The Runway

It was the stroke of dawn.

I rose from bed as the rooster crowed, promptly choked the chicken, and hopped into my dad’s rickety truck. I was sleepless and hungry. A body-full of hand-me-down early-summer fashion had me shivering in the Midwestern April morning. It was a bumpy, sunspotted dash from Anne-Marie’s house to Raisa’s and back to main street. But I could practically feel the credits music starting to roll overhead as the Avengers assembled outside that one broken-down jewelry store on main street—and instantly stopped to gawk at Brian’s new ride as he pulled up.

The dinky, decade-old Prius was painted in pleasingly-alternating shades of lime and puke green respectively. Even compared to Little Red, the thing was a mess—Its hubcaps were gone, one of its windshield wipers was missing, and I’m pretty sure all the windows were permanently stuck rolled-down. I park ahead of Brian in convoy formation and accost him by his window:

“I almost didn’t recognize you there, B-dog. What’s with the up-chuckwagon?”

“Issa rental,” he replies. “My Dads said I gotta wait like two months for all the parts to come in from Albuquerque for my truck.”

“And what exactly happened to the truck?” asks Raisa, craning her neck up between me and Anne-Marie from the backseat.

“Yeah,” Anne-Marie adds. “Why don’t you tell our new friend here what happened to the truck, Goggles.”

“You see…” I start.

“Well,” Brian clears his throat, and announces, “It turns out trucks can’t swim, bro.”

I can’t tell if Brian’s getting progressively better at reading the room or if I’ve just been on a streak of good mojo with him. Either way, judging by Raisa’s dubious but authentic smile, I’d say things are off to a good start. We burn the next half an hour watching videos on Brian’s phone until it dies, then the half an hour after that double-checking Anne-Marie and I’s baggage in Little Red’s backseat. And, finally, about as fashionably late as he can be without throwing us entirely off schedule, we hear the thrum of a turbo engine as Drake’s car approaches.

The silver, chrome rimmed luxury SUV looks like it was designed by a first-time Roblox player. It’s basically three rounded boxes on three sets of wheels, with an entirely superfluous pickup-truck bed jutting out the back that’s mounted too impractically high to be used for actual hauling work. And, the moment after it pulls up to the curb behind Brian’s rental, a dozen jocks spill out of it like a clowncar vomiting a waterfall of pimples and repressed rage.

The SUV’s shotgun window rolls down, and Moe’s buttery voice greets us:

“Sorry about the delay, y’all. We had to really scrape the bottom of the barrel for every last bozo.”

I give him a military salute. “You’ve done a fine job, soldier.”

“Hah. Say that after you see how they work. And here-”

As promised, I find myself back in possession of the exact equivalent in early birthday money that I’d spent on Friday’s party- plus an extra fifty bucks.

“Dude, I don’t take tips.”

“But your birthday’s later this week, right? Beer’s on me today, anyways.”

I can’t argue with that logic, so I just fist-bump him appreciatively and climb back into my dad’s truck. And then, so do half a dozen jocks still gasping for air. All those that I can chase away from my backseat jump into the pickup bed instead, their arms hanging around the sides like they’re in a hot tub. Not even a few seconds later, Teddy’s red four-seater comes pulling up into place behind Drake’s car and honks hello. With a focused breath and two smacks of the horn, I signal for the convoy to move out after me.

The promised land is a quaint, mile-long cut of Interstate 43 that runs parallel to a creek and over the dip of a wildflower meadow. Overall, not a bad place to decide the fate of the universe. I unload my living cargo and leave HR management to the capable hands of Moe and Raisa before doubling back to pick up the boys—who’d barely awoken by the time I roll up just past ten.

“Do we have to get up this early, dude,” Ricardo cries.

“Listen man, you’re getting a free ride to a picnic party with cute girls. Shut up and buckle up.”

So I may have stretched the truth a tiny bit to get them to come. But once I pull up to the “party”, it’s far too late for them to do anything about it.

“Hey, what gives, man?” Ricardo asks, after I’d already shoved a pointed trash-picker and a beer into either of his hands.

