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The thermostat was broken.
Tommy hit it, then hit it again, but the air conditioning refused to turn on. It was a horrible start to his day— the Arizona heat was suffocating, hanging low overhead, soaking through every crevice. All of Tommy’s windows had been propped open, and a poor rusty fan was tiring herself out trying to spread a chill, but Tommy was damn near melting.
He hit the thermostat again, and it wheezed pitifully before fizzling to grey.
“Fuck you,” Tommy swore. “Go to hell.”
The thermostat did not respond. Tommy wished it would taunt him back, maybe offer a curse word or two. But the thermostat was dead. And, by virtue of its death, so was Tommy’s air conditioning.
His lip curled. Tommy would have to get Techno to come over and fix it— Techno was the only person who was any good with mechanics, or really, any good with anything. Not many people had talent here; there was a lot of mediocrity surrounding them. At times, Tommy thought that his hometown, a dried-out, tumbleweed town in the middle of the Sonoran desert, was the most mediocre place in the world.
Still, Tommy loved it, with every inch of his bleeding, sunburnt heart. He knew every inch of it better than the back of his hand. He knew that the stop sign two streets over was toppled over, and there was a half-collapsed building a mile and a half away where people left all their street art practice. He knew that the oak tree at the center of town had been infested with termites when Tommy turned eight, so you could no longer climb it. Tommy knew all sorts of alleyways and shortcuts and which corner deli served the best sandwiches (the Jewish one, which sold mouthwatering corned beef Reubens for a dollar-fifty).
These sidewalks held his footsteps. That rusty swing set held his childhood. That oak tree in desperate need of removal was a reminder of how much he had grown. This was his hometown, his heart, his soul, and if it was mediocre at times, then so be it.
Though Tommy was well aware not everyone thought the same. Phil was one of those people— one of Tommy’s oldest and closest friends, freshly eighteen with a high school diploma only four weeks old. Phil hated Arizona, and he was desperate to get away. So when the time had come to choose universities, Phil ended up picking some up-and-coming, preppy liberal arts college in fucking Connecticut. Tommy had researched it on the school computers after class— it had an acceptance rate of 30%, a breeding ground for elitism. Phil was leaving their hometown for what sounded like the worst place in the world and already had his flight tickets: August fifteenth.
Tommy glared at the thermostat. Enough of thinking about Phil— he needed to find Techno, and there were only three places he could be. He slipped out of his condo, didn’t bother to lock the door behind him, and set off for the second floor.
Tommy lived in a large building that had been converted into a condominium, so his family shared a backyard, front yard, and garage with seven others. It was loud and irritating to live there at the best of times, but Tommy liked it.
He found himself at the residence of one and only Wilbur Soot. If Techno wasn’t there, Tommy would eat his hat. Techno and Wilbur were always together. They were practically attached at the hip. Wilbur swore they were each other’s long lost twins.
“Techno,” Tommy called through the door, and kicked at it. “Techno.”
“Shut up,” Wilbur’s voice shouted back. Tommy scowled. He knew that Wilbur’s mother always left a spare key underneath the front mat, though, and helpfully let himself in.
Wilbur’s condominium was shaped exactly the same as Tommy’s— kitchen counter neatly tucked into the corner, two double-paned windows against the far wall, one hallway leading to the cramped bathroom and bedroom, and one door leading to Wilbur’s room, which was little more than a shoebox. Wilbur’s parents had all sorts of pottery, beads, and ashtrays scattered around. They had posters from films Tommy had never seen, like Chinatown or The Maltese Falcon, and they had posters from films Tommy had seen, like Casablanca or American Beauty. Wilbur’s parents pinned up all sorts of pictures too, from baby pictures to random captures of tumbleweeds rolling along the side of the highway. The whole place was cluttered and cramped and delightful.
It was more delightful when there was a Techno to be found, though. Tommy frowned and turned to Wilbur. “Where’s Techno?”
“Not here,” Wilbur answered, eyes on the television. “Go away.”
“He’s always here. Is he coming over soon?”
“He was supposed to. But he ditched me to play Legos.”
"You mean he didn’t want to smoke?”
Wilbur’s face turned sour. “You’re such a little bitch.”
Tommy laughed. “So he’s in the garage?” That was what Wilbur often meant when he said play Legos.
“If he ditched me, he’s not gonna do whatever you want.”
