Chapter 3

While he waitedfor Danny's fun fact, Joel copied the way he held his cigarette, fingers tight together and curled back toward himself, not splayed out like the slats of a handheld fan. Danny seemed like a good model for regular-guy behavior. Maybe he could teach Joel how to pass for straight, how to hide heart attacks like the one he'd just had when their hands had touched.

Prince was not helping one bit. It figured that the album Danny had grabbed out of the bag like a lottery ball was really fucking sexy.

"Ever heard of Rocky Mountain oysters?" Danny asked.

It sounded like a trick question. "No." Joel stretched the word into two syllables. "Why?"

"It's a specialty of my hometown. We even have a Mountain Oyster festival every year."

"But what are they?"

"Guess," Danny said.

"Gimme a hint."

"In Spanish they're called huevos de toro." He rolled the r a tiny bit, enough to draw attention to his tongue.

Three years of French meant no room for Spanish lessons, but the local diner served huevos rancheros, and of course toro was…

"Bull eggs? I don't get it."

"You will." Danny put an arm behind his head and looked at the sky, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Just think about it."

What part of a bull's body resembled an?—

"Oh my God. You're shitting me."

Danny did a three-fingered Boy Scout salute. "I shit you not."

"And you have festivals for this?"

"We call them Testicle Festivals, or Testy Festys for short." He gave Joel a devastating smirk. "See, you don't know everything."

"I wish I didn't know this." Joel sat up and pulled his knees to his chest. "How do you—I mean, how do they, like, fit in your mouth?" He lowered his voice at the end of the sentence.

"They chop them in half first."

Joel winced. "Still."

"And they shrink when they're fried up." Danny demonstrated with a cupped palm. "I could probably hold three or four in one hand."

The image of Danny holding his, um, oysters made Joel cross his ankles and pull his knees in tighter. "What do they taste like?"

"You ever have venison?"

"No."

"Good, 'cause they taste nothing like venison. It's just a thing we say so tourists will try them." He squinted at the sky as he took another drag. "The taste is hard to describe. When you chew them they feel kind of rubbery, but not in a bad way."

"Oh, like calamari."

"What the hell's that?"

"Squid. One time when we went to Little Italy with some family friends, one of them got calamari and let me taste it." Joel waved away their collective cloud of smoke, which hung like smog in the heavy air. "It's not kosher, but my parents aren't strict. They say I can try anything in the name of science."

"So you've eaten squid, but you're grossed out by calf balls?"

"Yes." Maybe he could outdo Danny. "You know what else people eat?"

"What?"

Joel said nothing, just swept his gaze over the treetops without moving his head.

Danny looked up, then his jaw dropped. "No."

"Supposed to be delicious when they've just crawled out of their nymph shells. While they're still soft and juicy." He flared his eyebrows at Danny on the last word.

"Gag."

"But my dog loves the hard ones, too. Last week she ate so many cicadas, she threw up. Then she ate her own barf."

"Stop," Danny said through his laughter, which was delightfully high-pitched compared to his speaking voice.

"Then she threw that up, too. Third time was a charm, though."

"Oh my God."

"The worst part was?—"

"Don't."

"—the way they kept buzzing while she chewed them. Like Godzilla eating an accordion. I'll never forget that."

Danny wheezed out another laugh. "You want unforgettable noises, try working on a ranch on castration day."

Joel put his face in his free hand in an exaggerated grimace. "And with that…" He stamped out his cigarette butt in the ashtray. "It is officially time to change the subject."

"Good idea." Danny examined what remained of his cigarette. "So your mom's a doctor. Does she want you to be one too?"

"She'd love that. But you know how you said going into other people's houses is gross? The thought of dealing with other people's bodies makes me think too much about my own body."

Danny knitted his brows and gave him a once-over. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing medical." Joel wiped the sweat from his neck with his shirt collar. Every time Danny looked at him, the sun felt ten times hotter. "See, reading about sick people makes me feel like our lives are so short. But when I study insects, I'm constantly smacked in the face by how short their lives are compared to ours—even cicadas. And I feel lucky."

"Better not ever study turtles, then. They live the longest, right?"

"Tortoises, yeah, as far as animals. But the oldest living thing is a bristlecone pine tree in California named Methuselah. It's, like, five thousand years old. Imagine the things it's seen."

"But it hasn't seen anything," Danny said. "It doesn't know what thousands of years means. Even those two-hundred-year-old turtles don't walk around like, ‘Wow, remember when Lincoln got assassinated?'"

