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The air hangs thick and heavy with the promise of a humid Kentucky summer, though the calendar still stubbornly insists it's late May. The sky is a washed-out, denim-blue, with thin, streaky clouds that look like they've been brushed on by a half-hearted artist. A buzzing sound, the low-level hum of a thousand cicadas beginning their annual choir, thrums through the hot stillness. Kevin, his red-orange mullet a flame against the backdrop of Crabgrass Drive’s endless green lawns and tired ranch houses, races his bicycle down the street. His bike, a hand-me-down Schwinn with a peeling banana seat and a chain that rattles with every revolution, is his one true love.
He feels the wind whip past his ears, a cool, fleeting relief against the stickiness of his skin. His faded denim cut-offs are frayed at the hems, and the T-shirt he’s wearing, a concert tee with a cracked screen print of some heavy metal band, is already damp with sweat. He spots Miles sitting on the curb a hundred yards ahead. Miles is hunched over, his dark skin a beautiful contrast to the pale gray concrete, and his hair, cut close and neat, is the shade of rich, fertile earth. He’s engrossed in a game of jacks, his hands quick and nimble as they scoop up the metal stars. He doesn’t see Kevin coming, too focused on the arc of the little red rubber ball as it bounces against the ground.
Kevin decides to make an entrance. He pedals harder, the chain clanking louder, and then, with a practiced flick of his handlebars, he pops a wheelie. The front wheel lifts off the asphalt, a triumph of balance and momentum, and he coasts like that for a few triumphant yards before he swerves, the worn rubber of his tires screeching in protest as he skids to a halt right in front of Miles.
“Hey, Miles!” Kevin says, his voice a little breathless from the effort, a wide, cocky grin on his face.
Miles looks up, nonplussed. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem startled. He just raises an eyebrow, a gesture that is all Miles, and asks, “Yeah?”
Kevin’s grin widens. “What do you get if you cross an elephant and a rhino?”
Miles stops his game, the rubber ball held still in his hand, the jacks scattered around his feet. He leans back on his arms, his elbows digging into the hot pavement, and thinks for a second, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I dunno, what?”
Kevin laughs, the sound clear and unrestrained. “Ele-phino!” He doesn’t wait for the groan of the punchline to land.
Instead, he pops another wheelie, turning his bike around, and then, in a casual but deliberate motion, he sends his back wheel rolling directly over the pile of jacks Miles had been so carefully collecting. The metal pieces clatter and scatter across the street, a few of them pinging off the curb and disappearing into the overgrown grass. Miles’s face, which had held a kind of weary amusement, instantly darkens. He frowns, a deep scowl settling over his features. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t say a word. He just throws the rubber ball. He throws it with a strength and accuracy that belies his calm demeanor, a perfect, red blur that sails through the air and smacks directly into Kevin’s back wheel.
The effect is immediate. Kevin’s bike wobbles violently. He fights for control for a split second, his sneakers scrabbling for purchase on the pedals, before he loses the fight and tumbles sideways. He hits the ground with a soft thud, a cloud of dust puffing up from the dirt on the shoulder of the road. His bike clatters down next to him, the back wheel still spinning and rattling. He immediately gets back up, brushing off the red gravel scrapes on his knees and the torn elbow of his T-shirt. He doesn’t even seem to notice the sting. His eyes, a shade of deep, cornflower blue, are fixed on Miles.
A mischievous glint lights up his gaze, and the cocky grin returns. Miles, who had been watching his reaction, turns and starts to run.
“Hey!” Kevin shouts, a joyful laugh in his voice as he leaves his bike and starts to chase after him. “You’re so dead, Miles!”
The chase is a blur of motion under the hot sun. Miles, despite his calm exterior, is surprisingly fast. He’s all fluid grace, a silent dart of motion down the cracked asphalt of Crabgrass Drive. Kevin is a bull in a china shop by comparison; his movements are clumsy but powerful. He thunders down the street, his sneakers pounding the pavement, the sound a steady rhythm behind Miles’s more muted steps. They run past lawns mowed to a golf course perfection, past others that are shaggy and dotted with dandelions. The air fills with the sharp, sweet scent of newly cut grass and the cloying perfume of honeysuckle vines that are beginning to bloom on every chain-link fence.
