BadApple: sweet of u 2 offer but I meant r u at the railyard now?
BaronNotTrump: Why would we b there?
I’m already shoving my feet into my combat boots, though. I know I’m right. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.
I mean, yes, they could be anywhere. They could be at home and just don’t want me there.
They could also be painting the Walton girls’ toenails,I think, rolling my eyes at myself.
I know they’re not any of those places. They’re out causing trouble, and that’s a place people go for that reason.
DukeofBeavertown: if that’s where u go to give bjs, we’ll be there.
BadApple: b there in 5. BJ not guaranteed.
Royal: no
BadApple: c u soon
Royal: Go 2 bed, cherry pie.
I hop on my bike and ride toward the tracks. I know I’m being stupid, that they might not even be there, and if they are, they could rape me or kill me or whatever they want to do to me. Royal obviously doesn’t want me there.
But I’m so close. I can feel it. And some weird, feverish obsession has taken me over. I’ve fallen under their spell, and I have to know more. I have to get in, and tonight is my chance. Even if they never acknowledge me at school, if we’re never friends, I could be their dark side companion. The one who shows up to do whatever mischief they’re into and then never acknowledges them in daylight. I’d be fine with that as long as I was in, as long as I was a part of something after midnight on a Friday night.
A bit reminiscent of Royal’s offer to be each other’s dirty little secret…
I don’t know how this is different. Maybe it’s not, under the surface. This might be smashing windows instead of sex, but the real thing is beneath either of those actions. Those are just things to do. What’s below the surface is what draws me to them, what has my quads burning as I pedal toward the tracks as fast as I can, my heart racing, butterflies in my belly at the thought of missing them. Or seeing them.
Both options make my stomach drop like when I was a kid and I’d jump off the swing just as it reached the highest point of its arc, and for a second, I could fly.
What pulls me to the railyard at midnight, past the gangland neighborhoods and the pawnshops with bars on the windows, isn’t the thought of a hookup. It’s a human connection. It’s the chance to shine a light into the darkness I’ve seen inside those boys, to see my own darkness reflected back at me and know they accept it. To be with people who are like me in some deep, fundamental, fucked up way I can’t explain. It’s an admission we’re already bound together by glimpsing that truth in each other, even if they’re not ready to admit it.
I’m ready.
I skid to a stop in the lot right where Mr. Behr liked to park, dropping my bike beside a sleek, black Tesla with the handles inset in the door. I don’t even care what they drive anymore, that they’re rich and I’m poor, that they’re kings and I’m the scourge of the earth. If I could be part of it, I wouldn’t care. Part of their tight little circle, their brotherhood, their commitment to each other that runs deeper than blood, down to the bone.
I hear a prolonged hiss and turn, my eyes falling on some empty spray paint cans. They’re painting. Even fucking better.
Concealing my excitement, I stroll over like it’s no big deal. The familiar fumes of spray paint greet me, and my pulse quickens. I’m rusty, but damn, I’ve missed this particular type of mischief.
Baron watches me come, a can of paint in one hand and a beer in the other, his lollypop tucked in his cheek. Duke is shaking a can of paint and swaying against a rusty old barrel, laughing his ass off at something Royal must have said. His laughter curls around me, making goosebumps of loneliness rise on my arms at the same time it nestles into a warm place in my chest, a fuzzy little nest that’s been empty for so long I can’t remember when it was filled. Royal’s turned around, painting a giant arc with white.
When I see what they’re doing, my excitement dampens. They’re not making art. They’re making crude symbols. Disappointment sinks into me, but I push it away. I’m still here. Does it really matter if they’re making art or just vandalizing the cars? Some people do graffiti to create, and some to destroy. Both are valid.
“What’s up?” I ask, tucking a hand into the back pocket of my cut-offs.
“Thought I told you to stay home,” Royal says, not turning to look at me.
Duke turns, though. A big, sloppy grin forms on his face as he tries to focus on me. “Hey, it’s the blowjob queen,” he says.
“What do you want?” Baron asks. It’s not a demand, in the belligerent tone Royal would have used. It’s like he really wants to know.
“She wants our dicks in her mouth,” Duke says, picking up a beer from the top of the barrel, which they’ve overturned to use as a table to hold their beer and spray paint. “All three of them at once.”
“Shut up, Duke,” Royal says. He still hasn’t turned from where he’s drawing a giant penis across the car.
“I don’t think they’d all fit in that little mouth,” Baron says, watching me with hooded eyes, a bored expression on his face even as his gaze stays sharp. “I’ll take her ass. I like anal better, anyway.”