“My thermostat is broken. I need him to fix it.”
“I didn’t ask and I don’t care. Either leave me alone or shut up. I’m trying to watch The Long Goodbye.”
“This movie doesn’t even look that good,” huffed Tommy. “Fine. I’m leaving.”
“You do that.”
“You’re missing out on me. Your best friend.”
“Oh no,” said Wilbur, monotone, “That is so heartbreaking. What would I ever do without you.”
“Fuck you,” said Tommy.
“Fuck you too!” Wilbur mocked, and Tommy slammed the door as hard as he could behind him.
Wilbur was only snappy because he was in a bad mood, and to make matters worse, he was in a bad mood alone . Wilbur was the type of kid who survived off of social interactions like a leech: sucked people dry for their energy, disliked loneliness, said that it left him depressed and bored. Still, Tommy seethed as he marched right on back downstairs. Just because he understood how Wilbur operated didn’t mean that he couldn’t hate it.
It was swelteringly hot inside the garage, even with the door cranked open. Tommy could feel sweat beading in the hairs on his neck and at his brow. But he had found who he was looking for.
“Techno!”
“What do you want,” Techno grumbled, though because he was half-underneath his truck and had something clamped between his teeth, it was muffled and barely understandable.
“Thermostat,” Tommy said. “It’s broken.”
“Change the batteries, idiot.”
“No, it’s actually broken. I need you to come and fix it.”
There was an impatient huff, and Techno slid out from underneath his truck. His hair was tied back but sweaty and damp from the heat, and his square glasses were, as usual, nearly too smudged to see through.
“You interrupted me.”
“Oops,” said Tommy, not at all sorry. “Now help me out.”
“I’m busy," said Techno shortly, "Maybe later."
“I’ll pay you.”
That got Techno’s attention. Techno needed money. He was saving up to take his pride and joy— a 1971 Ford Ranchero nicknamed Ethel, painted bright red-orange with a missing hubcap and one tail-light smashed — into the mechanic. Taking her would cost quite a lot of money though, and Techno had wasted all of his previously-saved money on buying Ethel in the first place. He was doing his best to fix Ethel himself, but there were a lot of things a sixteen-year-old couldn’t fix on his own.
“Fine,” Techno relented. Hesitantly: “Will’s not at your place, is he?”
“He’s on his own. Are you avoiding him?”
“No,” said Techno unconvincingly. “I’ll fix your thermostat for twenty bucks.”
“Deal,” agreed Tommy, even though twenty bucks was a large chunk out of his savings. He looked forward to sleeping in decent air conditioning.
Once inside Tommy’s condo, Techno pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and set about taking the thermostat off the wall. Tommy leaned against the doorway and chewed at a hangnail. “Are you actually avoiding Wilbur?”
“None of your business.”
“I went to him first and you weren’t there. Also he said that you ditched him.”
“I didn’t ditch him. It’s not ditching to say you don’t want to hang out once.”
“So you are avoiding him.”
Techno paused. “You can be very annoying.”
“Keep working,” Tommy said, “I’m not paying you twenty bucks for nothing. Why are you dodging the question? What happened? Is that why he’s in such a bad mood?”
“No reason, nothing, I don’t care,” Techno said. He tapped the thermostat casing. “Did you fry this thing?”
“I think heat did. And I don’t believe that nothing happened. You’re always with Wilbur.”
“Sometimes friends just hate each other.” Techno poked through the fried wires and frowned. “Nothing else to it, really.”
“So I’m your favorite now,” Tommy said smugly.
“No. I was hanging out with Ethel before you dragged me away. She’s better than all of you.”
“Even better than Phil?”
A brief pause. Phil and Techno had been friends since they were practically babies. Though they weren’t seen together as often as Techno and Wilbur were, the two of them were still a formidable pair.
“Depends on the day,” Techno finally said.
“I feel like I haven’t seen Phil in ages.”
“It’s been two days,” Techno said, and began screwing the casing back onto the wall, one corner at a time. “Don’t be whiny. We’ll hang out over the weekend.”
“I’m not being whiny,” whined Tommy. He hated when all his friends made fun of him for being younger— he was only fourteen, after all. All three of his friends were close enough in age that being called whiny always rubbed Tommy the wrong way.
Techno fastened the last screw in place and watched as the screen flickered to life. He turned the unit on, and Tommy could hear the air conditioning begin to blow overhead.
