Last Stop This Town (2 page)

The premise of the High Speed Test was simple: How fast could Dylan drive on a particular residential street without killing himself, his passengers, or random pedestrians. Some of these speeds were frighteningly high, especially given the condition of the roads after the snow plows had had their way with them all winter long.

After a mile and a right turn, they arrived at Brookline, a tree-lined lane with a posted speed limit of twenty-five. It was a quiet road that didn’t lead anywhere important, so it received little traffic besides the four-wheel-drive Subarus that parked in the driveways. Inside the large colonial houses, with their muted colors of aluminum siding, lived an aging population mixed with a few younger families. And unfortunately for Brookline, the road was stick straight and practically begged for drag racing.

Dylan stopped the car at the end of the street and queued up the Eels’ “Mr. E’s Beautiful Blue.” Satisfied with his selection, he turned to the other three. “Ready?”

Walker checked his seatbelt. Noah rolled up the bag of McDonald’s and stowed it under the seat. Pike took a last drag off the joint and pinched it out. He rolled up his window.

“Hit it,” Pike ordered.

Dylan stepped on the gas. They accelerated quickly, and in no time they were doing fifty down this sleepy lane.

Noah read off the speedometer, as Dylan was going too fast to even glance down. “Sixty… sixty-five… seventy.”

They were going crazy fast for this street and Walker, as usual, was the first to crack. “Okay, slow down. Slow down, Dylan!”

But it wasn’t a “medium speed test,” and Dylan had no intention of braking. Noah kept his eyes glued to the speedometer. Pike started laughing his ass off, feeding off the adrenaline. Walker gripped his seat with white knuckles. But Dylan was confident, feeling invulnerable, focused only on the road.

“Eighty…” Noah counted off.

Then Walker screamed, “Look out!”

Up ahead, an old man on a riding lawnmower was in the
middle of the street
, making a U-turn back toward his house.

Dylan swerved, and before anyone’s brain had time to process what was happening, the Cube jumped the curb and drove right across the guy’s front lawn, passing the lawnmower at more than three times the speed limit.

In an instant, they were on the next block, with the stunned John Deere driver way behind them, shaking his fist at the guys like a cartoon old coot.

Dylan overcorrected and slammed on the brakes. Unfortunately, that only made the Cube spin out of control. As opposed to the previous maneuver, which felt like it was over in a flash, spinning 360 degrees in the middle of Brookline seemed to last forever. As if in slow motion, Dylan looked over and saw Noah staring back at him calmly, like,
It’s been a pleasure serving with you
. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw Walker with his eyes closed, seemingly accepting his certain death. Then, as the car continued to spin into its second rotation, Dylan spotted Pike smiling ear to ear. This was the most fun he’d had in ages.

Finally, the Cube came to a complete stop right in the middle of the street and stalled out.

The guys were frozen in shock. They sat there for a moment, stunned, until their hearts started beating again. Miraculously, they were still alive and the car hadn’t hit anything.

Noah finally broke the silence: “Brookline. Eighty-one.”

They all burst out laughing.

Without another word on the subject, Dylan simply turned the ignition back on and drove off.

T
HAT EVENING, DYLAN
sat in his bedroom listening to Keane on his iPod and finishing his yearbook entries as promised. Aside from a few dusty soccer trophies and a photo of his mom, Dylan’s room was surprisingly undecorated. No
Star Wars
sheets or Clash posters here. Dylan was never much of a collector in the first place, but the simple white sheets and bare walls made it hard to believe that a teenager lived there. It was almost as if Dylan had considered his room temporary lodging for the last eighteen years.

He was almost done signing the yearbooks—he’d written most of the messages yesterday in study hall—but he wanted to go over them one more time just to make sure he was setting the right tone. These were his best friends, after all, not some random acquaintance like portly Stu Wexley, whose yearbook Dylan signed in the hallway between periods with three lines about (1) playing soccer together in sixth grade, (2) the time Stu ate fifteen chicken cutlet sandwiches in the cafeteria on a bet (and later puked up his guts), and (3) the retarded substitute teacher they’d had one day in Spanish class who fell for the old “Mike Hawk” gag during roll call.

Dylan picked up Noah’s yearbook first and started skimming through it, stopping at a picture of Noah with Sarah at the Halloween Dance. They’d gone as Wall-e and Eve and they looked happy. But by the Valentine’s Day Dance (two pages later), you could tell they were losing that loving feeling. And anyone who’d witnessed the fight they had at Prom (too recent to make it into the yearbook) would have had a hard time explaining why they were still together. Now, Dylan didn’t mind his friends’ girlfriends messing up the guy dynamic, but if Sarah was just going to yell and cry and pout all the time, he felt that it was his duty as Noah’s best friend to push him in the direction of dumping the bitch.

Dylan had written on the page Noah saved for him on the inside cover (the most prestigious real estate in the yearbook):

Noah—

Where to begin? We’ve been friends since kindergarten, when you were putting dolls in the pretend oven and making the girls scream. That’s when I thought, this kid’s pretty cool.

Alot of funny shit has happened over the years. Mr. Swanson catching us ditching class to go see Batman Begins. Monica Krasnitz’s bat mitzvah (remember her cousin Jennifer? Told you she’d let you get to third base!). And don’t forget about that ski trip junior year. Dude, NEVER ski drunk!!!

So many memories it’s hard to pick the ones to write about. But every time I think about something big in my life, you were right there with me. First time I got drunk? Your Dad’s Johnny Walker Red. First time I got laid? Okay, maybe you weren’t there, but you were the first one I told. You are such a big part of my life, it’s hard to imagine how I could have made it through high school without you. You’re like a brother to me and I’m really gonna miss you next year.

