“Hell, beer is your family cologne,” Archie said.
“Better than roses,” Hastey said, bending his wrist effeminately. “Your dad still work at the flower store?”
“It’s a nursery, you idiot.”
“Still flowers,” Hastey said.
“Will you both just shut up,” Eric said.
Darren sat up, ready to get home. He could see his breath, and the cold was starting to creep down his neck beneath his fur-lined jean jacket and seep through the soles of his Converse shoes. They called him “the Dozer” because at five eleven and 210 pounds he ran with his shoulder pads low to the ground and hit as many people as he could, shoving them out of the way. “You’re just mad because Cheryl Neal is out with Tommy Moore,” he said to Eric while continuing to strip bark off a tree branch.
“What?” Hastey and Archie said in unison.
“I thought that loser was dating Kimi Kanasket,” Hastey said to Eric.
Eric gave Darren a look that was supposed to be a warning, but at six two and 180 pounds, Eric was no match for Darren, and he knew it. It wasn’t just the difference in size. Darren was the strongest kid on the team, and he proved it every day in the weight room.
“Kimi dumped Moore’s ass, and Moore asked Cheryl out,” Darren said.
“And she went?” Hastey said.
“’Course she went,” Archie said. “That girl’s hornier than a sixteen-point buck. You might even have a chance, Hastey.”
“Why don’t you just broadcast it to the whole fucking school,” Eric said to Darren.
“Why’d she go out with him?” Hastey asked.
“Because she is a whore,” Eric said.
“Yes, but she was your whore,” Archie said.
“That’s it. I’m going to kick your ass.”
Eric slid off the hood and started toward Archie, eyes blazing. Hastey stepped between them, allowing Archie a chance to quickly retreat into the underbrush. Archie was fast, but that was because he was smaller than the rest of them and slight, maybe 150 pounds. Eric would crush him.
“You better run. And good luck getting home, you pussy.”
“Don’t take it out on him,” Darren said, tossing the stripped piece of wood to the ground and looking for another.
“Why’d you bring it up?” Eric said.
“Because you’ve had your panties in a bunch all night about it, and we’ve got a game tomorrow night.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll do what I have to do.”
“Good,” Darren said. “Because I’m not going all the way to Yakima to lose the last game I ever play.”
“Let’s just get out of here and go home,” Eric said, fishing the keys from his jacket pocket. “Grab the lantern.”
“Fine with me,” Darren said, picking up the lantern.
“What?” Hastey whined. “We got three beers left untapped. It’s not even midnight.”
“Leave ’em,” Eric said.
“I cannot do that.” Hastey snapped to attention, his belly falling out the bottom of his shirt and hanging over his pants. He gave a mock salute. “A United States Marine will leave no soldier behind.”
“Leave them,” Eric said. “I don’t want them in my car if we get pulled over.”
“Shit, nobody’s going to do anything to us. We rule this town.” Hastey howled loud and long.
“Just get in the truck,” Eric said.
“Shotgun.” Hastey knocked into Archie, who had emerged from the brush, pushing him nearly to the ground, and grabbed the passenger-door handle. “You ride in the back.”
“Need a crane to lift your fat ass into the bed, anyway,” Archie said.
“You want us to get you a stepladder so you can climb in?” Hastey said.
Darren killed the lantern, plunging them into darkness, and climbed into the open bed of the Bronco. He and Archie sat with their backs to the cab, and Darren could now feel the cold through the seat of his jeans. When he flexed his fingers, they felt thick as sausages, and the joints were tight. He thought it good preparation for the game, which the weathermen were forecasting would be even colder. He hoped it didn’t snow. He hated playing in the snow. Every hit felt like your bones were cracking.
“Got to get me a chew,” Archie said, dipping into a bag from his back pocket and packing his cheek with a wad of chewing tobacco.
“Don’t spit that shit on me,” Darren said.
“And don’t get any on the truck,” Eric said, starting the engine. “My dad will kick my ass.”
The headlights and running lights atop the roll bar lit up the area like powerful searchlights. Eric slammed the car into reverse, backed up quickly, threw it into drive and gunned the engine, whipping the steering wheel hard in the other direction, causing the big back tires to fishtail and spit gravel. It sent Archie flopping over into Darren, who had been smart enough to anticipate Eric’s move and had grabbed hold of the roll bar. Eric did the same thing each time he drove, but Archie never did seem to figure it out. Then again, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.
Hastey let out another rebel yell and cranked the volume on the eight-track player, blasting AC/DC’s “It’s a Long Way to the Top” as the Bronco pitched and bounced, the winch and grille on the front mowing down brush and vines. A moment later the truck blew from the brush onto 141 without Eric ever taking his foot off the gas. He called it “going naked.” So far this season, they’d only had one close call, crossing in front of a semitruck driving in the opposite direction, close enough that Darren heard the truck’s air brakes hiss as it went past.
The wind whipped around the bed of the truck, dropping the temperature another ten degrees or so. Darren kept a grip on the roll bar where it was bolted to the bed and shoved his other hand beneath his armpit. Archie sat beside him, hunched over, knees to his chest, chin and hands tucked. He looked like a turtle trying to retreat inside his shell.
“Slow down,” Darren yelled, though he knew Eric couldn’t hear him over the music and the wind. Not that Eric would have slowed anyway. Eric was a hothead with a massive ego. He didn’t even care about Cheryl Neal. He’d told Darren as much. He was just using her.
But then the truck slowed, and for a moment Darren thought maybe Eric had not only heard him but was actually listening for a change. Just as quickly, however, he thought maybe their luck had finally run out and a cop was ahead. He turned to look. In the truck’s headlights, someone was walking the shoulder of the road, a girl in a coat with her back to them.
Eric turned down the music. “Well, look what we have here,” he said, pulling alongside the girl. Kimi Kanasket. Darren swore under his breath, sensing that this was not good.
Kimi wore a wool coat that extended to her knees; her legs were bare to her shoes.
“Hey, Kimi,” Eric said, elbow out the window.
Kimi turned her head but didn’t otherwise acknowledge them. She kept walking.
“Where’re you heading?”
“Home.”
“You want a ride?”
Darren knew what Eric was doing. If he got the chance, he’d screw Kimi just to screw Cheryl Neal and Tommy Moore. But that wasn’t going to happen. No way Kimi would fall for it, which would only make Eric angry.