Chapter Fifty-Three
Declan
“Can you believe that we have to be slaves?” Kent asked me the moment we met during our freshman year.
He was of course referring to the tradition for first year students at the annual Roman festival hosted by the Latin class.
“I’m Kent,” he followed up, extending his hand to shake mine.
We were the best of friends from that point on.
A month after scoring my set of wheels, I picked Kent up on a Friday evening to head out for some fun.
Dinner was a couple of double bacon cowboy burgers and a chat about our current crushes, Jennifer Valencia and Courtney Gendron.
Both Kent and I were sixteen. Neither of us had a clue about women, love, or even being romantic, and it showed.
All we could do was giggle and laugh as we chowed down our greasy meals, joking.
“Oh, the things I’d like to do to her,” I said without any reference.
“I bet she’s great at giving head,” Kent replied in jest—our immaturity on display for all in the eatery.
After stuffing our faces, Kent and I headed to the local fun park for two rounds of miniature golf.
Throughout our years as friends, whenever things got rough and we needed one another, our serious conversations always began during a game of mini golf.
We made our way through the course with ease until we reached the most frustrating hole—a flat patch of fake, felt grass dominated by a giant, volcano-like mound in the middle.
To win the round, I had to tap the ball up the side of that hilly structure and into an ice-cream-cone-sized hole sitting in its center.
The trick was to hit the ball just hard enough to get it over the lip without sending it rolling out the other side, where it would wander off by about ten feet, forcing me to try again.
The truly nerve-wracking feature of our favorite hole was its proximity to the freeway.
If the hill proved more than we could handle, one of us might smack the ball with all our might, turning that pesky hill into a ramp and launching the ball right into the middle of unsuspecting high-speed traffic.
Thankfully, that night Kent and I managed to sink our balls after only a few attempts.
After our less-than-tedious match, Kent and I made our way to the movie theater—a thirty-screen multiplex attached to the mall down the street.
It didn’t take much to entertain us teenage boys.
A less-than-stellar monster thrashing through New York City did the trick.
After the credits rolled and the pathetic mocking died down, I drove Kent home.
Outside his parents’ house, we shared a few more laughs, including another jab at him for not having his own car.
“You know what?” Kent said, his face as serious as any teenager’s could be. “I hope your car blows up on the way home.” With his feelings apparently hurt, he stormed off, slamming my door behind him. Thinking nothing of it, I chuckled and slipped the shifter into drive.
I retraced my route back to the freeway, where I merged into the first lane, and headed for home.
Everything had been going great. Kent and I had a lot of fun.
I even won both rounds of mini-golf. However, it was Kent who would have the last laugh.
About half a mile before the off-ramp for Main Street, I heard a loud pop followed by a column of smoke billowing from under the hood of my car.
I quickly pulled off to the breakdown lane and hopped out.
Within seconds, flames were jutting out from the wheel wells. My car was on fire.
With no idea what to do, having not yet purchased my first cell phone, I began walking toward the call box a tenth of a mile away.
Unfortunately, before I could make it, another vehicle, an old Ford truck, cut its wheels toward the curb, sending it barreling straight at me.
A young, oblivious, and seemingly drunk teenager screamed at me with the ferocity of a banshee.
Startled by both the truck and the screaming, I took a step back.
But my foot caught on the tar lip at the edge of the freeway, sending me tumbling down the steep hill upon which the freeway sat.
The trip down through brush, dirt, thorn bushes, and various pieces of littered trash ended when my body rolled forcefully into a chain-linked fence that extended the length of that stretch of freeway.
The scratches, though bleeding, were minor.
At the end of the fence near the off-ramp I had intended to take, I could see the superstore was still open.
My new goal was to walk the half mile to the road and make my way to the payphones outside of the store.
Sadly, when I dusted myself off and took my first steps, a mangy wolf pranced out from a prickly bush between me and my path to safety.
It all worked out. The semi-pupper was nicer than most people, following me to safety before trotting off in the darkness. I got a ride and a tow truck, and without further incident, made it home in one piece.
I called Kent the following day, and arranged to have my mother drive me to his house under the guise of spending a day playing video games. Upon my arrival, I knocked on his parents’ door, and when Kent opened it to greet me, I punched him dead in the nose. Then I left.