“There you go,” he proclaimed, as Tommy stuffed a crumpled twenty dollar bill into his hand. “Don’t break it again or else I’ll charge double.”
“Need to buy more Lego kits?” Tommy snarked.
Techno rolled his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Wilbur,” he returned, and vanished down the hallway.
July bloomed sharp and early over the yellow Arizona sky, and it found Tommy with his feet dipped into the pool. On a day like this— the Fourth of July, no less— everyone was drawn to the community pool. It was jam-packed, with more than a dozen families hosting poolside barbecues for their friends. The smell of roasting kebabs and burgers and hotdogs made Tommy’s stomach sound as though a motorcycle was being revved inside of it.
“Go eat something,” Phil said, mouth half-full from a paper plate piled high with roasted, buttered corn, watermelon, beef kebabs, and potato chips drowned in dip. “I can tell you’re hungry. You can ask Mr. Kerrigan for a burger, he’ll be glad to give you one.”
“I’m not asking Mr. Kerrigan for a burger,” scowled Tommy. He still held a grudge against his fifth-grade teacher. “He can suck it.”
“Then eat some watermelon. I swear it’s good.”
“Lame,” Tommy said, but he would never turn down cold watermelon on a hot day. He stole the largest slice on Phil’s plate, a massive half-moon of ripe pink, and bit into it. Juice ran down his chin, sweet and watery and sticky.
He leaned back when he had eaten down to the white rind and let the sun wash over him. The entire world was filled with chatter and excitement, and he barely even noticed that two more people had arrived at the community pool until Phil’s voice broke through the summer haze: “Oh, Techno just got here!”
Tommy cracked an eye. Techno stood by the fence gate, sunglasses on; beside him was Wilbur, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and swim shorts, blue cooler at his side. Apparently Techno was no longer avoiding his best friend.
“They’re both here,” Phil exclaimed, and raised a hand in bright excitement. “Techno!”
“Phil!”
“Wilbur,” Tommy greeted, hand raised. Wilbur mirrored it back and sat next to him. The four of them fell into their typical line— Wilbur, Tommy, Phil, Techno— eyes squinting against the sun, swim trunks and short sleeves, sandals tossed to the side, and the heavy, dry summer heat, sweating down on them.
“I brought drinks,” said Wilbur suddenly, cracking open the cooler. “Lemonade and seltzer and all sorts of stuff.”
“Lemonade,” Tommy said.
“Water,” Phil said.
“Beer,” Techno said.
“You know there are kids here, right?”
“Like one beer is going to get me drunk. Don’t be such a boomer.”
Wilbur passed over their drinks, iced with condensation, and hoisted himself up to grab a plate of food. Tommy tossed his watermelon rind into the pool and watched it bob in the water. He could hardly believe that this was the last Fourth of July that the four of them were going to spend together like this, eating barbecue by the poolside with the heat roasting them all alive.
As if reading his mind, Phil mused, “I can’t believe this is the last summer I’ll ever spend here.”
Tommy curled his lip. He stole another watermelon slice from Phil’s plate. Phil continued, “And— it’s only one more year for you, Tech.”
That was a cheery reminder that Tommy didn’t have long before all Techno talked about was college, too. To be fair, Techno always had his mind set on big dreams— he wanted to go to Stanford, all the way in Silicon Valley. Tommy got annoyed when he said that. It was okay for Phil, the oldest and wisest, to get into a good college, but if two people got into a good college, that somehow became overwhelming. Tommy would always tell Techno, you’re not getting into Stanford, you know . And Techno would reply back, I don’t care. It’s a dream.
“They won’t accept you just because you’ve got a stupid dream.”
“Well, someone’s got to get in,” Techno would glower. “Why not me?”
It was a ridiculous mindset. Stanford University was never going to accept someone like Techno— a kid who spent half his time in the garage, tinkering away at a truck, and the other half getting high. Stanford only accepted legacies, trust fund kids with rich parents, and kids who wanted to be doctors or lawyers or fancy English professors. Techno didn’t even know what he wanted to be when he grew up. Tommy told him that if he didn’t have an idea, Stanford wouldn’t take him.
“I don’t care,” Techno would answer, “At least I’ve got a goal. What’s your goal again? Make it through sophomore year without failing fifth-grade math for the second time?”
