winning and legitimate that it transformed his face into something exceptional.
“I’m going to like you,” he said, finally, to Fawn. “I can tell already.”
At Tom’s invitation, Fawn and I followed the small group farther into the park. It was close to one o’clock in the morning, and the place seemed to be crawling with teenagers. In a rectangular parking lot, kids sat in clumps of four and five, in or around their cars. There was the odd cherished Camaro or Trans Am gleaming under fluorescent lights, but most were dumpy sedans obviously borrowed from parents, complete with beaded seat covers and Snoopy air fresheners.
Beyond the parking lot I recognized the large hill where I’d watched Fourth of July fireworks with Fawn and Raymond two weeks before. That night, the hill had seemed tame and suburban, quilted as it was with blankets, bodies, and folding chairs. Little kids rolled down the hill log-style, shrieking, and then climbed back up, grass-stained, to do it again. Parents smoked cigarettes and swatted at gnat-clouds that swirled and shifted against a cantaloupe-colored sky. Now, it seemed to me that the hill had only been posing. What it really was, was a barrier, a veil for the inner park’s true nighttime life, for the couples that writhed at increments along the hill’s base, and the fire pits tucked in among the sandy, pine-needled paths where kids drank Old Style beer and peach schnapps and syrupy Southern Comfort. The pits were treated as garbage cans or giant ashtrays, crushed beer cans inside, pot and cigarette smoke spiraling above. But in one, someone had gotten brave and built a real fire, which glowered and licked around an empty but stoppered Boone’s Farm bottle.
“That’s going to explode,” said Fawn as we approached the fire.
“Right on ,” said the apparent fire starter, nodding not at Fawn but over her head, at Tom. “What’s happening, guy?” he said.
“Not much,” Tom answered, stepping around the pit to stand near him. Clearly, they knew each other. The kid was taller than Tom and average-looking, maybe seventeen, black. He wore a Ziggy Stardust concert T-shirt and a cap crocheted out of bright yellow yarn and slit, flattened Coors cans.
“Get a load of the hat ,” Fawn said in a whisper meant for me. Claudia heard it too and snickered lightly, though she didn’t look up. She had a chunk of her long hair pulled over her shoulder and was peering, cross-eyed, at her split ends.
I thought it was strange how Claudia and Collin both hung out with Tom, without being particularly acknowledged or accepted by him. What did they get out of it? Would Claudia really rather spend time with her obnoxious older brother than be out with her own friends? Collin was kind of a dork, so that made more sense, but Claudia was pretty, and in the agreed-upon way. She wore her long blond hair in a ponytail tied with a rainbow ribbon. Her face was square, with a high forehead that made her look open and unworried; her eyebrows were so pale they were almost invisible. The most striking thing about Claudia, however, was her roller skates. They were the expensive-looking professional kind with white uppers and a well-seasoned toe stop. She’d had them on the whole night, toeing through wood chips and patches of grass between sidewalks. On the way up the hill, she’d walked sideways, clunkingly, as I had seen skiers do on TV. On the way down, she was a white blur, yelping with pleasure. When we caught up with her at the bottom, she’d said, “Man alive, I’m going to ruin my ball bearings that way.”
“Collin’ll loan you his ball bearings,” Tom had said, guffawing. “It’s not like he’s using them.”
Collin glowered but said nothing. Now he circled our group just out of the firelight, like a tame raccoon sniffing scraps.The rest of us watched the flames twitch and veer around the empty bottle, waiting for the bang that wasn’t happening, not yet anyway. After a long minute,
“I’m going to like you,” he said, finally, to Fawn. “I can tell already.”
At Tom’s invitation, Fawn and I followed the small group farther into the park. It was close to one o’clock in the morning, and the place seemed to be crawling with teenagers. In a rectangular parking lot, kids sat in clumps of four and five, in or around their cars. There was the odd cherished Camaro or Trans Am gleaming under fluorescent lights, but most were dumpy sedans obviously borrowed from parents, complete with beaded seat covers and Snoopy air fresheners.
Beyond the parking lot I recognized the large hill where I’d watched Fourth of July fireworks with Fawn and Raymond two weeks before. That night, the hill had seemed tame and suburban, quilted as it was with blankets, bodies, and folding chairs. Little kids rolled down the hill log-style, shrieking, and then climbed back up, grass-stained, to do it again. Parents smoked cigarettes and swatted at gnat-clouds that swirled and shifted against a cantaloupe-colored sky. Now, it seemed to me that the hill had only been posing. What it really was, was a barrier, a veil for the inner park’s true nighttime life, for the couples that writhed at increments along the hill’s base, and the fire pits tucked in among the sandy, pine-needled paths where kids drank Old Style beer and peach schnapps and syrupy Southern Comfort. The pits were treated as garbage cans or giant ashtrays, crushed beer cans inside, pot and cigarette smoke spiraling above. But in one, someone had gotten brave and built a real fire, which glowered and licked around an empty but stoppered Boone’s Farm bottle.
“That’s going to explode,” said Fawn as we approached the fire.
“Right on ,” said the apparent fire starter, nodding not at Fawn but over her head, at Tom. “What’s happening, guy?” he said.
“Not much,” Tom answered, stepping around the pit to stand near him. Clearly, they knew each other. The kid was taller than Tom and average-looking, maybe seventeen, black. He wore a Ziggy Stardust concert T-shirt and a cap crocheted out of bright yellow yarn and slit, flattened Coors cans.
“Get a load of the hat ,” Fawn said in a whisper meant for me. Claudia heard it too and snickered lightly, though she didn’t look up. She had a chunk of her long hair pulled over her shoulder and was peering, cross-eyed, at her split ends.
I thought it was strange how Claudia and Collin both hung out with Tom, without being particularly acknowledged or accepted by him. What did they get out of it? Would Claudia really rather spend time with her obnoxious older brother than be out with her own friends? Collin was kind of a dork, so that made more sense, but Claudia was pretty, and in the agreed-upon way. She wore her long blond hair in a ponytail tied with a rainbow ribbon. Her face was square, with a high forehead that made her look open and unworried; her eyebrows were so pale they were almost invisible. The most striking thing about Claudia, however, was her roller skates. They were the expensive-looking professional kind with white uppers and a well-seasoned toe stop. She’d had them on the whole night, toeing through wood chips and patches of grass between sidewalks. On the way up the hill, she’d walked sideways, clunkingly, as I had seen skiers do on TV. On the way down, she was a white blur, yelping with pleasure. When we caught up with her at the bottom, she’d said, “Man alive, I’m going to ruin my ball bearings that way.”
“Collin’ll loan you his ball bearings,” Tom had said, guffawing. “It’s not like he’s using them.”
Collin glowered but said nothing. Now he circled our group just out of the firelight, like a tame raccoon sniffing scraps.The rest of us watched the flames twitch and veer around the empty bottle, waiting for the bang that wasn’t happening, not yet anyway. After a long minute,
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