“Party’s open. Enjoy.”

But once Ricardo shrugs and gets to piercing candy wrappers, so do Douglass and the two Jims.

I slink away from them just in time to avoid the first slur-based roast and make my way over to the overseer’s corner—which happens to be right by the hazard cones that Brian brought from his dads’ equipment.

“Is that even legal, B-dog?” I ask, flicking the tip of a cone with my fingers.

“Dunno,” he replies. “But it’s not like they’re gonna arrest all of us, bro.”

He’s not wrong. Plus, what kind of county sheriff would come after teens being rowdy in the name of god?

“Fair enough,” I say, then turn to Moe. “How’re the troops doing?”

The moment my attention shifts in his direction, though, the entirely-silent Drake standing by his side lets go of his hand and walks off.

“Pretty well,” Moe replies, tracking Drake with his eyes. “All you have to do is pump them full of beer and tell them it’s a contest to pick up the most trash. And look-”

Moe motions over to the absolute pandemonium going on further down the road. Everyone from volleyballers to tennis freaks make like football players as they tackle each other to rip plastic can-packers and weeds from the grass.

I shrug. “If it’s broke, don’t fix it I guess.”

“And if you’re broke,” Raisa says, “Just trick a bunch of goons into doing your work for you.”

“You’re just mad because your half-joke about wearing a maid outfit wasn’t what got them to come.”

“Maybe,” Raisa replies, adjusting the angle of her frilly maid’s headdress. “But who’s the one who suggested something this passé instead of, say, cat ears and a bell collar?”

“Good point-” I start, only for my girlfriend to interject.

“Yeah, instead of making her sweat her skin off in some Shein atrocity, I’ll take her to Victoria’s Secret to get some cute lingerie. It’ll be much more useful the next time you want to use a woman’s body to lure men to their doom.”

Raisa bites her lip with the corner of her mouth. “I appreciate the offer, Amy, but that kinda stuff’s not for me.”

“Don’t worry,” Anne-Marie replies, scowling towards me in particular, “That was just a joke. But if you ever do want to go clothes shopping together with me and the besties, I’d totally love to take you.”

“I don’t know,” Raisa replies, “I’m not really that good at socializing. And I’m not sure if I’d fit in with your friends.”

“Whaaat? But you’re cute and sweet and funny in the best nerdy way. And if I’m being honest, I’m still not sure if Ogden even made the right choice.”

“I’m right here,” I say.

Raisa’s too flustered to utter anything but, “Thanks, Amy.”

“You can thank me by thinking more highly of yourself,” Anne-Marie replies. “Now, would you be cool with coming by to say hi to the girlies?”

“Yeah…” Raisa says, taking a moment to whisper to herself while nodding.

I can’t blame her for being nervous. While I’ve discovered that I’m not quite an introvert like she is, that unique confidence of hers that struck me when we first met isn’t something that you can summon willy-nilly. It’s like holding your breath—doing that in a few feet of water for a few seconds is fine, but each additional person you have to deal with adds more depth and time until you’re ultimately suffocating at the bottom of a trench.

But Raisa gets this look in her eyes, like she’s determined to reach the surface with us.

“I’m not exactly popular girl material,” she says. “I dress up and look pretty for myself, and not for anyone else. I don’t watch any shows made after 2010, and I don’t use social media. But- If Goggles here can walk up right in the middle of lunch and ask you out in front of your friends, I can walk up and just say hi.”

“That’s the spirit,” I say, trying not to be secondhand-embarrassed by my past self. “Now go get ‘em, tiger.”

Anne-Marie leads Raisa off by the hand to the shaded section where the popular girls gather to sip lemonade and organize the bags into recycling, plastics, and trash. At first, Raisa’s body language is as stiff as a wooden board, and she takes a long time between turns to speak. But between Teddy’s smile, Wendy’s infectious gesticulations, and Trissie’s reassuring glibness, I watch the nerves melt away. Her hooks into the ongoing conversation come more and more from Trissie, with whom she starts to share a different kind of smile.

