Friendswood by Rene Steinke

cigarette lighters maybe, but he didn’t believe Bishop and Trace would actually beat them. There were jokes that they’d fucked the goats first, but he didn’t believe that either.
    Trace grabbed a pill, and a few of the other guys gathered around Bishop, who held his head back as if he wore a heavy crown.
    Cully had a girl with him now in the cab of his truck. In the shadows, Dex could just see that her head looked tiny against the passenger seat, but when Cully opened the door and the light went on, Dex saw her face, mouth open, laughing, sharp, fake-looking eyebrows.
    â€œFucking Cully. What’s he do?” said Lawbourne.
    Dex shrugged.
    â€œHe’s got, like, I don’t know.” Lawbourne shook his head, sipped his beer, and stumbled a little forward.
    â€œMaybe he’s just a good liar.”
    â€œDamn. I’d like to learn if that’s all it is.”
    An invisible thing seemed to crowd in the dark around them, as if despite all the space across this sprawl of asphalt there wasn’t enough room for all of them to be there. They started to talk about girls then, who’d sent which naked picture, because you couldn’t see the girls’ faces, only their racks—they were shouting over one another—and Dex started to walk back to his truck because it didn’t seem like Weeks was going to show up after all.
    Suddenly, guys started making goat sounds and laughing. Trace was following Dex, so drunk or high that he walked in a very slow, jangly way, careful not to spill out of himself.
    â€œGot a bone to pick with you, Dex.”
    â€œWhat’s that, Trace?”
    â€œYou told the coach.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I don’t talk to the coach about you.”
    â€œNo one else would do it.” Bishop came over to them, but he could barely keep his balance. “Do you know how much shit we’re going to get for this? How many miles my buddy’s going to have to run?”
    â€œHey, I heard the story from someone, but I didn’t really believe it. You want to go beat up goats at night, that’s your problem.”
    Cully’s truck streaked out of the parking lot then, the red taillights straggling behind it, the motor gunning.
    Bishop, Trace, and now Brad and a couple of others stood around Dex.
    â€œCome on, man. Dex wouldn’t do that,” said Lawbourne. He called over to the other truck, where some guys stood smoking. “Hey, Hershel! Dex is an honest man, right?”
    â€œDamn straight!” Hershel called back, holding up his beer.
    â€œBullshit,” said Bishop. “I’m not even on the goddamn team, and I wouldn’t care except you’re messing with Trace.” He grabbed Dex’s arm and squeezed it.
    Dex shook him off. “Get the hell away from me. I’m leaving.”
    Lawbourne said, “Bishop, come on. Don’t be an asshole.”
    Dex walked as slowly as he could over to his truck. There was laughter behind him. He couldn’t tell if it was the joke after the tension explodes or if they were laughing at him walking away.
    He got in his truck, shaken, and turned on the radio loud. He pulled out of the parking lot methodically, because he didn’t want to seem in a hurry. He drove for half an hour through the extra-dark streets, stalling before going home, past the mansions on Sunrise Drive, down RiverbackAvenue, where the old trees hung overhead, no one else on the roads. He circled around to the intersection where the gas station was still lit up and turned onto 2351, where he passed an occasional car, and a billboard with a vodka girl, smiling down as if she knew him. He was on his way to Houston and would soon turn around at the San Jacinto exit, so he could go back home. This was the time of night when drunks rammed their cars into telephone poles, when guys ended up thrown out on the side of the road,