Leo walked back down the road to the river where there was no moon, just stars above the trees. Water trickled over a rock in a small eddy somewhere ahead of him. He remembered that cartoon sketch he’d seen in the paper of an army sergeant at a shooting range. The sergeant had his cap pulled low over his eyes and was chewing on a half-smoked cigar with his hands on his hips. At his feet was a young soldier aiming a rifle over sandbags at a target, and underneath this were the sergeant’s words: “Make like every target’s a stinking flag burner.”

Leo thought of the covered bridge and Allie pressing herself against him like his penis belonged to them both. He was hard in no time. He unzipped his jeans and let it out, though he wasn’t sure what he was going to do next. He could kneel and splash river water on it, or he could do the other. The air felt warmer down here and somebody must’ve closed the parlor window up the hill because Leo could barely hear the muffled poker talk of the men. It was getting towards the end of playing time, when they were either giddy and reckless about the money left on the table, or else hushed and focused on their last lap, almost respectful. Tonight they were the latter, and Leo took that as a sign for him to go ahead and do what he had to while the night was quiet and he was alone here to pull back and forth with his eyes closed, thinking of his hand being Allie’s instead, of the June air getting ready to receive what Allie would surely not shy from once it came gushing, once it did.

4

Heywood High School’s colors were black and blue, a combination that made its football uniforms seem a Civil War triumphant if the Woodies won, pathetic if they lost, especially if they got really bruised. From the top bleacher of Heywood Memorial Stadium, the band in front of the graduation platform looked like a square of blueberry cobbler. When Leo leaned over and told his date and new girlfriend this, Allie, dressed in her usual white T-shirt and bell-bottoms, rested her hand on his knee and squeezed.

The bleachers were full of families waiting for the big moment. Down in the first bench Mr. Poitras had his box camera positioned on the concrete knee wall in front of him, aiming the lens at the platform where diplomas would be handed out as soon as the last speech finished. On the freshly cut grass in front of the band stood the black-robed graduating class which Gerry Poitras belonged to. Leo wasn’t sure, but he thought his friend was the one standing between two kids who had “’67” taped to the top of their mortar boards.