junior high was small, too—forty kids in that class. He felt stuck in the middle of nowhere. Until he met the Sloans.
Steve and Stanley were the oldest of eight. Steve was three months older than Tim, and Stanley was ten months younger. The Sloans knew the entire area like the back of their hand (or hands). Their dad was an electrician. Electricity was interesting, and by smiling at Mr. Sloan and paying attention, Tim got himself taken along when the Sloan boys had to work Saturdays, which was fine with everyone at home—Dad thought he was learning something practical, Mom thought he was making new friends, Debbie thought he was not pestering her, Dean thought he was not tormenting him, and who knew what Tina thought; she was always staring at him with her thumb in her mouth, even when it was painted red with iodine.
The Sloan boys were not exactly troublemakers, but that was because the Sloan parents’ definition of trouble was a narrow one. Roaming far and wide, catching a fish or two, stealing strawberries or raspberries, swimming in the creek, swinging on branches back and forth across the creek—none of these activities were considered troublemaking. If there was a surplus of something, you could have some even if it didn’t quite belong to you.
On their bikes, it took Tim, Steve, and Stanley about fifteen minutes to get to the new development, a string of one-acre lots where some contractors were building big houses. The house and the barn were way up a hill behind these lots; Steve said the people in that house sold the land because they were old and running out of money. All the lots fronted on Quantock Road, formerly dirt, now paved. A street went up the hill between the fifth lot and the sixth lot. Thiswas a new street, called “Harkaway Street.” There was a pond up by the old house, and a little creek ran from it down Harkaway Street and into a big pipe, carrying the water past Quantock Road, where it went back into the regular creek bed and down the valley. The pipe was fun to play in. Steve said that if you were in the pipe and there was a sudden flash flood, it would carry you out of the pipe in less than ten seconds, so it would be fun and not dangerous. Stanley said that this had never actually happened.
The other interesting thing about Harkaway Street was that big kids in cars parked there with their girlfriends and made out—sometimes, according to Steve, all night.
It was a Friday, after supper, not even very dark. Tim had eaten and then eased out the back door and found Steve and Stanley, who were on their own because their parents had taken all the other kids to see
Old Yeller.
Steve and Stanley had noticed a Thunderbird up there, facing into the valley, top down, lights off. Tim didn’t know what they were going to do, but Steve and Stanley did. They rode their bikes past Harkaway Road to where the house was almost finished being built on the eighth lot. They left their bikes behind the house, then walked back to the corner of Quantock and Harkaway, went down the bank, and into the pipe. The pipe was dark, but Steve had a flashlight. They followed the pipe almost to the end, and when they got to the iron ladder built into the pipe, Stanley climbed it. He was so far above them that Tim couldn’t see his feet, but Steve then climbed up three rungs. He braced himself against the rungs; way at the top, Tim could see a sliver of light where Stanley had pushed open the manhole cover.
Now there was a flash of a match when Steve lit a cherry bomb, which he passed carefully to Stanley, who tossed it or rolled it under the Thunderbird. Then he let down the manhole cover and he and Steve climbed down the ladder. Tim heard the bang of the cherry bomb going off. Then there was a faint scream, and after a few minutes, the Thunderbird roared away. Steve, Stanley, and Tim could not stop laughing. “We did it at midnight a few weeks ago,” said Steve. “Those guys were really surprised.”
“Why
Steve and Stanley were the oldest of eight. Steve was three months older than Tim, and Stanley was ten months younger. The Sloans knew the entire area like the back of their hand (or hands). Their dad was an electrician. Electricity was interesting, and by smiling at Mr. Sloan and paying attention, Tim got himself taken along when the Sloan boys had to work Saturdays, which was fine with everyone at home—Dad thought he was learning something practical, Mom thought he was making new friends, Debbie thought he was not pestering her, Dean thought he was not tormenting him, and who knew what Tina thought; she was always staring at him with her thumb in her mouth, even when it was painted red with iodine.
The Sloan boys were not exactly troublemakers, but that was because the Sloan parents’ definition of trouble was a narrow one. Roaming far and wide, catching a fish or two, stealing strawberries or raspberries, swimming in the creek, swinging on branches back and forth across the creek—none of these activities were considered troublemaking. If there was a surplus of something, you could have some even if it didn’t quite belong to you.
On their bikes, it took Tim, Steve, and Stanley about fifteen minutes to get to the new development, a string of one-acre lots where some contractors were building big houses. The house and the barn were way up a hill behind these lots; Steve said the people in that house sold the land because they were old and running out of money. All the lots fronted on Quantock Road, formerly dirt, now paved. A street went up the hill between the fifth lot and the sixth lot. Thiswas a new street, called “Harkaway Street.” There was a pond up by the old house, and a little creek ran from it down Harkaway Street and into a big pipe, carrying the water past Quantock Road, where it went back into the regular creek bed and down the valley. The pipe was fun to play in. Steve said that if you were in the pipe and there was a sudden flash flood, it would carry you out of the pipe in less than ten seconds, so it would be fun and not dangerous. Stanley said that this had never actually happened.
The other interesting thing about Harkaway Street was that big kids in cars parked there with their girlfriends and made out—sometimes, according to Steve, all night.
It was a Friday, after supper, not even very dark. Tim had eaten and then eased out the back door and found Steve and Stanley, who were on their own because their parents had taken all the other kids to see
Old Yeller.
Steve and Stanley had noticed a Thunderbird up there, facing into the valley, top down, lights off. Tim didn’t know what they were going to do, but Steve and Stanley did. They rode their bikes past Harkaway Road to where the house was almost finished being built on the eighth lot. They left their bikes behind the house, then walked back to the corner of Quantock and Harkaway, went down the bank, and into the pipe. The pipe was dark, but Steve had a flashlight. They followed the pipe almost to the end, and when they got to the iron ladder built into the pipe, Stanley climbed it. He was so far above them that Tim couldn’t see his feet, but Steve then climbed up three rungs. He braced himself against the rungs; way at the top, Tim could see a sliver of light where Stanley had pushed open the manhole cover.
Now there was a flash of a match when Steve lit a cherry bomb, which he passed carefully to Stanley, who tossed it or rolled it under the Thunderbird. Then he let down the manhole cover and he and Steve climbed down the ladder. Tim heard the bang of the cherry bomb going off. Then there was a faint scream, and after a few minutes, the Thunderbird roared away. Steve, Stanley, and Tim could not stop laughing. “We did it at midnight a few weeks ago,” said Steve. “Those guys were really surprised.”
“Why
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