MILE 81
MILE 81
By Stephen King
1. PETE SIMMONS (’07 Huffy)
“You can’t come,” his older brother said.
George spoke in a low voice, even though the rest of his friends — a neighborhood group of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds who styled themselves the Rip-Ass Raiders — were up at the end of the block, waiting for him. Not very patiently. “It’s too dangerous.”
Pete said, “I’m not afraid.” He spoke stoutly enough, although he was afraid, a little. George and his friends were headed up to the sandpit behind the bowling alley. There they’d play a game Normie Therriault had invented. Normie was the leader of the Rip-Ass Raiders, and the game was called Paratroops From Hell. There was a rutted track leading up to the edge of the gravel pit, and the game was to ride your bike along it at full speed, yelling “Raiders rule!” at the top of your lungs and bailing from the seat of your bike as you went over. The usual drop was ten feet or so, and the approved landing area was soft, but sooner or later someone would land on gravel instead of sand and probably break an arm or an ankle. Even Pete knew that (although he sort of understood why it added to the attraction). Then the parents would find out and that would be the end of Paratroops From Hell. For now, however, the game — played without helmets, of course — continued.
George knew better than to allow his brother to play, however; he was supposed to be taking care of Pete while their parents were at work. If Pete wrecked his Huffy at the gravel pit, George would likely be grounded for a week. If his little brother broke an arm, it would be for a month. And if — God forbid! — it was his neck, George guessed he might be whiling away the hours in his bedroom until he went to college.
Besides, he loved the little cock-knocker.
“Just hang out here,” George said. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Hang out with who?” Pete asked morosely. It was spring vacation, and all of his friends, the ones his mother would have called “age appropriate,” seemed to be somewhere else. A couple of them had gone to Disney World in Orlando, and when Pete thought of this, his heart filled with envy and jealousy — a vile brew, but strangely tasty.
“Just hang out,” George said. “Go to the store, or something.” He scrounged in his pocket and came out with two crumpled Washingtons. “Here’s a couple of bucks.”
Pete looked at them. “Jeez, I’ll buy a Corvette. Maybe two.”
“Hurry up, Simmons, or we’ll go withoutcha!” Normie yelled.
“Coming!” George shouted back. Then, low, to Pete: “Take the money and don’t be a boogersnot.”
Pete took the money. “I even brought my magnifying glass,” he said. “I was gonna show em—”
“They’ve all seen that baby trick a thousand times,” George said, but when he saw the corners of Pete’s mouth tuck down, he tried to soften the blow. “Besides, look at the sky, numbo. You can’t start fires with a magnifying glass on a cloudy day. Hang out. We’ll play computer Battleship or something when I come back.”
“Okay, chickshit, seeya later!” Normie yelled.
“I gotta go,” George said. “Do me a favor and don’t get in trouble. Stay in the neighborhood.”
“You’ll probably break your spine and be fuckin’ paralyzed for life,” Pete said. then hastily spat between his forked fingers to take the curse off. “Good luck!” he shouted after his brother. “Jump the farthest!”
George waved one hand in acknowledgment, but didn’t look back. He stood on the pedals of his own bike, a big old Schwinn that Pete admired but couldn’t ride (he’d tried once and wiped out halfway down the driveway). Pete watched him put on speed as he raced up this block of suburban houses in Auburn, catching up with his homies.
Then Pete was alone.
He took his magnifying glass out of his saddlebag and held it over his forearm, but there was no spot of light and no heat. He looked glumly up at the low-hanging clouds and put the glass back. It was a good one, a Richforth. He’d gotten it last Christmas, to help with his ant-farm science project.