Joel laughed. "Telling hundred-year-old turtles, ‘Back in my day, we didn't have these newfangled steam engines. We got run over by horses, and we liked it!'"

Danny started coughing on his smoke. This time, Joel waited until he was done instead of making him laugh harder. Then he asked, "What about you? Your folks have big dreams for your future?"

"They haven't said." Danny's voice was hoarse. "They want me to get a football scholarship, but I don't think they expect me to be the next John Elway or anything." He cleared his throat hard. "If I finish college, I'll be the first one in my family, so that'd make them happy, I guess."

"What about after college? Like, what do people do where you're from?"

Danny crushed out his cigarette. "They move away."

Yikes. Danny's hometown sounded straight out of a John Cougar Mellencamp song, a place betrayed by time and abandoned by hope. "That's depressing."

"Not really." Danny examined a ladybird beetle that had just landed on his wrist. "There aren't enough jobs for the town to get bigger, so unless your family has a business or a farm, you're pretty much expected to leave."

"If I moved far away, my mom would drop dead, then haunt me the rest of my life."

"Nah, she'd live."

"She'd better, because I want to go to University of Arizona. They've got the best entomology program in the country—except for Cornell, and I don't have the grades to get in there." He did actually have the grades for Cornell, but it would've been bragging to say so. "Why are there no jobs in your town?"

Danny gave a soft laugh. "If you could see where I live, you'd get it. The land, it's not like here." He tapped the stem of a golden ragwort flower beside him. "Doesn't give up anything without a fight."

They smoked another pair of cigarettes while listening to Prince's sultry, funked-up beats, at first sitting up but then lying down after a wayward cicada flew into the back of Danny's head.

Joel lay with one forearm shading his eyes from the sun. Even with three weeks of school left, everything about this moment felt like summer. And for the first time in years, summer felt like possibility.

With his other hand he fidgeted with the lid of the cigarette box, opening and closing it with his thumb. Time to reveal what else was in there? Danny didn't seem like the type to narc him out to their parents, but better safe than sorry.

"Have you heard the soundtrack to Beverly Hills Cop 2?" Danny asked. "It just came out last week with the movie."

"I've heard that Jets song on the radio. Haven't seen the movie yet."

"It's great, maybe even better than the first one." Danny shifted his feet, his sneakers shushing against the dry grass. "If you wanna see it, maybe we could…I mean, if you wanna hang out after today, I wouldn't mind seeing it again."

Joel kept his voice steady even as his insides were doing cartwheels. "Yeah, sure."

"I don't know anyone else around here, so…"

"You're stuck with me."

"No, I?—"

"I'm a last-resort kinda guy."

"That's not it. I mean, even if I knew other people here?—"

"Shut up, Danny. I know what you mean."

"Okay," Danny said with a big exhale. "Anyhow, I was thinking about the soundtrack because some of the bands on it are obviously trying to sound like Prince. But they're missing something."

"Musical genius?"

"Probably." Danny took another drag. "There is one cool song on the soundtrack, by George Michael. It's called ‘I Want Your Sex.'"

Joel's gasp burned his throat with smoke. His eyes watered, making his contacts float a millimeter to the side before they centered themselves over his irises again. "Wow. I did not expect something so daring from the Wham! guy."

"People are gonna freak when it goes on the radio. There's no way our station at home will play it. It's too…you know."

"Hot?"

"Honest."

Huh.

Joel watched a porpoise-shaped cloud swim backward across the sky. As it dove behind the trees, he sat up. "You ever try hash?"

Danny blinked hard, as if startled out of a memory or daydream. "You're not talking about hash browns, are you?"

"No, though after smoking this, we would probably kill our own grandmas for some hash browns." He pulled out his special-ingredient cigarette, which was lumpier than the others, especially at the end where Gavin had inserted a homemade filter made from a tightly rolled piece of cigarette box.

Danny's eyes sparked, and the fingers of his free hand twitched. "Hash is like pot, right?"

"Better. Stronger. That's why it helps to mix it with tobacco so you don't fall into oblivion, never to be seen again."

Danny rolled onto his side to face him. "How long does the buzz last?"

"Who knows? Maybe half an hour, maybe three days."

"What?!"

"I'm kidding. This thing's been sitting in here since Gavin went back to England last month—he's the one who gave it to me—so for all I know the THC has evaporated or whatever. Worse comes to worst, we'll share a spicy cigarette that makes us a little giddy for a few minutes."

Danny loosed his first full smile since they'd met. If Joel had been standing, his knees would've turned to Jell-O.

"And if better comes to best?" Danny asked.