Tommy bristled. He had failed once and had been held back a grade because of it. Before that, it was Wilbur and Tommy, not Wilbur and Techno, who had been inseparable. They had been in nearly every class together, best friends. But when Tommy stayed in elementary school for another year, to the mockery from every person around him, Wilbur left for middle school. It had taken Tommy almost six agonizing months to crawl his way back into Wilbur’s now skintight friend group, becoming friends with Techno and Phil.
“Gonna be weird,” Techno agreed, and Tommy drew himself back into the present. “Remember all the fun times we’ve had here?”
“That time Wilbur almost drowned,” Tommy broke into their conversation. “That time Techno sprayed sunscreen in his eye and almost went blind… the time that kid stole your hat so we knifed his raft…”
“That time we had to run from his parents, you mean,” Phil said. Techno snorted.
“At least we got your hat back.”
“That we did,” Phil agreed. Comfortable silence fell among the three of them until Wilbur returned with a paper plate piled high with a bit of everything.
“I just saw Niki,” he said without preamble, “I’ll be back.”
Without another word, he vanished into the teeming masses around the pool edge. Tommy watched him go. Phil and Techno split off into talking about something or other— the SAT. Techno was in the rocky summer between his junior and senior year, about to start the college application process for the first time.
“I don’t know,” he was saying, unable to hide the slight anxiety in his voice. “I’m taking another practice test next weekend, but—”
“Another practice test?” Tommy sighed. How many did the guy need to take?
“Again,” answered Techno grimly. “I only got a 1450 on the last one, but if I study enough I think I could scrape—”
“A 1450 is plenty decent,” interrupted Phil. “That’s got to be at least ninetieth percentile.”
“It’s ninety-seventh, but whatever. My dad said that if I get above a 1500 on the real exam, he'll pay for Ethel’s visit to the mechanic.”
Phil whistled. “Jeez.”
“I know. And my exam’s in August. I don’t have much time to waste.”
“I don’t care about standardized exams or tests or anything of the sort,” groused Tommy. “It’s summer. You shouldn’t have to think about homework or mathematics or shit like that—”
“Done your summer reading yet?” asked Phil innocently. Tommy glared, but clamped his mouth shut. He had no interest in being called out over Lord of the Flies. It was a shit book with a shit ending. But at least Phil and Techno had stopped talking about academics, which was good, because talking about academics always led to Phil talking about Connecticut. Phil always talked about Connecticut. Tommy's irritation over it floated to the surface, lying belly-up like a stinking, dead fish.
Wilbur, apparently done with his conversation with Niki, came to sit cross-legged next to Tommy again. “Your ears are sunburnt.”
Tommy wiped at his ears. He could feel the prickle of red on them. “I don’t care.”
“You’re going to turn into a lobster.”
“You’re not my dad,” scowled Tommy. In response, Wilbur leaned over and stretched to smack Phil.
“Tell Tommy to put on sunscreen.”
“Put on sunscreen,” Phil said.
Tommy glowered. “Fuck you.” But he was already rubbing the chemical-smelling stuff onto the tips of his ears when Techno passed him the bottle, turning them white-pale.
Wilbur laughed. “Oh, what are we ever going to do without you, Phil?”
“One of you is gonna have to pick up the parent helm.”
“Absolutely not,” said Techno vehemently.
“Aw, but how are you going to keep baby Tommy from—”
“I’m not baby Tommy, you dipshit, I’m only a year younger."
Wilbur ruffled his hair. He was in a much better mood that day, out of his home and hanging with the rest of them. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be the baby of the group.”
“Fuck you,” Tommy said. “I’m going for a swim.”
“You do that,” Wilbur sniffed. “I refuse to get wet.”
In response, Tommy reached over and splashed as much as he could in Wilbur’s direction. It backfired, though, because Wilbur planted both hands on his back and pushed as hard as possible. Shirt still on, Tommy splashed in ungracefully.
He surfaced, spitting water. “I’m going to kill you.”
“You can’t even reach me,” Wilbur smiled.
Tommy stripped his shirt off, soaked with chlorine, and landed it directly in Wilbur's cooler. At least that was a win in his book.
When the sky finally turned to dusky indigo two weeks later, Tommy roused himself and began getting dressed. That was the way most summers went in the desert. A certain amount of heat was bearable, but when it crawled above a hundred and ten, Tommy stayed inside. He cranked the air conditioning up, closed the windows and blinds, and gorged himself on ice cream and potato chips until the sky darkened. Evening was the only time he could be outside without feeling like one massive heat blister beneath the scorching, red sun.
