They stood next to the fence, linking their fingers through the holes and peering through the chinks to see if they could make out the crater in the earth, marking the resting place of forty people none of them had ever met. But they knew some of their names, some of their stories, and they were awed and silent, each one wrapped in his own thoughts.
“I can't see a damn thing,” Jesse finally admitted after a long silence. He'd had plans with his girlfriend, Marley, and though he was always game for a night with the boys, he was suddenly wishing he'd stayed home this time. He was cold and making out was a whole hell of a lot more fun than staring out into a dark field where a bunch of people had died.
“Shhh!” Grant hissed, nervous about the prospect of capture and interrogation. He'd been certain driving down to Shanksville on a whim was a stupid idea. So he'd lectured and warned but had come along anyway, just like he always did.
“You might not be able to see anything . . . but . . . do you feel that?” Paulie had his eyes closed, his face lifted to the air, as if he was truly hearing something the rest of them couldn't. Paulie was the dreamer, the sensitive one, but nobody argued with him this time. There was something there, something almost sacred shimmered in the quiet–but it wasn't frightening. It was strangely peaceful, even in the cold darkness.
“Anyone need a drink? I need a drink,” Beans whispered after another long stretch of silence. He fished in his jacket and pulled out a flask, jubilantly raising it in memorial. “Don't mind if I do.”
“I thought you weren't drinking anymore!” Grant frowned.
“Season's over, man, and I am officially drinking again,” Beans declared cheerfully, taking a long pull and wiping his grin with the back of his hand. He offered it to Jesse, and Jesse gladly took a swig, shuddering as the fiery liquid burned a path to his stomach.
The only one who didn't seem to have anything to say was Ambrose. But that wasn't abnormal. Ambrose spoke up rarely, and when he did, most people listened. In fact, he was the reason they were there, in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday night. Since the army recruiter had come to the school, Ambrose hadn’t been able to think of anything else. The five of them had sat on the back row of the auditorium, snickering, making jokes about boot camp being a walk in the park compared to Coach Sheen's wrestling practices. Except Ambrose. He hadn’t snickered or made jokes. He had listened quietly, his dark eyes fixed on the recruiter, his posture tense, his hands clasped in his lap.
They were all seniors, and they would all be graduating in a couple of months. Wrestling season had ended two weeks ago, and they were already restless--maybe more than they had ever been--because there would be no more seasons, nothing to train for, no more matches to dream about, no victories to enjoy. They were done. Done . . . except Ambrose who had been highly recruited by several schools and who had the academics and the athletic record to go to Penn State on a full-ride. He was the only one who had a way out.
They stood on the precipice of enormous change, and none of them, not even Ambrose–especially not Ambrose–were excited about the prospect. But whether or not they chose to take a step into the unknown, the unknown would still come, the yawning precipice would still swallow them whole, and life as they knew it would be over. And they had all become highly aware of the end.
“What are we doing here, Brosey?” Jesse finally said what they'd all been thinking. As a result, four pairs of eyes narrowed in on Ambrose’s face. It was a strong face, a face more prone to introspection than jest. It was a face the girls were drawn to and the guys secretly coveted. Ambrose Young was a guy’s guy, though, and his friends had always felt safest in his presence, as if just by being near him, some of his luster would rub off on them. And it wasn't just his size or good looks or the Samson-like hair that he wore to his shoulders in defiance of the style or the fact that it bothered Coach Sheen. It was the fact that life had fallen into place for Ambrose Young, right from the start, and watching him, you believed it always would. There was something comforting in that.
“I signed up,” Ambrose said, his words clipped and final.
“For what? School? Yeah. We know, Brosey. Don't rub it in.” Grant laughed, but the sound was pained. There had been no scholarships for Grant Nielson, though he'd finished in the top of his class. Grant was a good wrestler, not a great wrestler, and Pennsylvania was known for their wrestlers. You had to be a great wrestler to get a scholarship. And there was no money in some savings account for college. Grant would get there, but he would have to work his way through . . . slowly.
“Nah. Not for school.” Ambrose sighed, and Grant's face twisted in confusion.
“Ho–ly shit.” Beans drew the words out on a long whisper. He may have been on his way to being drunk, but the kid wasn't slow. “That recruiter! I saw you talking to him. You wanna be a soldier?”
There was a shocked intake of breath as Ambrose Young met the stunned gazes of his four best friends. “I haven't even told Elliott. But I'm going. I'm just wondering if any of you want to come with me.”