Yikes, that Virginia is for Lovers shirt brought out the electric blue in this boy's eyes. "H-huh?"

"Like the opposite of ‘worse comes to worst.'"

"Oh. Y-yeah." Joel swallowed. "That's clever. We should say that all the time, try to make it a thing."

"So, if better comes to best…" Danny nodded at the special cigarette in Joel's left hand.

"In that case." Joel flipped the lighter end over end and snatched it from the air. "We'll be flying."

Flying,my ass.

Traipsing through the woods behind Joel, Danny focused his entire mind and body on the miracle of walking. His numb feet weighed a ton, and every step was a triumph over the need to lie down and let the soil swallow him whole.

Snacks. Snacks. Snacks. The word and the concept pulled Danny along. Somewhere out there was a 7-Eleven.

In a few minutes—or maybe a few days?—they reached the bike trail. Walking was easier on pavement, even with concrete feet.

"You feeling okay?" Joel asked.

Danny raised his eyes from his own shadow. Far ahead, cars lumbered along the road past the trail. Where was everyone going when here was so perfect? "I'm great. Why?"

"Because I've been talking for, like, five minutes, and you haven't said anything back."

"Maybe you couldn't hear me over the ci-cicadas." The word was tough on his tongue.

"Maybe I couldn't hear you because you weren't saying anything."

"I was talking," Danny said, "just not out loud."

Joel started laughing. It was a bubbly, all-body sort of, what was the word—chortle, like that time last summer when Cousin Frankie saw a pair of stray dogs mating behind the Amoco and literally fell on his six-year-old ass in hysterics.

"Whatever," Danny said. "I'm fine." Had that last sentence been out loud? Just in case, he shouted it with all the air in his lungs. "I'm fine!"

Joel jumped, then grasped Danny's arm. "Shhhhh. We gotta stay cool until we're out of the 7-Eleven. Then we can go back to our spot and smoke the rest of that stuff."

"We shoulda got snacks before we smoked any of that stuff."

"But we didn't, and now we're on a quest." Joel swung his arms back and forth, like he was on the verge of a standing broad jump.

Danny copied him. It worked. His blood was pumping again and his head felt like it might actually stay on his neck. As in a dream, he saw the two of them from the outside, flapping and flailing like a couple of chickens caught in a storm.

He reached out and found Joel's arm. "We better stop."

"Yeah. A man could get arrested." Joel started singing an unfamiliar song.

They turned onto the road, walking single file with Joel in front. The shoulder narrowed as the grass sloped off to their right—there were so many goddamn hills here—into the trees.

An idea: They weren't by the side of the road in some non-town near the Mason-Dixon line. They were walking through Mount Moria in that first Lord of the Rings book, the one that took him six weeks to read but was totally worth it. The slightest slip on this path could send him tumbling to his death, and the cicada husks were the skulls of dwarves slain by orcs. Danny avoided stepping on them, out of respect.

"We made it!" Joel raised his arms toward a squat building ahead of them.

This 7-Eleven was nestled alone amid the screaming trees, not part of a strip mall next to a motorcycle repair shop like the one back home. A huge sign in the window shouted Hot Dog + Slurpee Only 99￠, with pictures and everything.

Danny let out a little moan. His mouth tasted like burnt straw and his stomach had room for forty lunches.

Outside the entrance lurked a bunch of preteen boys and girls with skateboards, slouching against the 7-Eleven's brick wall while hostilely sipping Big Gulps. Their stares were lasers beaming through Danny as he pulled open the door.

Inside, an old man hunched behind the counter reading Weekly World News. He lowered the paper to peer at the two of them, then went back to his tabloid, where a front-page headline proclaimed, I HAVE BEEN TO HEAVEN AND BACK.

That guy knew about Danny and Joel. So did those kids outside. All those beady eyes had not only looked at them, but between them, like there was an invisible fishing line tying them together.

The edges of Danny's jaw went all tingly, like he was about to laugh or puke. Must get away from Joel. Now.

He veered off to the right, like he urgently needed something in this first aisle. It offered mostly stuff like windshield-wiper fluid and those stinky little trees people hung on rearview mirrors, so he kept going until he arrived at a wall of refrigerators.

Liquids, yes. Cold liquids, double yes. Specifically…

He floated down the row of fridges, sliding a finger along their cool glass doors. A few seconds ago, he would've lapped up water from a dog bowl just to wet his desert mouth, but his needs had suddenly become more specific.

"Where do they keep the beer?" he called out.

Joel appeared from nowhere. "Keep your voice down. They don't sell booze in convenience stores here. Besides, we're too young."

