by Jason Boyte

People shouting. Dad pulled the car over and went to see if he could help. Mom told me to keep looking forward—not to look. But I did. I saw the frame: metal sheets, peeled back, reflecting the sun. Waves of heat rising from the asphalt. A little later Dad came back to the car and got in. Said there’s nothing he can do.

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After history, I met Dave by the fence to sneak a smoke. Mrs. Ernst gave me hell in class because I’d been ditching more and more. Maybe if she didn’t give me so much hell in general I wouldn’t be ditching in the first place. Mark was pulling his green hatchback—the “Crime Car”—around from the junior parking lot. We are the Disciples of Mayhem.

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