Ricky drags Derek, out of his hiding place, into the lineup with the other neighborhood boys. Derek’s armpits smell sour, like vinegar. Last time he ran out of lineup, Ricky tackled him, left bruises. Ricky’s the biggest teenager on the block. Have to stay still. Derek hears the engine squeal. Ricky’s been obsessed with Evel Knievel for months. No barrels or Greyhound buses for Ricky’s stunts. Young boys are the next best thing. Derek tries not think of his head split like a watermelon on the street. Tight as sardines now, all holding their breath, not moving. Someone faints.