"I have an ID that says I'm eighteen." Had he shouted that, too?

"Don't bother. Drinking age has been twenty-one in Maryland forever. Is it still eighteen in Colorado?"

"It goes up to twenty-one in July." He smirked at Joel and did a little twist dance as he sang, "But there's a grandfather clause."

"Fat lotta good that'll do you this summer."

"Wait!" He grabbed Joel's arm. "We can walk to Pennsylvania, right? What's the drinking age there?"

"Twenty-one."

"Fuck."

"Danny." Joel poked him in the chest, pressing his heart. "Look deep inside yourself for a sec and ask, ‘Do I really need a beer right now?'"

Good point. The way the world was teetering, a single sip of alcohol might make his face so heavy it'd slip right off his skull.

"Where's the Easy Cheese?" Danny took off down the closest aisle. The white canisters appeared on the top shelf. He picked up one of each flavor, followed by family-size bags of sour cream 'n' onion potato chips and Cool Ranch Doritos, upon which he balanced a pair of Hostess Pudding Pies.

He came upon Joel in the candy aisle, staring at the wrinkled ten-dollar bill in his hand.

"Hey." Danny shifted his arms to keep the pudding pies from sliding off Mount Snackathon. "What's wrong?"

A decade later, Joel peered up at him. "I can't do math."

"Ever?"

"Right now. And maybe never again. I think I incinerated…" he paused, as if the big word had drained him "…those brain cells."

"Then we'll figure this out together. What are we buying?"

"We still have to get Slurpees, and they're…" Joel mumbled to himself, then held up a big red bag of Bugles. "These are…ugh, why do all the prices end in 9s?"

"To make stuff look cheaper. Are there baskets I can put this in? I'm gonna drop?—"

"This song!" Joel spun away, his face lifted to the ceiling, which may or may not have been emitting music. "I love this song!"

Danny sidestepped to body block him. "Joel. Focus."

"On what?"

"Money." Wait, he had money. "I have money!"

"How much?"

"Dunno. Can't get to my wallet without dropping all this. Broken pudding pies suck." He turned his right hip toward Joel. "It's in my front pocket. I put it there so those skate dicks couldn't steal it."

"You want me to put my hand in your pocket?"

"Yeah, to see what I've got."

Joel snorted and pressed his wrist to his mouth. "No, do not get the giggles right now," he said under his breath. Then he shoved his hand into Danny's front pocket.

Danny jumped.

Joel yanked his hand back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just ticklish." His face warmed, so he turned it away to hide his blush.

Joel sighed, set the Bugles back on the shelf, and put the ten-dollar bill in his mouth. "Hode shtill." With one hand he grabbed Danny's waistband at the small of his back, then slid the other hand into his front pocket.

Danny swallowed and thought about baseball. "Hurry up."

"Got it. Jeez, you're sweaty." Joel tugged Danny's wallet free and flipped it open. "Ooh, five bucks. Just the kind of financial security we need." He plucked out the bill. "Want me to put your wallet back?"

"No." Danny stepped away, bumbling into a beef jerky display and nearly knocking it over. "Hang onto it until my hands are free."

They finished snack shopping, then paid for their hoard. Danny avoided eye contact with the store clerk. Just in case.

Outside, Joel hopped from the curb onto a concrete parking thingie, nimble as a mountain goat. "Before I forget, the Bugles are for my mom, so we can't eat those. They're her favorite."

Crap, he hadn't bought Dad anything. He hadn't even thought about him since they'd started smoking the hash—which made sense, since part of the whole point of drugs was forgetting your parents.

Still, he'd save the chocolate pudding pie for Dad. Maybe it would help fix things between them.

Danny glanced back at the front of the 7-Eleven. The middle-school gang was now openly laughing at them. "What the hell are they—" He looked down at his shirt. "Oh no." He looked at Joel's shirt. "Oh hell no."

"What's wrong?" Joel asked.

Danny slapped the front of his dumbass state-motto T-shirt, then spread his arms.

Joel burst out laughing. "Oh my God." He pulled in a wheezing breath, then laughed harder, doubling over.

"Get your shit together," Danny told him. "Don't lose it right here in the parking lot."

"You look so…" gasp "…fucking…" gasp "…ridiculous in that shirt." Joel dropped the plastic shopping bag and clutched his gut with his Slurpee-free hand. "You look like a fucking gigolo."

He'd been called worse, especially lately. "If you say so. But I know one thing." Danny grabbed Joel's bag, then strutted off toward the road. "Better a lover than a crab."