December Park(131)

Nathan Keener and Eric Falconette stood smoking beside a row of portable outhouses. My heart seized in my chest as Keener looked in my direction. But he hadn’t seen me; he gave the finger to someone walking up the grassy incline toward the outhouses. It was Denny Sallis and Kenneth Ottawa.

“There’s too many people around for them to start something,” Peter said.

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean I want to walk up and shake the f*cker’s hand,” I said. There was another hot dog booth on the corner of Center Street. “Let’s head over there.”

We crossed the street and got in line. Adrian and Peter pooled their money, but they only came up with about three bucks. I took my grandfather’s ten-dollar bill from my pocket and waved it in front of their faces. Peter feigned a grab for it but I yanked it away.

“If you guys buy a soda, I’ll treat you to the dogs,” I said.

“Deal,” Peter said.

I faced the front and was absently counting the people ahead of me when a pleasant voice said, “Hey there, Hemingway. How’s the writing going?”

Rachel had snuck up beside me. She wore a red, white, and blue necklace made from links of construction paper, and she had gotten fireworks done in face paint on her left cheek.

“Hi. Having fun?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. How about you? I would have thought you guys were too cool for this.”

“We are,” Peter said from over my shoulder. “We thought we’d do the city a favor and make a guest appearance.”

“So,” Rachel said, locking eyes with me, “you working on any new masterpieces?”

“I’ve got some ideas,” I said, thinking of the stack of manuscript pages currently on my desk. “How about you?”

She crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, then laughed. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

Her smile softened and I felt that I was staring at her too hard, so I looked toward the front of the line.

“A bunch of us are going to the Shallows tonight to light some fireworks, if you’re interested,” Rachel said.

“Thanks, but, you know, we’ve got some stuff to do,” I said.

“That’s too bad,” she said. “You guys are always doing secret stuff.”

“Don’t you gotta be home by nine anyway, Angie?” Adrian said.

I smiled reproachfully at him.

Adrian’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” he said, his voice a mere peep.

“Listen,” I said, turning back to Rachel. “You probably shouldn’t walk down to the Shallows. I mean, if you go, you should get a ride.” I thought about how she would have to pass by the Werewolf House to get there, and I didn’t like the idea.

“Kim Freeman’s brother is driving us,” Rachel said, then looked at me slyly. “You afraid the Piper’s gonna get me?”

“You just gotta be careful,” I said.

The bored-looking woman behind the counter said, “Next.”

Peter shoved me forward. I ordered three hot dogs, then turned to Rachel to see if she wanted one. But she was already moving through the crowd to rejoin her friends on the bleachers.

“You got a crush now or something?” Peter muttered.

“Get bent.” I peered past him to Adrian. “And thanks for blabbin’ about my curfew, Benedict Arnold.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Smooth move, ex-lax.”

“What’s ex-lax?” Adrian asked.

“You kids want these dogs or what?” barked the woman behind the counter.

I set my money on the countertop, took the three hot dogs from her, and handed one each to Peter and Adrian. When the woman brought me my change, I stuffed it into my pocket, then carried my hot dog to the condiments table. I was pumping copious amounts of mustard onto my hot dog when a shadow fell across me.

I looked up, hoping to find Rachel again. Instead, I found myself staring into the clear gray eyes of a police officer. He was young and vaguely familiar, though I didn’t know his name. I smiled timidly, then moved over to a bin of diced onions.

The police officer held a hot dog under the mustard spigot. He pressed down on it, and the spigot farted bright yellow mustard onto the dog.

“Excuse me,” I said, cradling my hot dog like a football and swerving around the police office to rejoin my friends.

On the bandstand, Sasha Tamblin plugged a guitar into an amp. Some other guys from Stanton picked up their guitars, and someone else climbed behind a small drum kit. I recognized one of the other musicians as Billy Foote, a droopy-eyed kid who used to swallow rocks on the school playground to impress the older kids.

“Let’s get closer,” Peter suggested.

The five of us moved through the crowd and gathered around the bandstand railing.

Sasha saw us and smiled crookedly. He pulled the guitar strap over his head, then walked up to the microphone at the front of the stage. “Happy Fourth of July, everybody,” he said, his voice resonating over the loudspeakers.

Applause erupted from the audience.

Sasha began strumming distorted power chords, and after two bars, the rest of the band jumped in. The song was melodic, powerful, catchy, and wholly unidentifiable. It was his; he had written it.

We cheered him on.





At 8:15, just as the county selectmen migrated toward the wall of black rocks that faced the bay in preparation for the fireworks, I told my friends I had to get home.