Dead Teenagers at Make-Out Point
by Joe L. Murr
There’s a night I can’t stop thinking about. I’m racing against Stanley to Make-out Point. We whip around the curves of the scenic road winding up Williams Mountain. His Thunderbird is souped up, my Rocket Eighty-eight is stock, but I know I can beat him. I goose it and overtake him. Laura screams with delight in the passenger’s seat. The window’s rolled down and her hair’s all over her face. “It’s better than any rollercoaster,” she says. “Crazy.”
The Killer’s on the radio. There’s a rubber burning a hole in my pocket. We’re so alive, just now, so alive.
Stanley’s headlights gleam briefly in the rear-view mirror. He’s falling behind. Laura puts her hand on my thigh, squeezes, says, “Oh God, Jerry.”
I think, Make-out Point, here we come. We’re almost there. Here’s the entrance to the park. Road turns to gravel.
She leans in, says, “Kiss me.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I’d do anything for her.