I hope things work out with Sarah, but if they don’t, just remember that you’re a smart guy probably the smartest guy I know and you’ll find what you’re looking for if you look hard enough.

Your friend,

Dylan

Dylan corrected a couple of mistakes (“‘a lot’ is two words,” he remembered Mr. Travoli harping on him), then put Noah’s yearbook aside and turned to Walker’s.

If Noah was Dylan’s wingman, Walker was more like the little brother Dylan never had. After all, Walker was alternately clueless and pathetic, and it was hard not to assume a superior attitude to someone who let so many opportunities to score slip through his fingers. Accordingly, Dylan had signed Walker’s yearbook with a bit of a pep talk:

Walker—

You’re a great guy, man, and pretty soon girls are going to pick up on that. Trust me, you are going to get laid like crazy in college. I just think you’re the kind of guy who girls appreciate when they’re older.

At least Dylan hoped so. After all, this was the same Walker who spent nine months secretly pursuing a cute girl from his chemistry class, consoled her for an entire weekend when she found out her boyfriend was cheating on her, then stood by while she forgave the scumbag and lost her virginity to him the next weekend!

I think you just need a little more confidence. Like that time you stood up to Marc Jenner. You didn’t think you had it in you, but boom! One punch in the nose and the pussy starts crying like a little bitch.

I’m not saying you need to punch girls.

That’s as far as Dylan had gotten signing Walker’s yearbook. He decided to scratch out the last line and continued writing:

Look, man, I don’t want to lecture you. I just want you to know that you’re a fucking cool dude and as soon as you realize that, so will everyone else. I’m gonna miss your sense of humor and all the funny shit you say.

You are going to have a great life.

—Dylan

Dylan put Walker’s yearbook aside and turned up the volume on his iPod. It was the Breeders’ “Cannonball,” and he had a soft spot in his heart for female alt rock from before he was born. He flipped open Pike’s yearbook and reread what he had written:

Pike—

From the first time I met you and you were doing whippets in the back of home ec class, I knew you were one crazy motherfucker—

Pike wasn’t the kind of guy you got mushy about, but you could always count on him for something outrageous, like the time Dylan found him in his parents’ basement naked, playing
Call of Duty
with a bong rigged to a snorkel. Or his Ninja phase, where Pike carried a pair of nunchucks wherever he went (that particular affectation ended suddenly when one day Pike literally knocked himself out).

I could always count on you to make shit fun. You really know how to live in the moment and I love that about you.

I think you’re gonna have a sweet time out in Calif. next year. Sounds like the perfect place for you.

It’s funny. Part of me wonders what “college Pike” will be like. Are you going to be “that” guy with the weed and the bong collection or are you going to reinvent yourself somehow? Don’t want to sound like a dick here, but I bet Pike 2.0 is even more awesome than the pot-smoking Pike I know.

Anyway, I know whenever the shit hit the fan (as it usually did), you always had my back. You’re a good friend and I’m gonna miss the shit out of you, man.

—Dylan

Dylan continued flipping, reading what classmates had written under their pictures, trying to figure out the coded phrases and inside jokes. Then he saw a picture of the four of them freshman year—just a candid photo hanging out in back of the school by the soccer field. He couldn’t believe how young they all looked!

Suddenly, Dylan swelled with emotion. It came on without warning and the intensity surprised him. Something was really messing with his head and he found himself actually fighting back a tear.

Oh, my God, what a pussy
, Dylan’s left brain told his right.

Then, “Dylan!” came a booming voice from the hallway.

Dylan closed the yearbook, hoping that would shut out those unwanted emotions. He took out his earphones, preparing for the inevitable confrontation. Soon, Dylan’s blue-collar dad appeared in the doorway with an envelope in his hand.

Dylan’s dad was forty-two, still pretty young, relatively speaking (he’d had Dylan when he was twenty-four). He had a goatee, a full head of dark hair, and the body of someone who worked for a living. Not chiseled, but strong.

And handsome. Still, Dylan’s dad never remarried after Dylan’s mom died, unless you count his paving company. He’d built Glasco Paving into one of the most successful paving companies in the state, and he didn’t do it by taking a lot of time off. “You want something in life, you work for it,” was one of his favorite sayings, along with the equally folksy, “If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” Not surprisingly, all of his little aphorisms were about work. He didn’t have any pithy truisms about spending time with your son or actually getting to know the other person who lives in your house.

“Dylan, what is this?” he demanded, waving the envelope like Exhibit A.

“Why are you opening my mail?” Dylan deflected.

“Goddamn it, we agreed, you’re going to college!” His dad was turning red.

“No,
you
did! I’m eighteen. I can do what I want.”

“Not while you’re living under my roof!”

Wow, Dylan couldn’t believe he resorted to that oldie but goodie. Dylan got up off the bed and grabbed the three yearbooks. “Well, that’s not for much longer.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out.” He brushed past his dad, avoiding eye contact.

“Dylan!”

Dylan could tell his dad was pleading now. Dylan rolled his eyes, stopped, and turned back to face him.

His dad took a deep breath. “I worked my butt off so you could have the opportunities I didn’t have.”

This was him trying to relate, Dylan figured. But Dylan wasn’t in the mood for a tender family moment. The time for that was eleven years ago. Maybe if his dad had poured his energy into his family after the car accident, instead of work, things would have been different. Maybe then his dad wouldn’t seem like a stranger to him. But it was too little too late now.