You Might Want to Buy Your Kid a Used Car
If you want to know the truth, none of the girls even knew he was alive until that day. Don't get me wrong; we had seen him whiz past Lori's house wearing bike shorts on his ten-speed, but it was a visual that most wanted to forget. Still, it didn't stop Rusty Moreland from doing whatever he could to get our attention.
It was a hot summer day in mid-July when a group of bikini-clad teens gathered chairs at the pool overlooking the main drag. Marc, the pervy lifeguard, had just gotten done throwing Tonya into the pool when we heard an engine roar. "I don't see anything," he announced, flexing his would-be muscles as he grabbed the iron fence.
I was knee-deep in a trash magazine when Kurt showed up with his twin brother, Kyle. They graduated from our rival school two years prior but still lived at home. "You guys want to come over later and play quarters?" he asked, knowing our parents would kill us if they ever found out.
The girls and I were in the middle of negotiating terms when a tire squeal interrupted us. "I can't figure out where it's coming from," huffed Marc, craning his neck from the end of the diving board. "It sounds like they're up at the entrance."
We lived in a reasonably large golf community with multiple pools and numerous condos. It was common for people who didn't live there to navigate aimlessly looking for real estate. But there were rules, and one of them was not to drive around like a fucking maniac.
"Well, whoever it is is gonna get their ass kicked if they don't knock it off," threatened Marc, tossing a cheese puff into his mouth. "Dude," laughed Kurt, "you couldn't fight your way out of a paper bag!"
It was getting close to lunch when Nancy shot out of her lounge chair with a stern finger pointing toward the street. "Oh my God," she cried, "Isn't that the nerd in the bike shorts?"
Racing downhill in a brand-new candy apple red Trans Am was Rusty Moreland, the smell of burnt rubber slapping our faces. "He looks different," observed Jenna, taking a long drag from Kyle's cigarette. "Are those Wayfarers?"
Intrigued, the pool gang stood up and moved closer. "What's he doing with his hand?" gasped Carole, squinting to get a better look. "Ew," she mocked. "I think he's waving." With a scrawny arm flailing from the driver's side window, Rusty began coasting past the gate. "I heard his dad got it for him for his birthday today," whispered Troy. "Dang," sighed Marc. "Sweet ride."
As we lined the fence awestruck by the unusual performance, Rusty's face ignited. "Hey," he nodded, his tiny fangs glistening in the sun. "I hope he's not talking to me," Jenna giggled, tossing her hair back. "Don't worry," I said. "I think he's talking to us all."
Unscathed by the lack of response, Rusty cruised past the pool to scope out the rest of the girls. He inched past the clubhouse, revved his engine one last time, and drove straight into the back of a landscaping truck, never to be seen again. His father, on the other hand, was spotted at Big Ed's Used Cars a week later eyeballing a '78 Pinto. It’s anyone's guess what happened next.
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