waiting.

A slate grey SUV pulls up to 513 Francis Court. A beagle named Gary hears it first. He jumps onto the faded grapefruit colored couch, his front paws overhanging the back of the sofa as his nose smooshes against the front room window.

The SUV, an Audi Q7, honks its horn. Its driver continues to sit behind the wheel waiting for the pending passenger.

Caroline Robertson is 15 years old. She's going on her first date, her first "hang out" with Graham Treehouse. She's in her bedroom, and she just changed out of and into another top for the fourth time. She hears the car horn.

"Shitshitshit."

She throws on a lilac tank-top over her cream colored bandeau bra. It will have to do. Truth be told, all of her shirts look good on her. She's 5'5, has sun-washed brown blonde hair and an athletic butt. For 15, she's the whole package: girl next door meets teenage, scratch that, all male fantasy.

Caroline grabs her bag, a Marc Jacobs satchel she purchased last month after saving for what seemed like forever, and throws mascara, her wallet and some Neutrogena Rose tinted lip balm inside.

The SUV honks again, and Graham rolls down the window. The Ralph Lauren Polo Black cologne he snagged from his older brother Daniel permeates the air as it escapes the car. He looks nice in the clothes his mother had gotten him at the beginning of the school year: a white button up collared shirt, seersucker blue and white striped shorts, dark brown Sperry's and the braided rope bracelet he had gotten on vacation in Florida when he visited his Grandma Sue last year.

Gary the beagle is still looking at the car from his front room post. His collar tinkles as he releases his nose from the glass, turning his head upon hearing Caroline rush down the stairs and past him.

"Bye buddy," she says, opening then closing the door behind her.

Her mother is in the kitchen talking on the phone, sitting on a floral cushion atop her desk chair facing her built-in desk. It's covered in school papers, bills, junk mail and a hand-painted coffee mug from that morning. Caroline painted it for her at one of those paint parties girls have for their birthdays. Flowers that look like they're from a 1970s pattern and the word Love cover the cup. Mrs. Robertson twirls the phone cord in her hand, hears Caroline open the door, bid adieu to the dog and the door latching shut.

"Hold on," Mrs. Robertson, Diane actually, says to her friend Ginny. Ginny muffles, "Ok," into the receiver.

Diane gets up, puts the phone to the right of its holder, and walks briskly to the door past Gary. She opens it, a thick white painted oak with a brass handle from Restoration Hardware.

"Caroline," she says to the driveway.

The SUV is at the end of block by now. Graham is looking at Caroline from his peripheral vision. Caroline is smiling, her head is turned slightly facing the right window. It's rolled down. Graham's scent is everywhere, and she likes it. Her left hand is placed precariously on the edge of her seat just in case he wants to hold it. He might, but not yet.

Gary is in the doorway, which Diane left open. Diane has begun picking the small weeds between the bricks of her driveway. She forgot about Ginny on the phone. Ginny hangs up her end of the call.

And they all wait for one another.