Before I know it, Anne-Marie is back by my side.

“Did it go well?” Moe asks, despite also already knowing the answer.

“I’d say,” she replies. “Romance is in the air, it seems.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “Does that mean we’re gonna get to make out grossly in public?”

Anne-Marie starts walking off. Right in the direction of the boys.

“Is there-” I pause to wince the red from my cheeks as I catch up to her. “Any reason why you want to talk to those dweebs?”

“Oh, no reason. I just think it’s high time I see what kind of animals shaped you into the ape you are today. Plus, it’s not fair if she gets to meet my friends and I don’t get to meet hers. So gimme the run-down.”

“The boys are harmless, more or less. But with Raisa gone, they might get a bit yappy. Like a bunch of moronic puppies whose handler had to tie them to a post and run off on coffee break.”

“Noted,” Anne-Marie says, before striding off.

The boys watch her with bugged-out lemur eyes as she sidles up and starts stabbing through crinkled cans right in their midst.

“So, how about this weather?” she asks.

Ricardo, the two Jims, and Doug look like they’ve just been dropped in the tiger exhibit at the zoo just in time for lunch.

Anne-Marie shrugs, and opens a new garbage bag before adding, “I don’t bite, you know.”

The species also known as “gamer man” has one of two wildly different reactions to a woman entering their space. Copious research on my part has shown that the first and most common happens to be the prelude to a mating ritual, in which they try to outcompete each other in who can please the visiting female the most. The second reaction, though much rarer, comes in the form of an increase in risk-taking behavior and loudness designed to scare the female away.

And while I’m glad the boys decided not to go for the former, I’d much rather have them go for neither.

“You know who does bite?” Brown Jim asks.

White Jim joins him in unison to tease, “Doug’s mooom!”

“Heh,” Ricardo snickers. “Good one.”

“Not as good as your mooom,” replies Brown Jim.

The other Jim hollers.

Emboldened by the familiar toxic goo evaporating into the air, Doug turns to my girlfriend and asks:

“Do you even play games?”

Anne-Marie takes a second to process what’s going on. I’m sure she’s probably pretty confused at the sudden change in atmosphere, but I can’t blame her. In any case, if things go downhill, I’ll just-”

“Not really,” Anne-Marie says. “But I played with your mom all night.”

The boys are utterly silent. Except for Brown Jim, who waits a couple of seconds before exploding into the loudest, “OOOH!” I’ve heard yet.

“So what kind of games do you play?” Ricardo asks.

Anne-Marie shrugs. “Like, whatever my sister has for her old Playstation. Probably nothing you shooter dweebs have heard of.”

“Are you kidding me, dude?” Doug says, “Playstation fucks.”

“Not as well as your mom,” Anne-Marie replies, to another wave of hoots, “But you’re right, it does.”

I nod to myself and leave to let her to work her magic. If she can handle me at my worst, I can trust her to handle the boys at their best. It’s weirdly freeing, I realize, as I come back to the manager’s corner. But Moe is helping Brian figure out how the portable trash compactor works without losing an arm, so the only person that’s left is Drake, who sulks silently nearby and watches them work.

I take a deep breath and walk up to lean on the neighboring speed limit sign. Then I pluck a page right out of Anne-Marie’s playbook and give an ironic bent to:

“Nice weather.”

“What do you want, Og-dog?” Drake asks, less in the manner to brush me off than to just get it over with.

“Nothing. Just to talk, I guess.”

“Nothin’ to talk about, really.”

“I mean, there sorta is.”

He shrugs.

“Sorry about the stunts I pulled on Friday.”

“Father says the past should stay buried.”

“That’s a- worrying way to phrase that. But he’s not wrong.”

“Yeah.”

“But listen,” I say, rubbing my elbow. “Things worked out for the best.”
“I’m grounded from throwing parties for life, bro,” he replies.

“Sure, sure,” I reply. “You can think of it like that. Orrr, you could think of it like this: You’re going off to, like, Harvard or wherever it is that your dad went to, right?”
“Yeah.”