A honk sounded loudly from outdoors. Tommy cracked open his blinds to see Ethel parked right outside his window, Techno with one hand on the wheel. Tommy stuck out his tongue at him and rushed downstairs.
Techno only let him and Phil ride in the front, so he always made Wilbur and Tommy sit in the cargo bed. Wilbur was already there, legs outstretched. He offered a hand to Tommy, and before Tommy even had both feet firmly planted inside, Techno pulled recklessly onto the street.
Tommy settled next to Wilbur, who held out a paper bag to him. “Here,” he said, “Pistachio.”
“I don’t want pistachios,” Tommy grumbled, but he took a handful regardless. He flicked one of the shells into Wilbur’s hair. “Where are we going?”
“Picking up Phil. Then Tech’s taking us somewhere.”
Tommy settled back. The sky was stained orange-azure, and the wind wicked the sweat away from his skin. The heavy, sunken-in heat was burning off like morning mist.
Phil’s house was only a five minute drive away from the condominium that Wilbur, Tommy, and Techno all lived in. Phil was already sitting out front on the porch, knees to his chest, eyes on his phone. Techno didn’t even have to honk before Phil was clambering inside the passenger seat. Tommy took the opportunity to lean over and rap on the back window. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere,” Techno said.
“To do what?”
“Vibe,” Phil answered, which started a rare laugh out of Techno, who revved the truck again. Wilbur laughed too as Techno headed for the outskirts of town. Everything faded around them— paved sidewalks collapsing into dirt, buildings downgrading into small, old-timey saloons and crumpled old barns, power lines stretching endlessly to the horizon. Once the world faded, Techno veered directly off the road, heading straight for the setting sun.
He pulled to a stop once they had lost all sight of everything. The Arizona desert stretched flat in all directions. Tommy could see jagged hills stab up into the sky, like the black fangs of some massive monster about to swallow them whole. It was just the four of them, the evening moon, and the speckled stars above.
Techno opened the back door to the cargo bed and hopped in, followed by Phil. It took a bit of shuffling before they got one of those thick, woolen blankets beneath everyone, Wilbur’s cooler propped open in the center. Tommy stuck his feet into Techno’s lap obnoxiously and leaned against Wilbur’s side. Techno rolled his eyes and pushed him off.
Wilbur fumbled in his backpack, then poked Techno. “Are you getting high tonight?”
Techno shrugged. “Fine with me.” But he looked to Phil a moment later, expectant: “Are you?”
Phil chewed on the inside of his lip and finally relented. “Whatever. I guess.”
Wilbur whooped, and Phil grinned tentatively, and Tommy piped up: “Me?”
It wasn’t any fun to be sober when everyone else was getting high. They had dragged him along, too; he might as well. Wilbur was obviously thinking the same thing. “I’m fine with that.”
“You’re gonna have to shower before you go back home,” said Phil quickly, which was fine by Tommy. His parents would probably be dead asleep.
Wilbur sparked his lighter, a silver knockoff Zippo he had shoplifted. Tommy wrinkled his nose at the smell (he hadn’t learned to like it yet, said Wilbur) but waited until Wilbur passed the blunt to him.
“You know how?”
“I’m not dumb,” Tommy scowled. He sucked in a breath and fought the bitter urge to cough. The smoke clouded around him when he exhaled, slowly, and took another breath; then Wilbur tilted his chin, and Tommy passed the blunt onto Techno. It made one full round before Phil said distantly, tinged with nostalgia, “Remember those things— the truth circles?”
“Oh God,” Wilbur breathed, “We haven’t done one of those in forever.”
Truth circles were a thing that the four of them had done way back when Tommy was eleven, first getting integrated into the friend group and getting to know Techno and Phil. The four of them had crawled into Phil’s bedroom, turned off the lights, sat in a circle, and let the dim lamplight swallow them alive. Anything that was said in the truth circle stayed in the truth circle. It was never spoken of outside of the truth circle, and no one would ever know besides the four of them. It was in those late nights that Tommy learned about Wilbur’s homelife and the reason why he hung out with Techno all the time, about Phil’s full-blown panic attacks in the school bathroom, about half the fights Techno got into after class (though Tommy suspected there were many more). Tommy shared some things too, though they always seemed small once he spoke them out loud. Like his irrational fear of caterpillars. Or his insecurity about the things he loved. Sometimes he wanted more friends, sometimes he wanted more things. No matter what he said, it stayed in the truth circle.
