“Nothing.” I hand him the magazine, cover side up. “I was just wondering if other states have magazines like this. You know, like Georgia Peaches and Hawaii Coconuts or whatever.”

“Oh my God,” Tank says, grabbing the magazine and laughing all the way to Big Dale’s bedroom. “Or Florida Oranges,” he yells from the hallway.

“There you go,” I say.

When I hear him open the door, I take out my cell, punch in 729-8274, and save it as an unknown contact.

Chapter_6

6

It’s dark when we leave Tank’s, close to ten o’clock. I have to be home at midnight, giving us two hours to party. Walking along the sidewalk, we’re nearing the end of the street when Tank says, “How about the school field?”

“Works for me.”

Tank says, “God, I wish we had our own cars like all the pretty boys over in the Heights.”

“We could always walk over there and steal one for the night.”

Tank stops, gives me a look. “Zach, don’t tempt me like that. Seriously.”

We cut through an asphalt path that opens onto a large field behind our old elementary school. Decaying bungalows line the other three sides of the field. Sometimes people party out here on weekends, and tonight is no exception. As soon as we step onto the grass, I hear my brother’s unmistakable laugh off to my right.

He and three friends, two of them girls, are no more than ten feet away, standing close to the chain-link fence that separates the homes from the school property. Tall privacy hedges run along the other side of the fence, making it impossible for any homeowners to see Justin and his crew through their back windows.

It’s dark, but I notice four tiny orange cigarette embers bobbing up and down. I want to turn around, but it’s too late.

“Hey, Zach,” Justin calls. “Come here, man.”

The girls laugh. So does the other guy. I don’t recognize the girls’ voices, but I know the guy’s. It’s Victor Hodge, an all-state baseball player who throws a one-hundred-mile-per-hour fastball. He’s currently attending the University of Michigan on a full-ride athletic scholarship. He’s one of the lucky ones. His BEP is fully funded, the ultimate Captain Rick. I’m not surprised to see him smoking. It seems like everybody in Blaine smokes.

Tank and I walk over.

“Hey, Justin,” I say, finding it strange to see him here. Until recently, my brother worked full-time as a stock boy for Huey, a job that allowed him to save enough money to buy a decent used car. Personally, an elementary school field is the last place I’d be if I had my own car.