’s grin melts. “And you are?”

I don’t know what comes over me when I put a hand on my hip and pull out my attitude. “I’m Mr. Scott’s senior adviser.”

“Adviser of what?” the man asks.

“She tells me what I can and can’t buy.” Jesse crosses his arms, pretending to pout at me.

“Sometimes he doesn’t know how to keep his wallet in his pants,” I explain. “And that’s where I come in.”

“You help him keep it in his pants?”

Jesse and I burst out laughing.

“Yes, that’s exactly what she does,” Jesse says.

The man’s face shines redder than the gleaming GranTurismo. “What, may I ask, do you know about cars?”

During my downtime at Caldwell’s, I read all the car magazines, and I pay particular attention to the fancy ones that I will never be able to afford. “The 2016 GT goes from zero to sixty in five seconds, right?”

“Right…”

“Right,” Jesse says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “We’d like to test-drive it.”

The man narrows his eyes but takes my license and steps into an office. The saleswomen lurk about, straightening their blouses while staring at Jesse, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

My fingers caress a silver MC Sport as Jesse says, “You sure showed that jerk. Sometimes it’s so great to stick it to people, you know?”

I shrug.

“What’s wrong?” Jesse asks.

“Do you immediately think the worst of everybody you meet?” I feel bad for asking that, but it seems to be a Jesse Scott trend.

He goes silent for a long moment—so long I start to get nervous that I really offended him and he’s going to abandon me here—but then he speaks. “When I got my first record deal, most of the guys at school teased me. Said I sang like a girl and stuff.”

“They were jealous.”

“Yeah…but it still hurt. And as I got more and more famous, people were around all the time. Girls wanted to date me, use me, screw me, whatever. And don’t even ask about all the people who called asking for money or for help getting a record deal. The same people who had made fun of me.”