The sound of a lawnmower, a low, consistent drone, provides a counterpoint to their frantic breathing. Kevin is faster, or maybe just more determined. He gains on Miles, his hand outstretched, a playful growl in his throat. He tackles him just as they get to the end of the street, the corner where Crabgrass Drive meets Honeysuckle Lane.
They hit the grass with a soft thud, rolling in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Kevin lands on top, pinning Miles to the ground, his knees straddling Miles’s hips. Miles is still laughing, a breathless, huffing sound. He’s trying to push Kevin off, but his arms are weak with giggling. Kevin’s face is just inches from Miles’s. He’s still grinning, his eyes bright with a kind of wild, unrestrained joy. The smell of him is all sun, sweat, and cheap laundry detergent.
“Gotcha,” Kevin says, the word a soft exhalation of breath.
Miles looks at him, his laughter subsiding into a small, breathless smile. His eyes, a warm, deep brown, are wide and calm, reflecting the brilliant blue of the sky. The smile on his face seems to reach them, a look of pure, uncomplicated happiness. The moment stretches out, long and silent. The chase and the fight, the adrenaline and the laughter, all fade into the background. All that exists is the quiet, the smell of the grass, the feel of Kevin’s weight, the warmth of the sun on Miles’s face. It’s not an awkward silence, not really. It’s just… full.
Kevin’s grin falters. He looks away for a second, his gaze wandering over the side of Miles’s face, the curve of his cheek, the shape of his ear. He can’t bring himself to move. He doesn’t want to.
“Dude,” Miles says finally, the sound a low, almost-whisper, and Kevin’s blue eyes snap back to his. “Get off me.” But there’s no command in his voice, no anger. It’s a suggestion, a statement of fact, nothing more.
Kevin nods slowly, pushing himself up. The loss of his weight is a sudden, hollow feeling. He sits back on his haunches, his hands resting on the grass, his breath still coming in fast, short gasps. Miles sits up, too, brushing at the grass and dirt on his cut-offs. They sit like that for a minute, a comfortable, companionable quiet between them. The sun is a warm presence on their backs.
“You’re, like, a total jerk,” Miles says, without any real heat. He’s looking at the scattered jacks a hundred yards away.
Kevin snorts. “Dude, you threw the ball at my bike.”
Miles shrugs. “You ran over my jacks.”
“It was funny!”
“No, it wasn’t,” Miles says, but a small smile is playing on his lips again.
They don’t get up. They just sit there in the grass, their elbows resting on their knees, watching the sun begin its slow descent toward the horizon. Kevin glances at Miles. He’s just looking straight ahead, but Kevin can see the outline of his face, the shape of his jaw. He looks peaceful, and Kevin has a sudden, strange feeling in his chest, a kind of aching warmth. He’s never really just sat with Miles like this before. Their friendship is all motion, all action and noise and jokes. This quiet feels new. It feels… different.
“Hey,” Kevin says, his voice a little softer than he intended.
Miles turns his head, the sun catching a faint dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose. “What?”
“I’m sorry about the jacks,” Kevin says, and he means it. He can’t believe he’s saying it, the words feeling weird and unfamiliar on his tongue.
Miles’s eyes widen a fraction. He looks genuinely surprised. “Oh. It’s cool. They’re, like, all over the place anyway. They were, like, cheap.”
The apology hangs in the air, a small, significant thing. Kevin feels a kind of warmth spread through him. He looks away, embarrassed, and plucks a long blade of grass from the ground, chewing on the end of it.
“Wanna go get a Coke or somethin’?” Kevin asks, his voice returning to its normal volume, but with a hint of a plea to it.
Miles looks at the sun, then at his wrist, even though he isn’t wearing a watch. “Yeah. Okay.”