Miles will never forget when Russel pulled him into the huddle of spitting and cursing older boys behind the mall parking lot after school, his freshmen year. Miles listened with a growing excitement at the rules. He ignored the complaints about him. And tried not to get too nervous or agitate his own lungs.
Hey listen up, called a loud boy with acne. We’re each going to choose our teams. If you’re not in a car you’re running away from one. If you’re running from a car, you have to run and hide until one of the riders tags you. Car tag lasts until morning, he said and the older boys all mumbled agreement. Suddenly Miles could feel his pulse surging in his ears, already thinking of him and his brother riding together. With the radio on. And windows open. He couldn’t help but smile.
Let’s choose teams, said the loud boy with bad acne.
The older boys thundered all together: not it.
They were howling, laughing, falling out and running for Russel’s car. In his mind’s eye, Miles can see Russel’s baseball jersey pulling and billowing over his shoulder blades while he runs with them. Away from Miles. Who suddenly felt.
Short of.
Breath.
El Golpe Avisa 