It’s three AM and the earwigs are wriggling through the seams in the sidewalk. Liberty Spikes, Plaid Blazer, and Mohawk are sixteen and buzzed off a beer each but acting like it’s more, laying on the lawn side by side.
And when you see her standing there with green eyes and long blonde hair she won’t be wearing underwear and you’ll discoooooover —
A light in the house. Shut the fuck up!
They laugh. Spikes creeps up onto the stoop and pisses against the door. Blazer and Mohawk laugh and crack their last beer, sharing sips.
The door swings open and he falls backwards off the stoop, pissing on the man. Blazer and Mohawk run to him and haul him up. The man’s bath robe has a line of urine up to his chest. He can hear them laughing in the distance, their feet popping off the blacktop like gunshots, but they’re gone.
They fall asleep together on the trampoline. They talk about the tours they will go on. The Casualties. AFI. Sum 41. They’ll practice intermittently. They’ll travel to Warped Tour together. At seventeen they’ll play one show.
At twenty-five, when Spikes sees Blazer at Mohawk’s funeral (crushed beneath logs outside of Hinton, Alberta: human error), they’ll barely recognize one another. They’ll barely remember that night. Just the feeling of hot summer air finally gone cool, and the smell of cut grass through trampoline nylon.