“I’m down for a truth circle,” Techno muttered, and Phil nodded as well. Flat on their backs, staring up at the sky, in Techno’s truck bed in the middle of the desert, it felt just as secluded as Phil’s room. No one would ever hear their secrets but them.
The stars glimmering overhead were wide and vast, a velvet carpet of white sea-foam over waves of black ink. Tommy tried to trace constellations in them but found that his head was spinning, which made the stars curve into weird, abstract shapes. Wilbur poked his hand and passed the blunt over again. Tommy took a breath in, tasted the funky, earthy flavor that flooded his tongue. The smoke was thick and rolled quietly from his mouth. He took another breath in. The stars flooded his vision more. The entire world was silver.
“I’ll go first,” Wilbur said. “I saw a rattlesnake on the ride here and I’m kind of terrified it’ll come back.”
“I’ll kill it if it comes close,” Techno said seriously.
“You couldn’t. You’re scared of them too.”
Techno's lip curled. "Not as scared as you." A slow breath. “The other day I almost cried thinking about the SAT. I think I’m losing my mind over it.”
“You are,” Tommy said honestly.
“I just want it to be over already.”
“It will,” said Phil. “In two months it’ll all be over and just a bad memory.”
“Wish that worked for everything,” muttered Wilbur. Tommy found himself privately agreeing. Time was a fickle creature and it wasn’t kind. Sometimes the bad things stuck more than the good.
Wilbur tilted his head back, over the edge of the truck, and blew smoke into the sky. “I can’t wait for school to start. I don’t want to be stuck at home any longer.”
“I don’t want school to start,” Tommy said. “It’s going to be terrible.”
The blunt made its way back into Tommy’s hand. As he inhaled, Phil added, strained, “I’m scared for school to start too. Or— leaving. I guess I’m scared about leaving.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Phil said awkwardly. “I mean, it’s far. And I’ve never lived away from home. Also it’s expensive. I'm so scared that all of it is going to go wrong.”
“Hey, you can always come back to us.”
Phil laughed unsteadily. “I’m not coming back. Not anytime soon, at least.”
“What?”
“Come on, Tommy, you know I’ve got potential. Or whatever Mrs. Barrera told me last year. I’m not going to squander all that potential here.”
“At least you like hearing that you’ve got potential,” Wilbur said. “I hate hearing that from people. You’ve got potential. What a crummy thing to tell a kid.”
“Agreed,” Tommy said. His head felt airy, which made his words come slower.
Techno poked him. “Any truths tonight?”
Tommy tilted his head to look at him, which made the world blur double, as if he had taken his glasses off at a 3D movie. He waited for it to shift back into one before saying, words foggy, “You guys are cool. I want to be like you. All the time. And I don’t want any of you to leave.”
Phil did his embarrassing little aw, and Techno rolled his eyes, but Wilbur peered closer. “Tommy, you good?”
“Fine."
“You’re pale.”
"I guess I feel a bit sick.”
“You’re done,” Wilbur said with finality. “I don't want you to green out. No more.”
“Will,” groaned Tommy, the words molasses and sticky in his mouth, syllables dragging out, “Not fair.”
“Yes, fair,” Techno said. “If you throw up in my truck I'm suing you.”
“Not fair. The rest of you are still smoking.”
“I’m half a foot taller than you,” Wilbur said. “And Techno is stopping too. Just relax. You’ll be fine.”
But I want to be like you, Tommy wanted to whine, but he did feel a bit sick, uncomfortable cold sweats prickling at his forehead. Turning his head made it worse, so Tommy stared up at the stars. They spun in a sickly swirl, but when he closed his eyes, everything was comfortable and black. The roiling in his stomach quieted. Time slipped away.
Without realizing, he fell into that quiet, still space, the endless grey mist between absolute sleep and absolute awareness. His body floated away, but his mind could still hear the distant murmur of Phil, Wilbur, and Techno, sitting cross-legged beside him. He could hear Phil breathe, “It’s going to snow in Connecticut.”
“Weird.”
“My parents are going to have to buy me a winter coat.”