“Yeah, so this is your last opportunity to, say, spend time with people one-on-one. Instead of in a giant group.”

“I guess, bro.”

“So- why don’t you go spend some time with Moe? It’s not like Brian couldn’t use the extra supervision.”

“Because. What’s the point if he’s just going to Yale anyways?”

I frown. “Oh come on, New Haven’s not that far from Cambridge. The east coast is nothing compared to the drives we have to make out here.”

“Bro. It’s more than two times further than it is from here to Chicago.”

I pause. His dilemma is weirdly similar to my own, and it’s not like I have an answer to that. Except- maybe I do.

“Listen,” I start. “We all get one chance at this thing called life. And as my dad says, you can either play it safe or play it crazy.”

“I’m not nearly as crazy as you,” Drake replies, “I think that’s been made quite clear, bro.”

“Okay, then let me quote my favorite movie,” I lie, pausing to put on my best impression of an 80’s blockbuster narrator, “We all die in the end, kid. So just love. Relentlessly, stupidly, wastefully. Yeah, that's it. Just love.”

“Bro…” Drake says.

As always, corny action flicks succeed in persuading where common logic fails—otherwise we wouldn’t have invaded Iraq.

“Thanks for the talk, coach,” Drake says.

Then, he stands from the mile marker he was leaning on and jogs over to Moe, who’d already finished up with Brian. The great ginger snowman, consequently, bounds up to me and announces:

“We’re making good progress, bro! I can feel it.”

“That you are,” I say, looking over the distinctly less-shitty stretch of highway. “I can’t even believe it’s the same road.”

Brian takes turns flexing each pec. “What’d I say? I got your back like a bra strap, ‘member?”

“You always do,” I reply, smiling.

“You and A-dog should probably head out now, though,” he says.

“Really? But we’ve barely helped out.”

“Nahhh, bro. Whatchu mean? If it wasn’t for you, none of us would be here right now.”

“I suppose you’re right, B-dog.”

He nods. “Plus, A-dog needs this, bro. I can tell she’s going through some stuff right now.”

“You’re right,” I say. “As usual.”

“Then bro,” Brian says, leaning in and placing both of his massive arms on my shoulders. “Take me up on my offer and go before the sun starts setting.”

I reply with a grateful look and a nod before I dash off towards Anne-Marie. For the first time, I’m the one grabbing her by the hand as I lead her to Little Red and open the door for her.

“Wait, what’s going on?” she asks, as she climbs in. “Aren’t we supposed to stay and help?”

“Brian’s orders,” I reply, and start the engine.

With a final check of our belongings in the backseat, I buckle up and start rolling out. The memory of the joust a couple days ago merges with the present moment. All there needs to be right now is an inevitable evening, the clear road ahead, and company by my side.

One look at her slightly-nervous, but stunning smile tells me this is the right decision.

I can’t say I’ve had an easy time trusting people in my life. Society says one thing, and every single person says another. There’s no better example than when I was five and my parents told me that they loved each other and that they’d always be there for our family. Considering how well that turned out, I’m not even sure if it’s worth mentioning all of the boys’ broken promises over the years or all the ways I’ve singlehandedly fucked up a group project or overslept an appointment Dad had to wake up at 6am for to drive.

So I guess no one’s innocent, really.

But there’s something about the way all our friends are smiling as they wave us goodbye. And in watching them work together for the same goal and get along, all my previous ideas about the difference between normals, jocks, and populars have come to mean absolutely nothing. When it comes down to it, we’re all just stupid teens laughing at the same memes.

With one final honk and a wave, I gun Little Red down Interstate 41. The pleasantly-cool afternoon whips by our open windows, and Anne-Marie immediately cranks the radio to the loudest country station. I cruise with one hand along a road that our friends helped clear. She reaches over and clasps my free hand with both of hers. Our gazes meet briefly in the rearview mirror.

I smile, and so does she. And only one thought goes through my head:

Maybe the world ain’t so bad after all.