In the middle of Des Plaines Illinois three boys find themselves in a tangled knot of angsty lust and amateur love.
Evan Webster has an average American life. When he isn't at swim practice or the movie theater, he's trying to make time to study bi...
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Danny enjoyed working on cars for two reasons: it kept his mind busy, and it got him out of the house. His dad owned an auto shop on the corner of a quiet intersection, so he'd go there from time to time just to fiddle with anything available—even when he didn't have to work. Sometimes he wouldn't go home until sunrise, and other times, he'd fall asleep behind the engine hoist.
Danny preferred thinking with his hands rather than his mind. He couldn't reiterate the Pythagorean theorem, but he sure as hell could sift through a box of aluminum screws and find the only steel bolt. Or change a muffler in only twenty minutes. Or catch a faulty master cylinder with just the knock of his knuckles. His mind made him feel worthless, whereas his hands gave him the worth he craved.
Sheltered under his dad's auto garage, Danny tinkered with a 1974 Monte Carlo. A man with a mustache had dropped it off for new brakes a few days ago, and Danny had been toying with the engine ever since. He stepped back, stretching his back and wiping his hands when he heard a violent exertion from nearby.
A few yards away, in the dim lighting of a street lamp, stood Jackson Dougherty. Well, he wasn't really standing. He was hunched and getting the shit beat out of him.
"Ay dios mío," Danny grumbled to himself, agitated by the brutality.
Danny dropped his rag, stashed a stub of unsmoked green, and started walking to the gas station next door. He saw three older boys with shaved heads and immediately knew Jackson was in real danger.
"Tony," he called out. "Don't you think three-on-one is a little unfair?"
The boy with no hair looked over his shoulder, not letting go of Jackson. The two other scary boys kept guard.
"Danny," he greeted. "Shouldn't you be at home?"
"Shouldn't you be in jail?" Danny countered.
Tony gave him an insidious grin. "Overcrowding," was all he said.
Jackson looked relieved that the heavy punches ceased long enough for him to catch a breath. He looked at Danny with grave eyes, as if begging for help. There was blood oozing out of his fractured nose, covering his shirt with red smears and blobs. He was lucky Tony didn't have a knife.
Danny jerked his chin toward Jackson, choosing his body language carefully. "What'd he do?"
Tony looked between the two high schoolers and asked, "Friend of yours?"
"Lab partner," Danny disclosed, not wanting to sound too allegiant.
"Shit," Tony laughed. "That's cute, man. You still in school?"
"On most days," Danny said.
The tension was so asphyxiating that Danny envisioned his own autopsy report. He wondered what his mother would say when she found out that he was strangled to death by his own fear.
"Shit's a waste of time," Tony drew out his chin like he was pointing a gun. "Let me know when you get sick of it."
Danny nodded his head.
Tony gripped Jackson's hoodie tighter, making him flail like a captured fish. The red-headed swimmer was out of the pool and entirely out of his element.
"We caught Raggedy Ann stealing a pack of cigarettes," he told Danny.
Jackson opened his mouth to speak, but Danny shot him a look that drove into his common sense like a bullet. Jackson's desire to speak up was suddenly obliterated.
"He doesn't live around here," Danny explained, speaking for Jackson. No one in the neighborhood would ever steal from the local gas station, not unless they wanted to get dismembered by Tony Valenti.
Tony scoffed, diverted. "Fuck. My bad, boys. Where are my manners?" Tony turned back to Jackson, shoving him against the brick wall. "I should welcome you to the neighborhood."
Danny's heart stammered, but his nerve remained unfailing. He didn't want to sit next to a broken Jackson tomorrow morning. Nor did he want to sit next to an empty seat—not if he could stop that from happening now.
"I think you've done enough damage, Tony," he said. "Look at his face."
Tony peered at Jackson. "I could do worse."
"And end up in jail again," Danny warned him, handing Tony some money for what Jackson had stolen. "Let him go. I'll talk to him."
Tony narrowed his eyes, but ultimately released his hold on Jackson. Danny understood Tony's spontaneous decision was an invisible contract, warranting a favor for later.
"You're too saintly for these streets, Herrera," Tony muttered, gesturing for the other two shaved heads to follow him.