“You’ll turn into an icicle.”
“Ha. I wouldn’t." Nervously, "I hope so."
“You’d be on the news. Man freezes to death and becomes an icicle.”
“Ha. But seriously, I need to go shopping. I didn’t even realize how much I needed until I was looking up things that you need for winter, and it’s everything I don’t have, like— good pants and long underwear and thermals or whatever, and I need boots and an actual winter coat or else I’ll freeze. And scarves and hats and gloves. Fuck me.”
“No one actually wears all that. How cold can it be?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Below freezing, I think.”
“You’ll have to tell us about the whole winter. Everything. And bring back some snow, for real this time.”
Tommy almost laughed. In Phil’s junior year when his parents had taken him on two plane flights across the country to visit colleges, he had seen snow for the first time. He had arrived back at the Tucson Airport to sheepishly admit that he packed his water bottle full of it for Tommy, Techno, and Wilbur in his suitcase. But the snow had all melted when they took it out, full of small twigs and leaves. Tommy wanted to refreeze it, but everyone thought that was stupid.
“I don’t know,” Phil breathed, more nervous than Tommy had ever heard him before. He was usually so cheerfully unconcerned; it was strange to hear him quieter. “Winter will be nice. But I am scared of leaving. I was being honest about that.”
A cricket chirped. Quietly, Techno said, “You’re coming back for the summer.”
“But that’s the whole point. I don’t want to come back, and I don’t know what to do about it.” A beat. “Shit. Tommy’s asleep, right?”
“Out of it,” Techno said. Wilbur huffed a short laugh. Tommy wanted to tell them that he was awake, but his tongue felt shapeless and heavy in his mouth, some foreign thing he could not operate. He stayed silent and let Phil speak.
“I don’t know. He’s like— he wants me to stay. I know he does, because every time I bring it up he goes quiet and upset. And I don’t know how to tell him that there's no way in hell I'm coming back.”
“I don’t know why he even wants to stay. I hate this place.”
“You just hate everything.”
“I’m serious! Remember that time— when my dad got pissed out of his mind and tried to wrench the radiator off the wall? And Techno, you had to look up how to screw it back on because my dad told me I had to fix it myself? I don’t want that! I don’t want to live here anymore and I don’t want to share a backyard with someone ever again.”
“You can always stay at my house, you know.”
“You know why I can’t do that.”
A bitter silence. “Yeah. I know.”
“Just two more years,” Wilbur muttered. “Just twenty four months.”
“Only twelve for me,” said Techno.
“It’s going to be so lonely without you two.”
“You’ll have Tommy. You won't be lonely.”
It felt like hours before Wilbur sighed. “I know.”
A distant pang rang through Tommy’s body, a dull, aching sensation. He almost spoke, then, before Wilbur shifted and shattered the tension. “Hey. Look. A jackrabbit.”
“Ha,” laughed Phil. “Dinner.”
Techno groaned. “You can’t say that. Now I’m starving.”
“Fuck, me too.”
“We can drive somewhere.”
“We’d have to wake Tommy up.”
Tommy didn’t want to let them know that he had been drifting in that grey mist, still distantly conscious. But they were going to wake him up regardless, so he mumbled, “I’m awake.”
“Good morning,” Techno said drily. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
“Mmm.”
Wilbur poked him. “You hungry?”
Tommy cracked his eyes open. The moon was so silver it nearly blinded him. Attempting to sit up made his head spin like a merry-go-round, but he didn’t feel nauseous anymore. He thought about the prospect of chicken nuggets and a double cheeseburger covered in grease in front of him, and his stomach complained loudly in protest. "Very."
“I’ll take us somewhere," decided Techno. He slid off the cargo bed, Phil following, before bolting the door up behind him. Tommy didn’t bother to sit up and laid back as the truck rumbled to life. He found himself mulling over his friends’ words— rolling them over and over until they were smoothed down like river rocks. The funny thing about sleep, though, was that the more he tried to remember the conversation, the more he forgot. It slipped away from his mind, as if he were trying to bottle mist.
Town lights glowed as Techno turned from dirt roads to paved streets. Even though it was nearly midnight, the sidewalks were squirming with people like live intestines. Tommy saw gaggles of girls he recognized from his classes, with ripped denim shorts and frisky perfume he could taste on the wind.
