Wild Reckless

“Wow, you’re a smart-ass,” she says, reaching up on her visor and pulling a pair of sunglasses down to push them on her face. “Good thing I like smart-asses. Wanna ride?”

I wasn’t really looking forward to what was shaping up to be a pretty packed bus, so I shrug on the outside and open the passenger door. Inside, I do a dorky happy dance over the fact that I have a friend…with a car…who is willing to take me home. Now, just to convince her to pick me up in the mornings.

“So, where do you live?” she asks, and my mind jumps forward to thoughts of my neighbor.

“About six blocks that way, right off of Eighty-seventh and Canterbury,” I say, waiting for her to realize where I live—who I live by—but she doesn’t seem to put it together. She turns her radio up and starts singing along with one of the hit songs on the pop station. That seems to be the most popular station around here. Not a lot of alt-rock listeners, it seems. That’s okay, though—I’m sort of good with all music. Habit of my passion, I suppose.

“So, how do you like Woodstock, so far?” Willow asks. I look around at the brick and stone houses, the rows of trees and colorful leaves dusting the streets. Honestly, it’s beautiful here. But it’s still not the city, and I don’t know how to explain that to someone.

“It’s nice here,” I say, inciting a quick laugh from my new friend. “What? I mean it. It’s nice.”

“Right—nice,” she says. “You mean…boring.”

“Oh, no. I mean, well…yeah. Maybe a little boring. But that’s okay. I’m not really into crazy parties and nightlife. It’s just, in the city there’s always something going on, all the time. I guess I got kind of used to the noise. At night, it just gets so quiet here. That’s…that’s a little strange,” I explain, pointing to the street to make sure Willow makes the turn.

The conversation is about to make a shift, because I can tell by the look on her face that she realizes who my neighbor is now.

“Well it looks like you can kiss that quiet goodbye,” she says, nodding forward to Owen’s driveway. He’s climbing into a beat-up old pick-up, and the girl from earlier is sitting next to him, riding in the middle of the cab between Owen and another guy. He peels out of the driveway, his tires leaving a tuft of smoke and the smell of burnt rubber in the air. The girl screams something as they speed by us, Owen never once glancing our way.

“Yeah…” I start. I unbuckle my seat and pull my bag to my lap from the car floor. “That’s sort of why I had those questions. I haven’t really officially met him yet, I mean…other than the rock kicking thing. He’s just kind of quiet…and, I don’t know, mysterious maybe?”

“Kens, trust me on this one. Owen Harper isn’t quiet. You just haven’t given him a reason to be loud yet. That’s probably a good thing,” she says. “Just keep your eyes open, and watch out for James. He’s the one you need to worry about. That boy’s nothing but trouble.”

“Great. Nothing like living next door to trouble,” I say with a deep breath. “Hey, thanks for the ride.”

“Sure, I’ll be here at six-thirty or so to give you a ride in the morning. Be ready, though. I hate being late,” she says, reaching over to turn the radio back up to DEFCON levels. I can barely hear her singing along with the music as she backs out of my driveway and heads for the corner.

The Harper driveway parallels ours, and I spend a few minutes looking at the dark black lines Owen left in his wake. There are fainter ones surrounding it, which means he must peel out often.

Typical boy.

The house is empty—every room is mine alone until at least midnight. I spend the first hour munching on peanut butter cereal and watching people reveal the real father of their baby on one of those talk shows. It’s an embarrassing obsession of mine, but watching shows like this is my greatest relaxation. There’s something about the circus of absurdity—I find it calming. Helps me put all of the drama I think I have in perspective.

My reading and math homework is a breeze compared to my nightly assignments from Bryce. I feel like I’m learning things I was taught last year at the Academy, and if I were a better student, one who was more driven by academia, I might care that I’m not being challenged. But as long as I get to play the piano every day, I really don’t care that my math and science and literature are simple. There’s nothing wrong with easy. And I think I’ve earned easy. Besides, I know all my parents will ask about is music anyhow.