The four of them went through the drive-through of the only burger place in town. They ate in silence, but Tommy wanted to shatter that silence into shards of glass. With a sick sort of desperation, he wanted to know why his friends wanted to leave so badly. Why couldn’t they look around and see what they would lose if they never returned?
There was the moon, fat and yellow like a massive wheel of cheese overhead, and the stars, silver sprinkles across the wide, vast nighttime. Their whole hometown, from the burger joint to the corner delis to the grocery market to the drive-through liquor store to the local elementary school that all of them had attended. The antique store, with endless cramped corridors of ancient books to pick through, and a small ice cream shop that had given Tommy a discount since he was a toddler.
The sidewalks knew their weight, knew their steps, second family, second skin. And Tommy knew, in a hidden space deep within his soul, that he would never know another place like this. Never.
Techno drove them all back when they were done eating. He dropped Phil off first. Tommy waved him a morose goodbye. But he wanted to cling to Phil and demand the truth. What did Connecticut have that Tommy didn’t?
Techno waited until Phil's front door closed and the light inside flicked on before driving back to the condominium. Once he hopped out the back, Wilbur shouldered Techno. “You staying over tonight?”
“I can if you want.”
“I don’t care,” said Wilbur, which was his way of saying please do. “Toms, come over too. You reek.”
“My parents don’t care,” complained Tommy, but the three of them still traipsed upstairs. Wilbur bullied Tommy into taking a shower after he did, providing him with a pair of free sweatpants and a sleep-shirt a size too big. The shower was heavenly; Tommy wanted to stay there forever, skin tingling and head billowy. Techno was flicking through the cabinets when Tommy emerged, hair damp. He had opened a box of sugary cereal, tipping it back into his mouth.
“Your turn,” Wilbur said, pointing at Techno. Techno wiped a hand across his mouth and brushed past Tommy on his way to the bathroom. That left Wilbur and Tommy sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, enveloped in darkness.
Tommy swallowed and whispered, “Fun night.”
“Mhm.”
“We should do that more often.”
“Mhm.”
“You okay?”
“Just a bit tired."
Tommy blurted, “Are you and Techno still fighting?”
Wilbur startled back. “What? No. What made you think we were fighting?”
Tommy ducked his head. “Dunno. A while back Techno acted like he was avoiding you.”
“That was weeks ago. And that’s just because I’m me, ” Wilbur said. “We’re not fighting. You don’t need to worry.”
“Oh. Good.”
“I can see those gears turning in your head. What’s up?”
“Dunno,” Tommy repeated, feeling oddly close to tears. “Just gonna miss you guys.”
Wilbur sighed. “We’re still here.”
“Phil’s not gonna be here.”
“He has a phone. He’ll call.”
But even a phone call or a video call wouldn’t be the same from halfway across the country. Besides, Phil was only the first domino in a miserable chain of events soon to start. Phil had gotten into one of his dream colleges; what if the impossible happened, and Techno got into Stanford? And Wilbur wasn't shy about wanting to leave, as far away as he could get. It would be Tommy’s senior year and everyone would be gone. He would have no friends. And they would never have another night like tonight.
It hit him, all at once. They would never have another night like tonight because the night was over . The night of sitting in Techno’s truck and smoking and having one of those rare truth circles only existed inside his memory, where it would grow more faint with time until it was forgotten altogether.
Everything was ending. This was the last summer the four of them were together, and it was already coming to a close. There was nothing Tommy could do to stop the inevitable encroachment of time. What was a fourteen year old against all of time itself?
"It's not the same," Tommy whispered.
Wilbur shrugged. “That's life. Nothing will ever be the same.”
Tommy blinked owlishly. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“That’s the worst thing about it all," Wilbur continued matter-of-factly. "Life keeps going even when you can’t recognize anything anymore.”
The shower cut off in the background. Wilbur leaned back against the sofa. “So. You sleeping over too?”
Tommy shook his head. His head felt fuzzy. “I think I'm gonna go home.”
“Alright. Sleep well.”
“Sleep well,” Tommy echoed, and before he knew it, he was standing outside the front door of his best friend’s home, wearing borrowed clothes a few inches too big for him, feeling distantly lost and miserable in that way one always did after having a night full of socialization. A hollow, empty sensation swelled in his chest, something half wistful and half forlorn.
He quite wanted to cry.
Instead, Tommy turned on his heel and headed downstairs.